But on this particular day I felt on good terms with the world, and
thought of the sunny days which lay ahead, and of the coming morning,
when the heather bells would feel the warm breath of summer upon their
face, and open their eyes in loving response to her kiss.

And here and there in the shelter of the hedges, and by the banks of
the ice-bound stream where the bridge crosses it I found the heralds I
sought--tiny shoots of green pushing their way through the hard soil or
the warm coverlet of faded leaves.  By and by the icy fingers will have
to relax their grasp, and the woods and hedgerows will be gay with the
little fairy creatures, who dress so daintily in colours of a hundred
hues for our enjoyment, and who smile, perhaps, to think what a limited
monarchy King Frost maintains after all.

I am well known by now, and every farmer's boy who passes me exchanges
greetings, sometimes with a half-hearted movement of the hand in the
direction of the cap, but oftener with the smile of recognition which
betokens comradeship.  For our relations are on the most cordial
footing of strict equality; we are all workmen, each after his kind,
servants of one Master; and if God gives us grace to use our
opportunities as we ought we may all enter, even now, into the joy of
the Lord.  There is a vast difference, as I have learned, between
servility and respectfulness, and I believe I am as much respected as
the squire, though with less reason: and nobody is unduly deferential
even to him.

The good women in the cluster of cottages down the lane waved their
hands as I passed, and a couple of maidens of tender years, one fair,
the other with raven locks, ran out and seized each an arm, and
escorted me a hundred yards along my way.

I sat on the bridge for a while at the foot of the hill, and it may
have been the network of trees in the little wood which hid from my
eyes the approaching storm.  For with the suddenness of a panther it
sprang upon me.  There had been a fairly stiff breeze at my back, which
had helped me along famously, taking toll of my ears for its fee, but
now, as if its playful humour had been changed to madness, it lashed me
mercilessly with knotted whips of frozen rain.

Expecting every minute to reach the shelter of a farm I hurried
forward, whilst the storm howled and raged behind and about me.  It was
well for me that the storm was at my back, for my face was entirely
unprotected and the sleet was driven past me in straight, almost
horizontal lines, which obliterated the landscape in a moment, and
stung my neck so that I could have cried with pain.  When I had rounded
the bend and climbed the stiff ascent my plight was worse.  There was
no protection of any kind and my face suffered so terribly that I began
to be alarmed.  To add to my difficulties every landmark had been
blotted out, and the road itself was becoming indistinguishable from
the low-lying edge of moor over which it wound.

Like ten thousand shrouded demons let loose to work destruction the
wind hissed and shrieked and roared, and tore across my path with a
force I could scarcely resist.  Ten minutes after its commencement I
was treading ankle-deep in snow, and I could see that drifts were
beginning to form where the road had been brought below the level of
the rising and lumpy moor.  I would have given much to have been
sitting by Mother Hubbard's side, listening to the click of the
needles, but I was indeed thankful that she had not accompanied me.

After the first sensation of alarm and dismay the novelty of the
situation began to appeal to me.  One can get accustomed even to being
thrashed by the genii of the air, and I became conscious of a certain
exhilaration which was almost pleasant, even whilst I was ardently
longing for the sight of a friendly roof.

I know now that I missed the broad road, and took a narrower one which
sloped down at an acute angle, but I was unconscious of this at the
time, and was only grateful to find some protection from the high wall
upon my left.  I know also that I had passed two or three farms where I
might have been hospitably received, but no fog could have proved a
thicker curtain than that impenetrable veil of driven snow, and I never
even guessed at their existence.

The moor now began to rise steeply upon my right, and as I stumbled
forward, holding my hat upon my head with both hands, I suddenly found
myself upon hard ground again, with scarcely a trace of snow to be
seen, and with a whole row of cottages on one side of the road, in
which blazing fires offered me a warm welcome.  I could hardly realise
that I had found refuge.

The roadway was only wide enough to accommodate a good-sized dray, and
was separated from the houses by the narrowest of footpaths, and
flanked on the right by the bare side of the hill, which rose
precipitously from the ground, to be soon concealed in the mantle of
the storm.  Seen indistinctly as I saw it then it appeared more like a
railway cutting than anything else, and I could only marvel at the
eccentricity of man in erecting houses in such an unpromising locality.
However, for the mariner in danger of shipwreck to criticise the
harbour of refuge in which he finds himself is mean ingratitude.

"Nay, to be sure!"  The ejaculation came from the mouth of a comely
woman of considerable proportions who filled up the doorway of the
cottage opposite to which I was standing.  She wore a brown skirt
protected by a holland apron, and surmounted by a paisley blouse
bearing a fawn design on a ground of crudest green.  The sleeves of the
blouse buttoned and were turned back to the elbow, and as two hooks
were loose at the neck I felt justified in assuming that my new
acquaintance was an enemy of constraint.  Her feet were encased in
carpet slippers of shameless masculinity, and a black belt encircled
her ample waist, which at this moment was partly hidden by the
outstretched fingers of her hands, as she stood, arms akimbo, in the
doorway.

Her face, plump, pleasant and rosy, had for its principal feature two
merry, twinkling eyes, which sparkled with humour as she gazed upon me;
and her hair, which was beginning to turn grey, was drawn tightly back
and coiled in one large plait upon the crown.  Altogether she was a
very homely, approachable woman, who had seen, as I judged, some fifty
summers, and I hailed her appearance with joy.

"Nay, to be sure!" she repeated; "are ye Lot's wife? or has t' lads,
young monkeys, planted a snow man at my door?  Here, bide a bit while I
brush ye down, an' then come inside wi' ye."

I laughed, and submitted to the operation, vigorously performed in the
street, and then followed my rescuer indoors.

All my explanations were greeted with the same expressive utterance.
"To be sures" came as thickly as currants in a Yorkshire tea-cake.  We
were unknown to each other by sight--for I was now, I found, in
Marsland Gap, with the valley between me and Windyridge--but my fame
had preceded me.

"Well, to be sure!  So you're t' young lady what takes fotygraphs up at
Windyridge.  Why, bless ye, I can show ye t' very house ye live in, an'
t' glass place where I reckon ye take yer fotygraphs from this window
in t' scullery.  Nay, to be sure! it's that wild ye cannot see an arm's
length.  Well, well, let's hev yer wet things off, for ye're fair
steamin' afore that fire."

I protested in vain.  My hat and coat had already been removed, and now
my hostess insisted that my dress skirt should be hung upon the
clothes-horse to dry.  Oh, Rose, Rose! what would you not have given to
see me ten minutes later clad in a garment which was reasonable enough
as to length, but which had to be pinned in a great overlapping fold
half round my body?  I looked at myself and roared, whilst the owner of
the dress shook her sides with merriment.  All the same, I had found
the inn of the Good Samaritan, and my stay there did not even cost me
the two pence of the story.

What do you think we had for tea?  Muffins, toasted cheese, home-made
jam and "spice cake"!  I helped to "wash-up," and as the storm
continued with unabated fury I resigned myself cheerfully to the snug
rocking-chair and the glowing hearth.  Thoughts of Mother Hubbard's
anxiety worried me a little, but I hoped she would realise that I had
found shelter.

"You have not told me your name yet," I began, when we were comfortably
settled, I with my hands idle upon my lap, and she with a heap of
"mending" upon her knee.

"Well, to be sure! so I haven't," she replied.  "Maria Robertsha' 's my
name, an' it's a name I'm noan ashamed on.  Not but what I'd change it
if someb'dy 'ud give me a better.  It's all right livin' by yerself if
ye can't 'elp it; an' to be sure, when ye live by yerself ye know what
comp'ny ye keep; but them can 'ave it 'at likes for me."

"Then do you live here quite alone?" I inquired.

"Barring the cat, I do.  I did 'ave a parrot one time, 'cos it's nasty
temper seemed to make it more 'omelike; but t' lads, young imps, taught
it all sorts o' indecent stuff, which made it as I 'ad to part wi' it,
an' it was nearly like losing a 'usband a second time.  It used to be
that gruff an' masterful you wouldn't think!  No, I reckon nowt o'
livin' by mysen."

"It is not good that man should be alone," I quoted.

"It's worse for woman," she said, "an' yet, to be sure, I don't know,
for a woman 'at is a woman can allus make shift somehow, an' doesn't
stand pullin' a long face an' cussin' providence.  But men are poor
menseless creatures when they're left to theirsens; an' it allus caps
me to think 'at they call theirsens 'lords o' creation,' an' yet 'as to
fetch a woman to sew a gallus button on, an' 'ud let t' 'ouse get lost
i' muck afore they'd clean it.  Suppose a man lived 'ere by hissen, do
you think this kitchen 'ud look like this?"

"I am very sure it would not," I replied, "and it wouldn't if some
women lived here."

"Well, anyway, it just goes to prove 'at men need women to look after
'em, but for all that it's bad enough for a woman to be alone.  To be
sure, she's a poor sort 'at hasn't more about 'er nor a man, an' it
isn't 'at she's flayed o' bein' by hersen or can't manage for hersen,
or owt o' that.  No, no.  But there's summat short, for all that.  Ye
can take it from me, miss, 'at Eve 'ud sooner have been driven out o'
Eden wi' her 'usband, nor have been left there to fend for hersen.
Women doesn't want to be t' boss: they want to be bossed, or anyway
they like t' man to think 'at he's bossin' 'em.  An' they like 'im to
come in wi' his great dirty boots spreadin' t' muck all ovver t' floor,
an' puttin' 'em on t' scoured 'earthstone, so as they can 'call' 'im
an' clear up after 'im.

"Oh, aye, to be sure, an' they like to see 'im light his pipe an' then
fratch wi' 'im for fillin' t' 'ouse wi' smoke; an' even if he knocks ye
about a bit now an' then, he sidles up to ye at after, an' 'appen puts
'is arms round ye, an'--an' makes a fool of hissen; but ye feel t' want
on it when ye've been used to 't."

"But we cannot all have husbands," I objected; "there are not enough of
the other sex to go round."

"To be sure, that's so," she consented; "but that doesn't alter t' fact
'at we want 'em, does it?  But I'd tax all t' men 'at isn't married,
the selfish beggars.  The Almighty meant 'em to pair off.  Two an' two
they went into t' ark, an' two an' two they should go yet if I'd my
way.  It's nature.  An' I never could see yet why t' wimmen should 'ave
to sit quiet an' wait for t' men to come an' ask for 'em.  A woman
knows better by 'alf what man 'ud suit 'er, an' 'er 'im, than t' man
knows.  She knows without knowing how she knows; whereas t' man just
sees a pretty face, an' some dainty little feet i' 'igh-heeled boots,
an' some frizzy 'air, 'at she's bought as like as not at a barber's,
an' there ye are!  But where are ye in toathree years' time?  Aye, to
be sure, where are ye then?"

"Perhaps if conventionality had permitted, your state might have been
changed again by now," I suggested slyly.

"Well, now, to be sure, Miss Holden," she replied, drawing her chair a
little nearer to mine, and laying one hand upon my lap for emphasis, "I
thought after Robertsha' died 'at it were a case of 'once bitten, twice
shy,' for there were odd times when he filled up the cup, so to speak.
But, ye know, I missed 'im; an' though it's twelve year sin' come
Shrove-tide, I miss 'im yet; an' if I had the askin' I've known for a
long time who it 'ud be 'at 'ud take his place; but ye see I 'aven't,
so I bide as I am."

I thought of the old fox, Simon Barjona, and laughed inwardly as well
as outwardly.  Widow Robertshaw little realised that I knew her secret.

Outside the storm raged furiously.  The snow lay thick upon the ground,
moist as it fell, but frozen in a moment, and to venture out seemed in
my case impossible.  We held a council of ways and means which resulted
in the production of a young man of strong build from a cottage a few
doors away, who smiled at the storm and readily undertook, in exchange
for a shilling, coin of the realm--to convey a note to Mother Hubbard,
describing my predicament.

I enjoyed Widow Robertshaw's hospitality, perforce, for two days, and
when I returned home it was in Mr. Higgins' market cart, he having
called in the Gap "casual-like" to see how Mrs. Robertshaw was "going
on."

CHAPTER XI

GINTY RUNS AWAY

What a curious medley life is!  How crowded with dramatic situations
and sudden anti-climaxes!  Even in Windyridge the programme of
existence is as varied and full of interest as that of any picture
palace.  We have all the combinations of tragedy and pathos and humour,
and he who has eyes to see and ears to hear and a heart to feel need
not complain of the monotony of the village, nor pine for the
manufactured excitements of the metropolis.

A letter with a foreign postmark and an Egyptian stamp was handed to me
on Monday morning, and I have been excited and troubled ever since,
though it brought me a great joy.  The handwriting was unfamiliar, but
when I turned to the signature I found it was from the squire, and I
began to read it eagerly.  I was astonished to find how small and
particularly neat his handwriting is.

The letter ran thus, omitting certain descriptive and unimportant
paragraphs:

"Assouan, Upper Nile,
  "_March_ 12_th_, 19--.

"DEAR MISS HOLDEN,

"I wonder if I might claim an old man's privilege and call you 'Grace'?
I should like to do so, for do you know there is not one of your sex in
the wide world whom I have a right to address by the Christian name,
and, what is perhaps more noteworthy, there is no other whose
permission I have the least desire to ask.  But somehow or other I am
longing for kinsfolk to-day, and the sensation is almost inexpressibly
acute, so much so that I actually feel the pain of loneliness, and that
'Inner Self' in which, I remember, you trust so completely, cries out
for sympathy and companionship.  If I mistake not we have common ideals
and aspirations--you and I--which make us kin, and I am disposed to
'stretch out lame hands of faith' in your direction if haply I may find
you and draw your soul to mine.  So if it be your will, let us be
friends, and do you send across the seas and deserts those mysterious
waves of kindly feeling which will vibrate upon the heart of the
solitary old man, to whom earth's messages of love come but seldom--now.

"Have I ever told you that I have not a relative on earth, and that I
have outlived all my own friends?  I sometimes feel to be like these
old monuments on the banks of Nile, which stand calm and impassive
whilst the children of this age picnic around their ruins; yet I am no
patriarch, for I have not much overstepped the natural span of man's
existence.  I hope you may never experience the sensation, but the fact
that you are yourself amongst earth's lone ones is not the least of the
links that connect you to me.

"I stayed some weeks in Biarritz ... but the weather turned cold and
wet, and the doctors bade me journey to Egypt.  It is an unknown land
to my material senses, but not to my spiritual.  Every stone preaches
to me of the familiar past.  I have always revelled in ancient history
and have kept abreast of modern discovery and research.  For a while I
enjoyed the company of my imagination, and we trod together the courts
and temple corridors of the mighty kings of ancient days, and
reconstructed their history.  Sometimes, for brief periods, I have
interesting conversations with men who are learned in all this lore;
but imagination and learning are but cold companions, and I am longing
for a hand-grasp and the look of love--longing, like the modern woman
of whom Derwent speaks--for the unattainable.

"I am half ashamed of myself for writing in this strain, and half
afraid of bringing a shadow over the spirit of the gentle soul whose
sympathy I seek; but you must not worry on my account, for I am neither
morbid nor unhappy, though sadness usually walks by my side.  Indeed,
life is strangely and even unaccountably dear to me just now, though I
am perfectly sure that the 'call' is not far away, and when it comes I
shall pass behind the curtain and face the unknown without fear and
without regret.

"Of late I have caught myself wondering whether I shall ever return
home and see the brown and purple moors again, and the homely people
whom I love; and when the thought that I may not do so grips me I have
just one overwhelming desire--a curious desire for the 'archæological
old fossil' I am generally taken to be.  Perhaps I am becoming weak and
sentimental, but when the time comes and I have to go, I want someone
who cares for me to 'see me off.'  I should like my eyes to close to
the sound of a woman's voice, I should like to feel the touch of a
woman's hand, and maybe the kiss of a woman's lips; and I should like a
few verses of Scripture and a simple hymn.

"I am an old fool, but the thought brings sweetness and peace with it;
and it is as a father to a daughter that I ask this boon of you: When I
hear the summons, will you come to me?  Whether I am at home or abroad
will you do me this service for love's sake?  I have no claim upon
anyone, and certainly none upon you, but my heart calls for you, and I
believe yours will answer the call.

"For the present, letters addressed to the British Post Office, Cairo,
will be forwarded to me, for I have no fixed address, but I shall look
eagerly for your reply.  Let me say in one word that I shall make
provision for the expense of your journey if I should send for you, and
I shall not send unless the call is clear.

"And now tell me of Windyridge....  Write to me when you can: give me
all the news; tell me how the great quest for peace progresses, and
believe that I am ever,

"Your very sincere friend,
  "GEORGE EVANS."

Womanlike, I watered this missive with my tears, but they were April
showers, after all, with great patches of blue sky in between, and
plenty of warm sunshine; for it was sweet to know that I was cared for
and that someone wanted me.

I hope none would mistake me.  I am an emotional goose at times, I
know, but thank goodness! I am no sentimentalist.  I am not possessed
with the idea that the squire wants to marry me and leave me his
fortune, for I am perfectly sure that he does not.  I heard his voice
the night before he went away, and it told me the secret of his
fidelity.  Besides, I wouldn't marry him if he did want it, for though
my heart tells me that I have loved him instinctively from the first
day of our acquaintance, and I love him now more than ever, it also
tells me that the affection is filial and nothing more.  What more
should it be?  It is all the more likely to be unselfish and sincere on
both sides that it has nothing of passion in it.  You see, unlike Widow
Robertshaw, I am not eager to change my state.

As to my decision, I did not hesitate for one moment.  When he needs me
I will go to him and, God helping me, I will act a daughter's part.
Act?  Nay, rather, I will do a daughter's loving duty.

I wrote him yesterday, telling him all the news of the little world of
Windyridge, but painting the shadows lightly.  In truth, they are heavy
and full of gloom just now.

I had just commenced work in my studio after reading the squire's
letter when Sar'-Ann burst in upon me, and throwing herself into one of
my ornamental chairs commenced to cry and sob hysterically, holding her
apron to her eyes and rocking her body to and fro in a frenzy of
abandonment.  I saw there was trouble of some sort, but recognised at
the same time the need of firmness.

"Sar'-Ann," I said, "you will break that chair if you carry on in that
fashion.  Restrain yourself, and tell me what is the matter."

Restraint and Sar'-Ann, however, were strangers to each other, and her
only response was to redouble her groans, until I lost patience.

"If you don't stop this noise, Sar'-Ann," I threatened, "I will get you
a strong dose of sal-volatile and make you drink it.  Do you hear?"

She did hear.  Sal-volatile, as a remedy, had been unknown in
Windyridge before my advent, but the few who had experienced it had not
remained silent witnesses to its power, so that the very dread of the
strange drug had been known to perform miraculously sudden cures in
certain cases; and "that sally-stuff o' Miss Holden's" had become a
word to charm with.

Sar'-Ann's groans subsided, but her breast heaved heavily, and her
apron still concealed her face.

"Cannot you speak, child?" I asked.  "What is the matter?  If you want
me to help you, you must do more than sob and cry.  Now come!"

"It's Ginty!" she stammered; "he's run away an' robbed his mother of
every penny, an' brokken her heart an' mine.  Oh, Ginty!  Ginty!
Whatever shall I do?" and the rocking and sobbing began again.

I got the sal-volatile this time and forced her to swallow it, taking
no heed of her protests.  Mother Hubbard came in, too, and added her
entreaties to my commands; and after a while she became calmer, and
then the whole story came out.

Ginty had been mixing in bad company for some months past.  Somewhere
in the hollow of the moors a couple of miles away he had stumbled one
Sunday upon a gambling school, conducted, I imagine, by city rogues who
come out here to avoid the police, and had been threatened with
violence for his unwelcome intrusion.  He had purchased immunity by
joining the school, and, unknown to everybody except Sar'-Ann, he had
visited it, Sunday by Sunday, with unfailing regularity, for the greed
of gain soon got hold of him.  Sometimes he had won small sums, but
more often he had lost all his wages and even pledged his credit, until
he had not known where to turn for money.

"I gave 'im all I had," said Sar'-Ann, "an' I begged him to drop it,
but he said he couldn't, an' he'd only to go on long enough to be sure
to get it all back an' more to it.  An' now, oh dear! oh dear! he's
robbed his poor mother an' made off; an' whatever I'm goin' to do I
don't know.  O God!  I wish I was dead!"

I left Mother Hubbard to console the stricken girl, fearing in my heart
that she had not revealed the extent of her trouble, and went straight
to Ginty's cottage, where a half-dozen women were doing their best to
comfort the poor mother, bereaved of her only support by what was worse
than death.  Children were there, too, their fingers in their mouths
and their eyes wide with wonder, staring vacantly at the object of
universal commiseration, and silent in the presence of a sorrow they
could feel but not understand.

The little garden was gay from end to end with multi-coloured crocuses,
and two or three men stood looking at them, not daring to venture
within the house, but ready to offer help if required.  One of them
muttered: "Bad job, this, miss!" as I passed; and the rest moved their
heads in affirmation.

Ginty's mother was seated at the little round table, her head in her
hands, and her eyes fixed upon an old cash box in front of her.  The
lid was thrown back and the box was empty.  The picture told its own
story; and to complete it a framed photograph of Ginty, which I had
given him only a few weeks previously, hung upon the wall opposite, so
that the author and his work were closely associated.

The women turned as I entered, and began to explain and discuss the
situation before the poor woman who was its victim, in that seemingly
callous manner with which the poor cloak and yet express their sympathy.

"Them's best off as has no bairns," said the blacksmith's wife; "ye
moil an' toil for 'em, an' bring 'em up through their teethin' an' all
make o' ailments, an' lay down yer varry life for 'em, an' this is how
they pay you back in t' end."

"Ay," said Sar'-Ann's mother, "shoo'll hev to be thankful 'at it's no
worse.  So far as I know he's ta'en nob'dy's money but 'er's, so I
don't suppose t' police 'll be after 'im.  Eh! but it's a sad job an'
all, an' he were bahn to wed our Sar'-Ann in a toathree week.  Well,
it's a rare good job for 'er 'at it's happened afore they were wed,
rayther than at after."

"But whativver is shoo goin' to do now 'at Ginty's gone?" inquired the
next door neighbour, Susannah; "Ginty kept 'er, an' _shoo_ can't do
nowt, not wi' them rheumatics in her legs, an' all that pile o' money
gone.  Nay, 'Lizabeth, lass, I nivver thowt ye'd scraped so mich
together.  It 'ud ha' served ye nicely for yer old age, but ye sud ha'
put it in a bank.  Whativver ye're bahn to do now, God only knows."

"We must see what can be done," I interposed.  "We must all be her
friends now that this trouble has come upon her, and do not let us add
to her distress by our discussion.  You will let us help you, won't
you?" I asked.

She did not speak or move, but just stared stonily into the empty box;
one would have said that she had not even heard.

I withdrew my hand as Susannah came forward.  Susannah is a good woman,
with a kind heart, and had known 'Lizabeth all her life.  She knelt
down on the stone floor and put an arm around her neighbour's waist.

"'Lizabeth, lass!  Ye munnot tak' on like this.  'E'll be comin' back
i' now.  It's 'appen nowt but a bit of a marlackin', an' ye shall come
an' live wi' us while 'e turns up.  Now what say ye?"

The mother's mouth set hard and her brow contracted.

"I shall go into t' work'us, Susannah; where else should I go?"

There was a murmur of dissent, broken by Susannah's:

"No, no, lass, nowt o' t' sort.  Ye'll come an' live wi' us; one mouth
more 'll none mak' that difference, an' Mr. Evans 'll be back i' now
an' put things straight for ye."

"Do ye think, Susannah, 'at your lasses 'll want to live wi' a thief's
mother, an' do ye think 'at I'll let 'em?  Ginty's a thief, an' all t'
worse thief because he's robbed his own mother, an' left 'er to starve.
But I won't be beholden to none of ye; I never 'ave been, an' I never
will be.  I've worked hard while I could work, an' I've saved what I
could an' lived careful, so as I wouldn't need to be beholden to
nob'dy; an' if Ginty has robbed me of my all 'e shall 'ave a pauper for
his mother, an' 'e shall 'ear tell of 'er in a pauper's grave.  I thank
ye kindly, neighbours, but ye must all go an' leave me, for I amn't
wantin' any comp'ny just now."

I saw that I could not be of service just then, so I came away with
some of the other women, intending to go again on the morrow.  But
though I went immediately after breakfast I found that she had gone.

"She was off afore I'd well got t' fire lit," said Mrs. Smithies, who
was my informant; "I looked across an' chanced to see 'er open t' door
and pull it to behind 'er.  She didn't lock it nor nowt, just like
snecked it.  She had a bundle in a red handkercher in 'er 'and, an'
such a 'ard look on her face, an' she never once glanced be'ind nor at
all them grand flowers, but just kept 'er eyes straight afore 'er.

"But I runs out an' I says: 'Nay 'Lizabeth, wherever are ye off, like?'
An' she says, 'I'm off to t' workus, so good-bye, 'Becca; an' if
there's ought in t' 'ouse after t' landlord's paid, you neighbours are
all welcome to 't.'  Not 'at I'd touch ought there is, miss, unless it
were that chiney ornament on t' mantelpiece, which I could like if it
were goin' a-beggin'.

"Well, I couldn't 'elp cryin' a bit, an' I axed 'er if she wouldn't
change 'er mind, but she were same as if she were turned to stone.  So
I went up t' road wi' her a bit, just a piece beyond t' 'All gates, an'
there she turned me back.  'Good-bye, 'Becca,' she says, 'an' thank God
on yer knees 'at ye've no son to rob his mother!  An' if my lad ever
comes back, tell 'im he'll find _his_ mother in a pauper's grave.'"

I walked down the fields into the sanctuary of the wood, where
understanding is sometimes to be found and freedom from painful
thoughts.  It was bitterly cold, but the sky was blue, so that in the
clear atmosphere every twig stood out with microscopic sharpness, and
it was impossible to miss the note of hope in the song of new-born
spring.

The trees were for the most part bare of colour--oak and elm and beech
were alike in the grey garb of winter--but the sycamores had burst
their buds and were clad in living green that delighted the eye and
quickened the pulse, whilst great blotches of yellow celandine blazed
in the sunshine of the open spaces like cloth of gold.

But the wood was voiceless at first to the question of my heart, and I
told myself that the "Why?" of life is unanswerable.  Then suddenly
there came into my mind the familiar words of Tennyson:

  "Behold, we know not anything;
    I can but trust that good shall fall
    At last--far off--at last, to all,
  And every winter change to spring,"

and at a bound my Inner Self found firm ground again.

"Grace," I said, "have you forgotten the closing verse of a preceding
stanza?" and I repeated aloud:

  "So fret not, like an idle girl,
    That life is dash'd with flecks of sin.
    Abide: thy wealth is gathered in
  When time hath sundered shell from pearl,"

and I determined to conquer my morbid tendencies and take a broader
outlook on life.  "An idle girl!"  That stuck.  "Ineffective depression
is a kind of idleness," I said to myself, "and I will kill it with
industry."

In obedience to this impulse I rose to my feet, and saw Farmer
Goodenough crossing the brook just below.  He smiled a greeting as he
came up, and we walked homewards together.

"Now I durst bet a new bonnet to a new hat, Miss 'Olden," he began,
"that I can guess at twice why you've come down 'ere, an' I'll throw
one guess away.  You're on what I should call in a manner o' speakin' a
'mopin' expedition;' now isn't that so?"

"But I don't wear bonnets, my dear sir," I rejoined; "and if you should
win a new hat you wouldn't wear it, being of such conservative
leanings.  Nevertheless, I am going to plead guilty to your indictment,
and I hope I shall be let off with nothing worse than a lecture."

"Nay, it's none for me to lecture anybody, for I know as little about
the rights o' things as I know about bonnets, but I've lived long
enough to know 'at' man's born to trouble as the sparks fly upwards,'
as t' Owd Book puts it; an' if you're goin' to fret your heart out
every time it comes your way you'll spend your life in a mournin' coach.

"'Cordin' to my way o' thinkin', Miss 'Olden, so long as human natur's
what it is you'll never get rid o' sufferin' an' trouble, an' what good
does it do to worrit yourself to death over what you can't mend?  If
you could mend it ever so little it 'ud be another matter.  Now look at
it i' this way.  We can all choose our own road when it comes to a
question o' right an' wrong, an' we should be in a poor way if we
couldn't.  My plough goes where t' horse pulls it, an' t' horse goes
where I guide it.  Now, neither t' plough nor t' horse has any
responsibility, so to speak; but I'd rather be a man an' have t' power
to choose where I go, even if I go wrong, nor be a beast or a machine.

"Now yon lad has gone wrong, an' I'm sorry for 'im, but accordin' to t'
Owd Book it's no use cryin' over spilt milk, an' both 'im an' us 'll
have to make t' best on 't.  So will Sar'-Ann; so will Ginty's mother.
Ginty knows he's done wrong, an' he's known t' difference between right
an' wrong all along t' road.  He's chosen, an' chosen badly, poor lad,
an' he's sufferin' for it, wherever he is, an' 'e'll have to sup more
sorrow still, there's no doubt about it, an' a bitter cup it'll be.

"But don't you see, this same bitter cup is med'cine for t' lad at same
time.  He's gone into t' far country now, but like t' other prodigal
he'll come to himself, as t' Owd Book says, one o' these days, an' we
shall have to leave him there till that time comes.

"But now, take t' lad's mother.  She's chosen her own way an' all.
Ginty's sin were greediness an' love o' money, an' his mother's sin is
pride.  We haven't all t' same nature, an' I'm not settin' up for a
preacher, for Reuben Goodenough doesn't live up to his name by a long
chalk, so I'm not judgin' t' woman, like a Pharisee.

"But I know this, if she'd just ha' let t' neighbours 'elp her a bit,
her 'eart wouldn't have been so sore, and t' blow 'ud have been
lightened for her.  We're a roughish lot i' Windyridge, but there isn't
many 'at wouldn't have made shift to help t' owd woman as well as they
could, but she couldn't stomach bein' helped.

"An' there's a taste o' revenge in it too, unless I'm sadly mista'en.
She thinks she'll pay t' lad out better wi' goin' to t' workus nor
ought else she could do; an' she likes to believe 'at he'll be
'eart-brokken if she's put in a pauper's grave.

"That's how I size things up.  All this trouble needn't have been, but
it is there, an' you an' me has no 'casion to mope over it.  Mopin'
won't help neither of 'em, but I daresay we can both 'elp 'em a bit if
we try.  I'm goin' to see if I can hear ought o' t' lad, an' if I do I
shall follow 'im up; an' I shall do my best to bring a bit o' sense to
his mother.  An' if you'll excuse me, miss--well, you're a woman.  Try
what a word o' prayer now an' again 'll do for 'em, i'stead o' frettin'
over 'em; an' 'be strong an' of a good courage.'  That's in t' Owd
Book, an' it's good advice."

CHAPTER XII

THE CYNIC EXAGGERATES

Easter is past and spring has burst upon us in all her glory.  The
landscape is painted in the freshest and daintiest tints: the beeches
are a sight to make glad the heart of man; the chestnuts with their
cones of cream and pink look in the distance like huge,
newly-replenished candelabra; the slender birches, decked in silvery
white and vivid green, stand gracefully erect, veritable "ladies of the
woods," as Coleridge called them.  Here and there a blackthorn bends
beneath its burden of snowy blossom, and calls a challenge to the
hedgerows which have wakened late, and are slow in their dressing.

Occasionally primroses may be seen, though they are not common in these
parts; but on the banks of the lower lane modest violets peep out shyly
from the shadows, and the dull purple flowers of a species of nettle
offer their bashful welcome to spring.  The gardens are gorgeous with
daffodils, and the woods with celandine and wild hyacinth; whilst our
humble friends, the buttercups, daisies, and dandelions, have sprung up
in abundance, the merry children of field and wayside charming us all
with their simple beauty.

I spend almost all my leisure time in watching the birds, an occupation
which is in itself a never-failing delight, and I puzzle myself with
questions which no man can answer, but which are imperatively asked all
the same.

Who guides these flocks of tiny travellers, who have journeyed by
trackless routes from distant lands hundreds of miles away, depending
only on the strength of their own wings, and the mysterious vital power
with which God has endowed them?  How do they recognise the familiar
haunts of a year ago?  How do they know that the woods in these
northern regions are ready for habitation?

I give it up; but I love to see them approach from the distance like a
swiftly-moving cloud, and disappear into the haze again after circling
over the trees which surround the Hall; and I love to walk through the
meadows and see how my feathered brothers and sisters are making the
most of the sunshine and the softened soil.

The blackbird is in full song now, and it darts past, me with its
chirpy "tuck-tuck-tuck"; whilst the lark soars upwards into the azure
with quivering song, full-throated, inimitable.

The sagacious rooks have been busy for days past with household cares,
and have gone about thieving (with a clear conscience, I trust) for
strictly domestic purposes; and the thrushes are just as industrious in
their search for dainties hidden in Mother Earth.

East winds prevail, and rheumatism holds some of my neighbours in
prison and in torment, but to me they bring exhilaration, a voracious
appetite, and the joy of life.  Mother Hubbard looks upon me with
loving envy and sighs for the days that are beyond recall.

Poor Mother Hubbard!  The hard winter has tried her severely, but she
never complains and is always sweet and cheerful, and promises herself
and me that she will be all right when summer comes.  I hope so, for
she has grown inexpressibly dear to her adopted daughter whom she does
her level best to spoil, and if we were parted now we should miss each
other sorely.

I have discovered that she is an excellent chaperon, and enjoys the
rôle beyond my power of description.  What a remarkable little woman
she is!  She knows that I keep a record of my experiences, and has got
it into her head that I am writing a book, and she is therefore always
on the look-out for the appearance of the hero.  She has given me to
understand that if she can only be in at the _dénouement_, when the
hero leads the blushing bride to the altar amid the ill-restrained
murmur of admiration from the crowd, she will be then ready to depart
in peace.  Needless to say, it is _I_ who am to be the blushing bride!
It is no doubt a very pleasing fancy, but I am afraid the dear old lady
will have to find contentment in an abstraction.

What amuses me most is her well-founded misgiving as to my ability to
deal adequately with such a situation in my "book."

"You are not very romantic, love," she said to me one evening, when she
had been making unusually large demands upon her imagination, to my
considerable amusement, "and I don't think you will ever be equal to
the greatest writers unless you cultivate that side of your nature.
You know, love, you are rather practical and common-sense and all that
sort of thing, and the men might not know how very nice you are."  She
came across and kissed me, hoping I did not mind her candour.

"You see, love, I was always rather romantic myself, and I think I
could help you a bit; though, of course, I am not clever like you.  But
I could just tell you what I think ought to be put in, and you could
find suitable language for it....  Now you're laughing at me!"

I believe she thought the hero had arrived when the Cynic turned up on
Easter Monday.

It was a truly beautiful day, typically April, except that the showers
were wanting, and the much-abused clerk who controls the Weather
Department must have been unusually complaisant when he crowded so many
pleasing features into his holiday programme.  Until the long shadows
began to creep across the fields it was warm enough to sit out in the
sunshine, whilst there was just sufficient "bite" in the air to make
exercise agreeable.

Every cottage garden had on its gala clothing and smiled a friendly
welcome to the passer-by, and a sky that was almost really blue bent
over a landscape of meadow, moor, and wood that was a perfect fantasy
in every delicate shade of green.  And the beasts of the field and the
fowls of the air lifted up their voices in their several degrees of
melody.

It had been a glorious Easter Day, and perhaps on that account I had
risen early on the Monday and gone out bareheaded to catch the Spirit
of the Morning.  Farmer Goodenough passed as I stood at the gate, and
threw one of his hearty greetings over his shoulder without pausing in
his walk.

"Look out for customers to-day, Miss 'Olden!  There'll be scores in t'
village this afternoon from Broadbeck way."

"But suppose I don't want them, Mr. Goodenough," I replied; "it's
holiday to-day."

"That 'ud be a sin," he shouted; "'make hay while t' sun shines,' as t'
Owd Book says, holiday or no holiday."

There was sense in this.  Customers had so far been scarce enough, for
I had been favoured with the patronage of only three paying sitters,
although I had been established in business for eight months.  My total
takings from the portraiture branch had not totalled thirty shillings;
and if my neighbours had not grown accustomed to it, the sign at the
bottom of the garden must have appeared very ridiculous indeed.  I
therefore anticipated the arrival of excursionists with no little eager
interest.

Half a dozen houses in the village had got out brand new boards
indicating that Teas were provided within, and I knew that from this
date forward until the autumn a very brisk trade would be done on sunny
Saturday afternoons and holidays.

Soon after half-past twelve I caught sight of the advance guard
approaching.  The footpaths between Windyridge and Marsland Moor became
dotted with microscopic moving figures which materialised usually into
male and female, walking two and two, even as they went into the ark,
as Widow Robertshaw might have observed.

When they reached the village street the sight of my studio seemed to
astonish them and tickle their fancy.  "In the spring a young man's
fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love"--and portraiture.  Quite a
group of young people gathered about my sign before two o'clock, and
from that time until five I never sat down for one minute.  As fast as
I bowed out one couple another entered, amid a fusillade of
good-humoured chaff and curtly-expressed injunctions to "be quick about
it."  I took so much money, comparatively speaking, in three short
hours that I began to see visions and dream dreams--but the Cynic
dispelled them.

He was standing in the garden, talking to Mother Hubbard, when I locked
up the studio, and although he was in shorts I recognised him at once,
for thus had I seen him in my dream.  I involuntarily glanced at myself
to make sure that I was correctly garbed and that it was really the
key, and not Madam Rusty's teapot, that I held in my hand.

He came forward smilingly and held out his hand.  "How do you do, Miss
Holden?  I had intended asking you to take my photograph, but
competition for your favour was so keen that the modesty which has
always been my curse forced me to the background."

"If it had forced you to the background you would have entered my
studio, Mr. Derwent," I replied; "all those who have competed
successfully for my favour were not deterred by dread of the
background.  I fear, however, it is now too late to endeavour to
encourage you to overcome your bashfulness."

"Indeed, yes:

  "'The shadows of departing day
  Creep on once more,'

as the poet hath it, and when one has walked eight or nine miles across
the moors the man within cries out for food and drink even more than
for art.  And therefore I have ventured to introduce myself to Mrs.
Hubbard and to inquire if she would make me a cup of tea, and she has
very kindly consented to do so."

I looked at Mother Hubbard, who had sufficient sense of the appropriate
to blush very becomingly.

"You old sinner!" I said, "how dare you impose upon my good nature!
Are there so few neighbours of ours who cater professionally for the
requirements of these 'men within' that we must needs enter into
competition with them?"

Mother Hubbard's nods and winks became so alarmingly expressive,
however, during the course of my speech, that I was in real danger of
becoming confused, so I turned to our guest and extricated myself.

"Be pleased to enter our humble abode, to which we make you heartily
welcome.  And in return for such poor hospitality as we can offer you,
you shall regulate the clock, which has lately developed certain
eccentricities, and nail up the creeper on the gable end.  Then if time
permits you shall rest your limbs on the wicker chair in the garden and
enlighten us as to what is going on in the world of men."

"With all my heart," he agreed, "and I promise to make so good a tea
that the debt will not be easily repaid."

He did pretty well, I must admit, and when it was over Mother Hubbard,
with a self-conscious cough, and a look that was eloquence itself,
expressed her fixed determination to clear away without my help.

"It's just a little fancy I have, love," she protested, as I tied on my
apron; "I really would like to do it all myself.  I am tired of
sitting, and knitting seems to try my eyes to-day."

"Mother Hubbard," I replied, "you are a hypocritical old humbug, and
you are wanting to persuade Mr. Derwent that I am not domesticated,
which is too bad of you.  And you know that I take my share of the
work."

"Really, love," said Mother Hubbard, who was almost in tears at the
denseness of my intelligence, "I'm sure Mr. Derwent will understand my
meaning."

I am only too much afraid that he did, for he looked at me out of the
corners of his eyes and said, with a merry twinkle which was provoking:

"I shall certainly need some information about the clock, and a little
assistance with the creeper.  Miss Holden, you had better yield to Mrs.
Hubbard's wishes."

"If you cannot regulate a clock without a woman standing over you, or
hold a bit of jasmine in one hand and a hammer in the other without a
woman's assistance, you deserve to remain in your ridiculous
background.  You will find the tools in the top drawer of the dresser.
If you will be good enough to get them and go on with your work, Mother
Hubbard and I will soon finish ours."

He grinned, and Mother Hubbard groaned; but before long we were sitting
together in the garden, with the knitting needles making music as usual.

The Cynic leaned back in his chair and watched the blue smoke curl
lazily from his cigarette.  The laughter of the visitors had ceased in
the streets, but the voice of song was wafted occasionally to our ears
from the fields below.  How is it that homeward-bound excursionists
always sing?

"I take it, Miss Holden, that you are a Prototype, which I spell in
capitals.  But I venture to predict that you will not have a large
following.  The modern craze is for kudos, and in this particular the
success of an enterprise like yours is not likely to be remarkable."

"What, exactly, is my enterprise?" I inquired.  "Please interpret me to
myself."

"The surface reading is easy," he replied, "but the significance is
hieroglyphic.  Who can read the riddle of woman's motives?  They are
past finding out, and man can only grope for the meaning with
half-blind observation, having eyes indeed, but seeing not; hearing,
but not understanding."

"As, for instance?" I again inquired.

"I will come to your case shortly," he continued, "and meantime I will
speak in parables.  I went into a fashionable draper's shop the other
day, as I had business with one of the principals.  He was engaged, and
I elected to wait and was accommodated with a seat near the glove
counter.  My experiences were distinctly interesting, but I cannot yet
read the riddle they offered me.  Before I was summoned to the office
three customers had approached the counter at separate times, and the
procedure was in all three cases on approximately similar lines.

"The lady sailed up to the counter, deposited her parcels upon it,
seated herself upon the waiting chair, adjusted her skirt, and then,
turning to the deferential young gentleman whose head was inclined
artistically to one side in the way that is characteristic of the most
genteel establishments, murmured languidly: 'Gloves, please.'

"The deferential young gentleman brought his head to the perpendicular
and replied: 'Gloves!  Yes, madam,' and proceeded to reach down a
half-dozen boxes from the shelves at his back.

"'This, madam,' he said, bringing forth a pair of grey suedes, 'is a
beautiful glove.  One of Flint's very best make, and they are produced
specially for our firm.  Every pair is guaranteed.  We can very
strongly recommend them.'

"The lady took the gloves in her hand, stretched them, and examined
them slowly and critically, whilst the D.Y.G.'s head dropped to the
artistic angle again.

"After having eyed them in silence for a minute or more, and half
conveyed the impression that they were the very gloves she was seeking,
the lady placed them without a word on the counter, and the D.Y.G. with
perfect understanding replaced them in the box.

"He opened another box containing suede gloves in tan.

"'This also is an excellent glove, madam,' he repeated, with all the
precision of a gramophone; 'it is one of our best selling lines, and
its wearing qualities are unsurpassed.  You may buy more expensive
gloves, but none of better value.'

"This pair is subjected to the same slow and critical examination,
after which the lady inquires:

"'What is the price?'

"'The price of these gloves, madam, is seven-and-six.'  Professing to
confirm his statement by minutely examining the ticket, though, of
course, he is perfectly well aware that there is no mistake, he
repeats: 'Yes, madam, seven-and-six.'

"Again the gloves are laid upon the counter, and again the D.Y.G.
replaces the lid and attacks another box!  Meanwhile the lady's gaze is
wandering abstractedly around the shop; picking out an acquaintance
here and there she smiles a recognition; and she seems a little vexed
when a third pair of gloves is placed before her.  The same performance
follows, with the same serenity on both sides, but the price has
dropped to five shillings.

"Then the kids are produced, in all shades and at all prices, and are
in turn deposited upon the counter without comment.

"At last the D.Y.G. has exhausted his stock and his familiar
recitations, but fortunately not his urbanity, and he looks at his
customer with deprecation in his eyes.

"'You had some white kid gloves in the window a week or two ago,' she
murmurs, smiling sweetly; 'ten buttons; they were a special price, I
think.'

"'Two-and-eleven, madam?' he asks, hopefully.

"'I believe they were.  Yes, two-and-eleven,' she responds, as though
consideration had confirmed her recollection; and in two minutes more
her wants are satisfied, and she departs to another counter to the
performance of Scene 2 in the same act."

"And this is typical of woman's methods?" I ask.

"It serves to show," he replies, "how unfathomable her methods are to
mere man.  When _we_ unimaginative mortals enter a shop for a similar
purpose we say:

"'I want a pair of tan kids, seven and three-quarters, about
three-and-six,' and before the current of cold air which came in with
us has circulated round the shop, we are going out with the little
parcel in our pocket.  Now why does not woman do the same?  _You_ don't
know--nobody knows; nobody really wants to know, or to see her act
otherwise."

"It is a very silly exaggeration," I said, "and if it is characteristic
of _your_ methods they are certainly not past finding out."

The Cynic is really a very irritating person.  He has a way of ignoring
your rejoinders which is most annoying, and makes you want to rise up
and shake him.  Besides, it isn't courteous.

"Now to return to your own case, Miss Holden.  It is not typical and
therefore I call it prototypical.  _Why_ you have forsaken London
society (which in this case I spell with a small 's,' to guard against
possible repudiation) is possibly known to yourself, though personally
I doubt it.  Why, having found the hermitage and the simple life, you
have adopted photography as a profession in a village where you will be
fortunate if you make an annual profit of ten pounds is another enigma.
But kudos is not everything, and I see in you the archetype of a race
of women philosophers of whom the world stands sorely in need."

"You talk like a book," I said, "and use mighty big words which in my
case need the interpretation of a dictionary, but I'm afraid they cover
a good deal of rubbish, which is typical, if I may say so, of the
ordinary conversation of the modern smart man."

"Nay," said he, "but I am in downright earnest.  For every effect there
must be an adequate cause.  You may not understand yourself.  The why
and wherefore of your action may be hard to discover, but I was wrong
when I said that it was unfathomable.  Given skill and perseverance,
the most subtle compound must yield its analysis, but it is not given
to every man to submit a woman's actions to the test, and I beg you to
believe that I was not impertinent enough to make any such suggestion."

"Nevertheless," I said, "I may some day allow you to put my actions
into the crucible, and see if you can find my real motives.  I confess
I do not understand myself, and I have nothing to conceal.  I think I
should rather like to be analysed."

"Then I may come again?" he asked.

"You may come to be photographed, of course," I replied.

I wonder how old he is, and what he does!

CHAPTER XIII

WHITSUNTIDE EXPERIENCES

New sensations have elbowed and jostled each other to secure my special
attention this Whitsuntide, until I have been positively alarmed for my
mental equilibrium.  The good people here seem so sedate on ordinary
occasions that one fails to realise that after all there is a good deal
of the peacock and the kitten in the make-up of many of them; but
Whitsuntide reveals this.

The peacock in them manifests itself as they strut up and down in new
clothing of brilliant dye, affecting an unconsciousness and unconcern
which deceives nobody.  The shocks I received during that memorable
Sunday, when the village turned out in its new finery, I still
experience, like the after-tremors of an earthquake.

Pray do not imagine that Windyridge knows nothing of the rule of
fashion.  Every mother's daughter, though not every daughter's mother,
owns her sway and is her devoted subject.  If the imperious Dame bids
her votaries hobble, the Windyridge belle limps awkwardly to and
fro--on Sundays and feast days--in proud and painful obedience,
heedless of the unconcealed sneers and contempt of her elders.  If
headgear after the form of the beehive or the castle of the termite ant
is decreed, she counts it a joy, like any fashionable lady of fortune,
to suffer the eclipse of her good looks under the vilest monstrosity
the milliner's ingenuity can devise.  Ah, me!  How fine a line, after
all, divides Windyridge from Mayfair!

The kitten in them gambols and makes fun whole-heartedly for several
hours at a stretch on the afternoon of Whit Monday, and with such
kindliness and good humour that one cannot help feeling that the world
is very young and one's self not so very old either.

I thought the rain was going to spoil everything.  Day by day for a
week it had come down with a steady determination that seemed to mean
the ruin of holiday prospects.  The foliage certainly looked all the
fresher for it, and the ash took heart to burst its black buds and help
to swell the harmony of the woods.  But these are æsthetic
considerations which do not appeal to people who are looking forward to
a good time--a time of fun and frolic for some, and harvesting of
shekels for others.

When I woke on the Sunday, however, old Father Sol had shaken off his
lethargy, bundled the surly clouds into the store-room, locked the door
and put the key into his pocket, and strolled forth to enjoy the sight
of his welcome.  Meadow, pasture and moor, green hedgerow and brown
road were silvered over with sunshine, and the flowers looked up and
laughed the tears away from their faces, and told themselves that
everything had been for the best; and the cocks crowed lustily from the
walls where they had flown to greet the sun, and all the birds came out
from eave and tree and lowly nest, and sang their doxology in happy and
tuneful notes which told how brimful they were of joy.

Long before church-time it was so hot that the fields were steaming
like drying clothes before the fire, and as I walked back from
Fawkshill after the morning service I felt sure that there need be no
misgiving about the dryness of the grass for the children's treat on
the morrow.  Everybody was concerned for the children!  Young women of
eighteen and young men of the same age had no real concern or interest
in the weather except in so far as it involved disappointment to the
children!  Well, well!  How easily we deceive ourselves, and how
unwilling we are to acknowledge the child within the man!

In the afternoon I went to chapel with Mother Hubbard, and saw and
heard that which made me want to laugh and cry at the same time, and I
really do not know why I should have done either.  My emotions seem to
take holiday sometimes and enjoy themselves in their own peculiar way
without restraint.  Let me set down my experiences.

Do you know what a "sitting-up" is?  If you live in Yorkshire or
Lancashire no doubt you do, but if you are a southerner or a more
northern northerner the probability is that you do not.  When Mother
Hubbard told me that the children were to "sit up" at the chapel on
Whit Sunday I stared at her without understanding.  "Do they usually
stand up or lie down?" I inquired.

Then it occurred to me that this was, perhaps, a metaphorical way of
speaking, and that there was, so to speak, a "rod in pickle" for the
bairns on this special occasion, but why I could not imagine.  Yet I
knew that when an irate Windyridge father undertook to make his lad
"sit up," it usually betokened some little difficulty in sitting at all
until the soreness wore off.

This, however, foreboded nothing of so unpleasant a nature.  When I
entered the light and airy little sanctuary I found thirty or forty
children ranged in rows one above the other, in front of the little
pulpit.  Not many boys were there, and there was nothing specially
attractive about those who were, beyond the attractiveness that lurks
within the face of every cleanly-washed child.  But the girls were a
picture; they were all in white, but most of them had coloured sashes
round their waists, and coloured ribbons in their hair, and one or two
were distinguished by black adornments, betokening the recent visit of
that guest who is so seldom regarded as a friend.

Some of the frocks were new, but most of them were old; and it is safe
to assume that the younger children were wearing what had served the
turn of a past generation of "sitters-up."  In some cases they were so
inadequate to the requirements of the long-limbed, growing maidens who
wore them, that it cannot be denied that the dresses "sat up" even more
than their owners, so that the white cotton stockings were taxed to the
utmost to maintain conventional decency.

To listen to the children's performances, rather than to the address of
the preacher, the chapel was uncomfortably crowded by what the
handbills called "parents, relatives and friends."

The door was wide open, and my eyes often strayed to it before the
service began, for it framed a picture of yellow meadows and waving
trees, of brown moorland and ultramarine sky, with drowsy cattle in the
pastures a hundred feet below, which seemed strangely unfamiliar, and
rather reminiscent of something I had once seen or dreamed of, than of
what I looked upon every day of my life.  The explanation is simple
enough, of course.  I saw just a _panel_ of the landscape, and with
limited vision the eye observed more clearly and found the beauty of
the scene intensified.

But when the prayer was ended--a rather long and wearisome one, to my
thinking, on such a fine day, when all nature was offering praise so
cheerily--the children's part began.

They sang children's hymns, the simple hymns I had sung myself as a
child, which I hope all English-speaking Christian children sing: the
hymns which belong to the English language and to no one church, but
are broad enough to embrace all creeds, and tender enough to move all
hearts, and which must find an echo in the Higher Temple, where
thousands of children stand around the throne of God.

A wee lassie of five stood up to sing alone.  As the thin, childish
voice rose and fell my heart began to beat fast, and I looked at the
fair little head through a veil of tears.  They made an aureole which
transformed Roger Treffit's firstborn into a heavenly cherub, and I was
carried into that exalted state when imperfect speech and neglected
aspirates are forgotten:

  "Jesus, tender Shep'erd 'ear me:
    Bless Thy little lamb to-night;
  Through the darkness be Thou near me;
    Keep me safe till mornin' light."

Was there one present who did not at that moment feel very near to the
sheep-fold of the Good Shepherd?  I am a Churchwoman, and by training
and association inclined to look distrustfully upon Dissent, but that
child's lispingly tuneful prayer taught me that I was in the House of
God; for surely I know at the heart of me that neither in the Catholic
mountain nor the Anglican Jerusalem is God solely to be worshipped, but
wherever men seek Him in spirit and in truth; and this afternoon a
little child was leading us.

  "All this day Thy 'and has led me.
    And I thank Thee for Thy care;
  Thou 'ast clothed me, warmed an' fed me;
    Listen to my evenin' prayer."

It was not evening, for the sun was still high in the heavens and the
shadows short upon the earth; but He with whom the night and the
morning are one day heard and understood, I do not doubt.

Without a pause the sweet voice went on:

  "Let my sins be all forgiven;
    Bless the friends I love so well;
  Take me, when I die, to 'eaven,
    'Appy there with Thee to dwell."

Amen and amen, dear little Lucy!  Surely no stain of sin as yet has
darkened your soul, but the thought of the good Lord who "forgiveth
iniquity, transgression and sin" cannot come to us too soon.  Let it
sink into the plastic wax of your memory and your heart, and harden
into certainty, and then when the time comes for you to die--whether
the day be near or distant--it will be well with you, "happy there with
Thee to dwell!"

There were other solos, but none which moved me like this of little
Lucy's, and there were recitations by two of the boys which affected an
entirely different compartment of my emotions.

They were highly moral pieces, I know, and they exhorted us to a course
of conduct which must have been beneficial if followed; the trouble was
that the eye had so much employment that the ear was neglected and so
missed its opportunities.

Each boy licked his lips vigorously to start with, and then glued his
eyes upon one fixed spot, as if he saw the words in bold type there.
If he did, an invisible compositor had set them up in the west window
for the one lad, and on a corner of the ceiling for the other.  The
swiftness with which the words came out reminded me of a brakeless
gramophone running at top speed; and it made the performers gasp for
breath, which they dared hardly stop to renew lest memory should take
wings and fly away.  I am sure I was relieved when the final bob to the
congregation was reached and the contortions ended.

The address was tedious, like the prayer, but fortunately it was not
long; then the preacher came in to tea, it being Mother Hubbard's turn
to entertain him.

The chapel people take the preachers according to an arranged plan with
which they are all familiar.  My old lady regards the privilege as in
the nature of a heavenly endowment, and she has more than once reminded
me that those who show hospitality to God's ministers sometimes
entertain angels unawares.  No doubt that is so, but the wings were
very, very inconspicuous in the one who ate our buttered toast that
Sunday.

All the same he is, I am sure, a very good man, and a man of large and
cheerful self-sacrifice which calls for admiration and respect, and I
do sincerely honour him; and it is no fault of his that his great big
hands are deeply seamed over their entire surface, and that the
crevices are filled with black.  He works, I discovered, at an
iron-foundry, and I believe his hands were really as clean as soap and
water could make them.  But when all has been said, he need not have
spread them over all the plate whenever he helped himself to another
slice of bread, and he might just as well have taken the first piece he
touched.  I suppose I am squeamish, but I cannot help it.  I found some
amusement in pressing him to eat all he had touched, however, and
seeing that he did it.

His conversation was chiefly remarkable for the use he made of the
phrase "as it were."  Mother Hubbard regards him as a genius, but I
doubt if he is anything more than an intelligent eccentric.  It must
have been his flow of language which got him "on the plan" that is to
say, into the ranks of the local preachers of the Wesleyan Church--for,
like the brook, he could "go on for ever."

He is a tall, heavy man, perhaps fifty years of age, with a mass of
hair upon his head but none upon his face, except where thick eyebrows
hang like brushwood over the twin caverns of his eyes.  As he speaks he
raises his right hand and holds the palm towards you, moving it slowly
to and fro for emphasis, and he measures his words as he goes along.

He was describing his experiences in a new chapel where he had recently
preached, a gothic building, "more like a church, as it were, than a
chapel."

"Ah yes, Mrs. Hubbard," he said (he never addressed me direct, perhaps
because he suspected that I was not one of the confraternity), "I
always mistrust a chapel with a spire to it; and the spirit of
Methodism, as it were, cannot dwell in transepts or chancels.  There is
not the heartiness, not the freedom, which we associate with our
chapels.  The air is heavy, as it were, with the spirit of
sacerdotalism.  Why, ma'am, at this particular chapel--church, they
call it--they had choir stalls, filled with men and boys, and a
liturgical service, as it were.  Ah yes!  No sound of 'Hallelujah!' or
'Praise the Lord!' escaped the lips of the devout worshipper.  They
were stifled stillborn, as it were.  It was cold, ma'am, cold and
formal; John Wesley would never have found his heart strangely warmed
in such an atmosphere.  No!

"And yet, ma'am, there was something in the arrangements that stirred
my feelings, as it were.  Here, on my right hand, were grouped the
scholars; children in the springtime of life, as it were.  Yes! it was
a moving sight, ma'am, to a man of feeling."  (I wickedly thought of
his hands.)  "Life was before them--spread out like a map, as it were,
with nothing but the outline; or like a copy-book which would be soiled
and disfigured with many blots, as it were, before the end was reached.
Yes!

"And on my left were the elders of the flock, gathered there, I was
told, because the acoustic properties, as it were, are excellent in the
transepts: the grey-headed sires, who had almost fought through the
battle and were now awaiting the recall, as it were.  Men and women in
the late evening of life, as it were, who would soon pass behind the
sunset.

"And in front of me were the middle-aged, those who were bearing the
burden and heat of the day, as it were.  Yes! labourers in life's
vineyard; earning their bread in the sweat of their brow, going forth
to their work until the evening, as it were.

"Yes!  And as I looked upon them, young and middle-aged and old, I said
to myself in the language of the preacher: 'All go unto one place; all
are of the dust, and all turn to dust again.'--Ecclesiastes iii. 20,
ma'am."

I got up and went into the garden, and filled my nostrils with the
fragrance which earth was sending to heaven--as it were--and felt
better.

Whit Monday was a hard day for me.  After dinner my Easter experiences
were repeated, and sitters came thick and fast.  I really believe my
work is giving satisfaction, for some of my last holiday customers had
sent their friends to be "taken"; and some called themselves to say
"How d'ye do?"

Nothing eventful transpired, however, and no Cynic turned up to disturb
the serenity of my temper with sarcastic observations upon women, so I
climbed the hill at the back of the house and joined the merry throng
of school-children who were having a jolly time with their elders in a
field at the top.  And there I forgot my tiredness, and romped for a
couple of hours with the wildest of them, having as much of the kitten
in me as most folk.

When the red had finally died out of the western sky the dustman came
round, and the eyes of the little ones grew heavy.  But the grown-ups
were enjoying themselves far too much to think of leaving so soon, so I
gathered the infants around me and told them all the wonderful stories
which had been locked away in the dusty cabinets of my memory.  Not the
ordinary nursery tales, which are as well known in Windyridge as in
Westminster, but some of the simpler records of Greek mythology, and
extracts from the lives of the saints.

Little Lucy came and laid her head upon my shoulder and asked if it was
all true.  I tried to show her the truth that was hidden in the
make-believe, but I fear with small success.  Her eyelids were held
open with difficulty as she continued to question me.

"Is comets true?"

"Comets?" I inquired; "what do you know of comets?"  (One is about due
now, and the children are on the tip-toe of excitement.)

"Dada says they has long tails, an' runs up an' down the sky when I'se
asleep, like little mouseys."

"You are not afraid of them, are you?" I asked.

"Dunno.  I think I is afraid of them, but I always asks God."

"What do you say?" I ventured.

The little head was growing heavier, and it was a very sleepy voice
that murmured:

"God bless ev'ybody ... an' don't let them be 'ungry, so they won't die
... until You makes 'em ... 'cept it be comets an' things."

Now what could anybody make of that?  I carried the child home, and she
did not wake when I undressed her and put her to bed.

CHAPTER XIV

BARJONA FALLS INTO THE TRAP

"Arternoon, miss!"

It certainly was afternoon, for only a few minutes earlier the little
clock in my studio had chimed three, and I was not in the least
expecting visitors, particularly of the paying kind, and was hard at
work upon the accumulated negatives of Whitweek, when the blunt
ejaculation caused me to turn with a start.  My astonished eyes fell
upon a transformed Barjona!

Barjona in a frock coat of modern cut, with a white waistcoat, and
slate-coloured trousers, correctly creased!  Barjona, with a starched
shirt and a satin tie, vividly blue!  Above all, Barjona in a silk hat,
which he was at that moment carefully removing from his head, as though
anxious to prevent the escape of some bird imprisoned within!

It was not a bird, however, that he captured and produced, but an
elaborate "button-hole," properly wired, as one could see at a glance,
and with its stems wrapped in silvered paper; and Barjona chuckled as
he stepped to the mirror and adjusted it in the lapel of his coat.

"Took that out quick, I can tell you....  Gives the show away, that
does ... thought once over I'd throw it in t' gutter ... but I says,
'Nay, it cost fourpence' ... sixpence she asked for it ... sixpence ...
mustn't waste it ... smarten up my photygraph, too....  No, no, mustn't
waste fourpence!"

"Why, Mr. Higgins," I exclaimed, "you must surely have been to a
wedding!  But none of our friends in Windyridge have been getting
married to-day, have they?"

"No, no ... Marsland Gap ... widow-woman ... name o' Robertsha' ... now
Mrs. Higgins ... Mrs. S. B. Higgins ... she's in the trap now," jerking
his head towards the roadway.

This was too much for my gravity.  I had just enough presence of mind
to shake hands with him and offer my congratulations, and then gave way
to uncontrollable laughter.

"It's your own fault, Mr. Higgins," I blurted out at length.  "Last
October you told me that you were too old a fox to be caught again;
there were to be no traps for you, and when you said Mrs. Higgins was
in the trap it amused me vastly."

"Meanin' the cart, of course," he interrupted, looking somewhat
sheepish, but still sufficiently pleased with himself.

"I know," I replied, "but I was just wondering how you come to be
caught in the other trap, the trap of wedlock--you, a man of years and
experience, and pre-eminently a man of caution."

He hung his hat on the support of my reflecting-screen, and passed his
hand thoughtfully over his smooth crown--I had always felt sure that
his head was bald--and I imagined I saw an uneasy look creep into his
eyes.

"It be very cur'ous, Miss Holden," he said, in a confidential tone,
"very cur'ous....  Said to myself many a time ... hunderds of times....
'Don't 'ee be a fool, Simon ... women be kittle cattle,' I says ...
some weepin' sort ... some blusterin' ... but all masterful ... an'
costs a lot o' money ... awful lot o' money to keep up....  Went into
't wi' my eyes open ... oh yes; very cur'ous....  Come to think on 't
... dunno why I done it."

"Don't worry, Mr. Higgins," I said soothingly; "many animals flourish
splendidly in captivity, and if they miss their freedom they never say
anything about it, but look quite sleek and contented.  And I am sure
you have secured a very capable and good-natured wife, and are to be
heartily congratulated.  Now fetch her in and I will be getting the
camera ready."

"Fetch her in?" he inquired.

"Yes, I shall be ready by the time you return, and it will be the work
of only a moment or two to arrange you suitably."

"But she isn't goin' to have 'er photygraph taken," he said, with an
emphatic shake of the head; "only me."

"Do you mean to tell me," I remarked severely, "that you will not be
photographed together on your wedding day?  Mr. Higgins, it is quite
the customary thing, and I certainly never heard of such a procedure as
you are suggesting.  Besides, it costs no more."

"Costs the same? ... for two as for one?"

"Certainly," I replied.

"Taken separate, like?" he continued.

"No, if taken separately the cost would be doubled, but on wedding
occasions the bride and bridegroom are almost invariably photographed
together, and that involves no extra cost."

He thought this over for half a minute and then made up his mind
definitely.

"I'll be taken by myself," he said, "... to match this 'ere."--He drew
from his breast-pocket a rather faded photograph, cabinet size, which
displayed a younger Mrs. Robertshaw in the fashion of a dozen years
before.--"Maria got these ... just afore Robertsha' died ... has best
part of a dozen on 'em .... gave Robertsha' 's away ... pity to waste
these ... 'll do nicely."

"But Mr. Higgins," I protested, "these photographs are faded, and they
are not the Mrs. Higgins of to-day.  Nobody wears that style of dress
now, and she has actually a fringe!  Throw them away, and do as I
propose."

"I see nowt wrong wi' 't," he replied, examining it critically.  "She's
fatter now, an' isn't as good lookin' ... more wrinkles, like....
Makes a nicer pictur, this does ... plenty good enough for 'er."

"Mr. Higgins!" I exclaimed indignantly.

"If--you--please--miss," he said emphatically, "it's me as gives the
order ... one dozen, miss ... to match this 'ere."

There was nothing more to be said, and I took two negatives of the
wretched little man, in the first of which he is shown standing as
erect as nature permits, with the silk hat fixed firmly upon his head,
and one hand in his trousers' pocket, so that the white waistcoat might
not be concealed; and in the second, sitting with one leg thrown over
the other, and the silk hat upon his knee.  It was in vain that I
pointed out that neither pose would correspond with that of his wife,
which was a mere vignetted head and shoulders; Barjona had made up his
mind, and was not to be moved, and I felt thankful, with Mother
Hubbard, that I was not Mrs. Higgins.

I went out to speak to her when the operation had been completed, and
at our approach the neighbours who had been keeping her company smiled
and drew back a little.

"Good-afternoon, Mrs. Higgins," I said.  "I have already congratulated
your husband; let me now wish you much happiness."

"Well, now, to be sure, Miss Holden," she replied, and accompanying the
words with a most decided wink, "that remains to be seen.  But if he
doesn't give me much, he'll 'ave less, I can tell you.  I think we
shall get on when we've settled down a bit; an' anyway, time won't hang
as 'eavy on my 'ands, so to speak."

"Come, lass, we must be going," interrupted Barjona, who had climbed up
beside her.

"As soon as ever I've finished," replied Mrs. Higgins, smiling upon him
sweetly.  Nevertheless, she tightened the reins and prepared to move.

"I'll drive, lass," said Barjona, holding out his hand.

"I'll keep 'em mysen, lad," replied his wife; "I've 'eld 'em all this
time while t' mare was still: I'll 'old 'em now when she's on t' move.
Come up, lass!"

She threw me another portentous wink, and the mare moved slowly down
the lane.

"Poor Barjona!" murmured Mother Hubbard, as we sauntered back to the
cottage.

"I wonder if you are right," I remarked rather viciously.  "I certainly
hope you are.  At present my sympathies lie in the other direction, and
I am disposed to say 'Poor Maria!'"

"Yes, love," said Mother Hubbard, "perhaps she has the worse of the
bargain; but I think the old fox has got into a trap that is going to
hold him very tight this time, and it will nip hard."

"I hope it nips until he squeals," I said impenitently.

This was on the Monday following Whitweek.  The next day brought me a
long, chatty letter from the squire, who feels wonderfully better and
talks of coming home again soon.  He cannot understand why the doctors
always say "not just yet."  He is at Sorrento now, and chaffingly
condoles with me on the remote prospects of a continental trip, at any
rate on his account.  I wonder if he guesses how relieved I am, and how
eagerly I anticipate his home-coming.

In him I seem to have a friend who understands, and I am beginning to
think that is the only real kind of friend.  I have said all along that
I do not understand myself.  I am always coming across odd little
tracts of territory in my nature which surprise me and make me feel
something of an explorer, whereas I cannot help feeling, somehow or
other, that the squire knows all about me, and could make a map of my
character if he chose, with all my moods and whims and angularities
accurately indicated, like so many rivers and mountains.  And so far
from resenting this I am glad of it, because he is so kind and fatherly
with it all, and not a bit superior.  Now the Cynic, although he is no
doubt a mighty clever man, makes you so frightfully conscious of his
cleverness.

By the way, I have made a discovery about him.  He is a barrister, and
quite an eminent one in his way.  I suppose I might have found this out
long ago by asking any of the Windyridge men, but for some occult
reason I have never cared to inquire.  The discovery came about in this
way.

When I had finished reading the squire's letter, and before proceeding
to my work, I took up the _Airlee Despatch_ which Farmer Goodenough had
left with us, solely because it contained a short paragraph on the
"Wedding of a well-known Windyridge character"--no other, in fact, than
our friend Barjona.

As my eyes travelled cursorily over the columns they were arrested by
the following:

"Mr. Philip Derwent, whose brilliant advocacy admittedly secured a
verdict for the plaintiff in the recently concluded case of Lessingham
v. Mainwaring, which has occupied so much space in all the newspapers
recently, is, as most of our readers will know, a native of Broadbeck.
His father, Mr. Stephen Derwent, was engaged in the staple trade of
that town, but was better known for the interest he took in many
religious and philanthropic movements, and in those circles his death
five years ago occasioned a considerable gap.  If report may be relied
upon Mr. Philip Derwent's decision to read for the bar was a
disappointment to his father, but the striking success which has
attended him all through his legal career has sufficiently justified
his choice.  It was a matter of general comment in legal circles during
the recent proceedings that Mr. Derwent more than held his own against
such eminent luminaries as Sir George Ritson and Mr. Montgomery Friend,
who were the King's Counsel opposed to him.  He showed remarkable
versatility in the conduct of his case, and his cross-examinations and
repartees were brilliant in the extreme.  Whether his law is as
reliable as his rhetoric may be open to question, but one looks forward
to his future career with special interest, as he is still on the sunny
side of forty, and is therefore young enough to win many laurels.  His
mother died when he was quite young, and he is himself unmarried."

Why I should have felt low-spirited when I put the paper down I do not
know.  It is just these unexplained "moodinesses" which make me feel so
cross with myself.  The squire's letter had been bright, and the
paragraph about Barjona amusing, and certainly the reference to Mr.
Derwent was ordinary enough.  Still I stared at nothing quite intently
for a few minutes after reading it.  Then I shook myself.

"Grace Holden!" I said, "plunge your face into cold water, and go
straight to your work in the studio.  You have negatives to retouch,
and prints to tone and develop, and nearly a dozen miniatures to paint,
all of which are shamefully overdue; and no amount of wool-gathering
will bring you in the thirty shillings which you have fixed as your
weekly minimum.  Now be a sensible woman, and 'frame,' as your
neighbours say."

So I "framed," thinking the while how contemptuously the Cynic would
smile at my thirty shillings.

CHAPTER XV

ROSE ARRIVES

The surprises of life are sometimes to be counted amongst its
blessings.  I daresay Reuben Goodenough, who is one of the most
religious men I have met--though I am puzzled to know where his
religion comes from, seeing that he rarely visits church or
chapel--would affirm that all life's incidents are to be regarded as
blessings.  "All things work together for good," as "t' Owd Book" says.

He argued this point with me at considerable length one day, and though
he did not convince my head he secured the approval of my heart.  He is
distinctly a philosopher after his kind, with the important advantage
that his philosophy is not too ethereal and transcendent, but designed
for everyday use.  He professes to believe that there are no such
things as "misfortunes," and so takes each day's events calmly.  For
the life of me I cannot see it, but I rather cling to the thought when
the untoward happens.

Be that as it may, the surprise which "struck me all of a heap," to use
a common expression of my neighbours, in the last week of June was a
blessing that one could count at the time.

It was evening, and I was standing in the garden among the roses and
pinks, engaged in removing the few weeds which had escaped Mother
Hubbard's observant eye, and pausing occasionally to wonder which I
admired the more--the stately irises in their magnificent and varied
robes, or the great crimson peonies which made a glorious show in one
corner--when the gate was pushed open, and an elegant young lady, in a
smart, tailor-made costume and a becoming toque, glided towards me.  I
took another look and gasped for breath.

"Well, Grace," said the apparition, holding out a neatly gloved hand,
"one would say that you were astonished to see me."

"Rose, you darling!" I ejaculated, "come and kiss me this minute, and
show me which particular cloud has dropped you at my feet!  My dear
girl, you have stunned me, and I feel that I must pinch you to see if
you are really flesh and blood."

"If there is to be any pinching, my dear Grace, _I_ prefer to do it.
It will prove my corporeal existence just as conclusively, and be less
painful--to me.  So this is Windyridge?"

"Rose!" I exclaimed, "for goodness' sake don't be so absurdly practical
and commonplace, but tell me why you have come, and where you are
staying, and how everybody is at old Rusty's, and how long you are
going to be in the north, and all about yourself, and--and--everything."

"All that will take time," replied Rose calmly, as she removed her
gloves; "but I will answer the more important parts of your questions.
I am staying here, with you.  If you are very nice and kind to me you
will press me to remain ten days with you, and I shall yield to
pressure, after the customary formal and insincere protests.  Then you
will put on your hat and walk with me down to Fawkshill station, and as
there are no cabs to be had there we will bring up my bag between us."

"_That_ we need not do," I said.  "There are half a dozen strong boys
in the village, any one of whom would fetch your belongings for love of
me and threepence of your money."

"Happy Grace!" she sighed; "'love rules the court, the camp, the
grove,' as saith the poet.  Be it even so.  Summon the favoured swain,
discharge his debt, and I will be in thine."

"Rose!  Rose! you are the same incorrigible, pert, saucy girl as of
yore, but you have filled my heart with joy.  I am treading on air and
giddy with delight.  We will have ten days of undiluted rapture.  Come
inside and look round my home.  Mother Hubbard is 'meeting for tickets'
to-night, and will not be back for a good half-hour."

"Meeting for what?" inquired Rose blankly.

"Meeting for tickets," I repeated.  "My dear old lady is a Methodist
class leader, and to 'meet for tickets' is a shibboleth beyond your
untutored comprehension.  But the occasion is one of vast importance to
her, and you are not to make fun of her."

She was pleased with everything and expressed her pleasure readily.  In
spite of her composed manner she is a very dear girl indeed, and though
she is years younger than I am she and I always hit it exactly.  When
she saw the tiny bed and realised that we should have to share it she
laughed merrily.

"_I_ will sleep next to the wall to-night," she said, "because I am
very tired, and it would be annoying to be always falling out.  I shall
sleep so soundly that your bumping the floor will not disturb me, so
you will have nothing to worry about.  Then to-morrow night I will take
the post of danger, and so alternately."

"We might rope ourselves together," I suggested, "and fasten the ends
to a stake outside the window.  I don't think the bumping idea appeals
to me."

But Mother Hubbard planned a better way on her return, and contrived a
simple and ingenious addition to the width of the bed by means of
chairs and pillows, which served our purpose admirably.

Over the supper table Rose told us all about her visit.  "You see, I
have not been quite the thing lately: nervy and irritable and that sort
of nonsense, which the chief charitably construed into an indication of
ill-health.  He was awfully decent about it and suggested that I should
see a doctor.  I told him I was all right, but he insisted, so I saw
Dr. Needham, and he told me I was run down and required bracing air.
'Mountain air would be better than the seaside,' he said.  'You haven't
friends in Scotland or Yorkshire, I suppose?'  Then I thought of you.
'I have a friend who went wrong in her head about twelve months ago,' I
said (or words to that effect), 'and she ran away to the Yorkshire
moors.  She might take me in if I could get off.'  'The very thing,' he
said.  'Will you have any difficulty with your employer?'

"'I don't think so,' I replied; 'not if it is really necessary.  The
chief is a discriminating man, and I believe realises that my services
are invaluable, and he will put up with a little temporary
inconvenience in order to retain them permanently, I imagine.'  You are
accustomed to my modesty, Grace, and will not be surprised that I spoke
with humility.

"Well, he smiled and said he would give me a certificate, so I took the
certificate and my departure and interviewed the chief in his den!  It
was as I had anticipated.  I was to get away at once.  Ten days on the
moors would put the wine of life into my blood.  That was theory.  The
practical assumed the form of a five-pound note, which enables me to
play the part of the grand lady--a rôle for which I was designed by
nature, but which providence spitefully denied me.  I stated my
intentions to the Rusty one, who coldly sent you her regards, but I
determined to take you by surprise, hoping to catch you unprepared and
unadorned, whereas you are neither the one nor the other.  Then I
boarded the two o'clock Scotch express at St. Pancras, changed trains
at Airlee, and _me voilà_!  By the way, what about my bag?"

The bag came all right in due course, and in the days that followed
Rose and I gave ourselves up to enjoyment.  It was like living one's
life twice over to share the delight she showed in her surroundings.
Fortunately I had got abreast of my work, and we ordinarily devoted our
afternoons to business and spent the mornings and evenings in Nature's
wonderland.

During those ten glorious days the sun worked overtime for our special
benefit, and put in seventeen hours with unfailing regularity.  He
smiled so fiercely on Rose's cheeks that she would have justified her
godmother's choice if she had not preferred the hue of the berry, and
turned a rich chestnut.

Mowing was in full swing in the meadows, and we took our forks and
tossed the hay about and drank barley-water with the rest.  We followed
the men whose heads were lost in the loads of hay which they carried on
their backs, and saw how they dropped their burden in the haymow.  We
stood like children, open-mouthed, admiring the skill and industry of
the man who there gathered it up and scattered it evenly round and
round the mow.

We went into Reuben Goodenough's farmyard, and I showed her the barn
owls which have taken up their abode in his pigeon loft, and which live
amicably with their hosts and feed on mice.  We descended the fields to
the woods, which the recent felling has thinned considerably, but which
have all the rank luxuriance of summer, and revelled amid the bracken
and trailing roses.  We stood by the streamlet where the green
dragon-flies flitted in the sunshine, and where millions of midges
hovered in the air to become the prey of the swallows which rushed
through with widely open mouths and took their fill without effort.

We spent hours on the moor, where the heather, alas! had not yet
appeared, but which was a perfect storehouse of novelties and marvels.
Who would have thought, for instance, that the little golden bundles
which cling to the furze, and which we thought were moss, were just so
many colonies of baby spiders?  We watched the merlins, the fierce
cannibals of the moors, which dash upon the smaller birds and are even
bold enough to attack the young grouse at times.  What did we not do!
Where did we not go!  And neither of us suffered from surfeit.

"Grace," said Rose, as we lay on our backs in my paddock, and gazed
upon the white cumulus clouds which floated above, "I withdraw all I
have said about your madness, and I now declare you to be particularly
sane.  If ever I go back to town, which is doubtful, I will describe
your sanity in terms which will relieve the fears of all at No. 8.  My
personal appearance will give colour to my statements, and I shall
probably observe, with the originality which is a mark of genius, that
God made the country and man made the town.  But I have not yet decided
to return, although I took a ten days' ticket.  Your studio seems to
have served its purpose: is there any opening in Windyridge for a
talented stenographer and typist?"

"The prospects would not appear to be exactly dazzling," I replied,
"but I'm willing to keep you here on the off-chance that something may
turn up."

"Some_body_'s turning up," said Rose, hurriedly assuming a sitting
posture, "and we had better get up."

I imitated her example, and saw that the Cynic had leaped the wall and
was coming towards us.

I did the necessary introductions and we sat down again.  "I called,"
said the Cynic, "in the hope that there might be a clock to regulate or
a creeper to nail up, in which case I might earn a cup of tea.  Also,
to make arrangements for my photograph."

"I couldn't expect you to do any work in those clothes," I replied.
"Is this a visit of ceremony, or have you come in your Sunday best in
order to have your portrait taken?  All my local sitters insist upon
putting on the clothes in which they feel and look the least
comfortable."

"No," he said, with a glance at his black trousers--the rest of him was
hidden by a light dust-coat--"the fact is, I am dining with the vicar
and spending the night at the vicarage.  I must go to town on Saturday,
but to-day and to-morrow are free.  I propose, with your gracious
permission, to spend an hour here, walk on to Fawkshill, and return
to-morrow for the dread operation to which I have referred."

"I am afraid it will not be convenient to-morrow," I said; "really I am
very sorry to upset your plans, but Miss Fleming returns to town on
Saturday, and we have promised ourselves a full day on the moors.  Of
course, if you could come very early----"

Rose interrupted.  "Don't let me hinder business, my dear Grace, or I
shall have you on my conscience, and that will be no light burden.  We
can modify our arrangements, of course."

"What about my conscience, in that case?" said the Cynic.  "I am not
really very particular about the photograph, especially in my 'Sunday
best,' and I can easily come up some other day.  But--who is going to
carry the luncheon basket?"

"There is no basket," I returned; "our arrangements are much more
primitive, and the burden grows lighter as the day proceeds.  Moreover,
I don't think it is very nice of you to suggest that the photograph is
of slight importance.  Don't you realise that it is my living?"

"I realise the truth of the poet's assertion that woman is 'uncertain,
coy, and hard to please.'  A moment ago you were declining
business--declining it with an air of polite regret, it is true, but
quite emphatically.  Now, when I not only refuse to disturb your
arrangements, but actually hint an offer of assistance, you scent a
grievance."

Rose was looking very hard at me, and I felt vexed with the man for
placing me in such an awkward position.  And to make matters worse the
consciousness of Rose's stare upset my self-possession, and it was she
who spoke first.

"If Mr. Derwent would join us I think it would be very nice," she said,
so demurely that I stared at her in my turn, "and it would be
an--education for him.  And he certainly could carry the sandwiches and
our wraps, which are a bit of a nuisance."

What could I say?  I was annoyed, but I could only mutter something
incoherent which my companions construed into an assent, and Rose
instructed the Cynic to be at the cottage at ten o'clock in the morning.

To add to my confusion, Mother Hubbard was manifestly excited when we
went in to tea, and she telegraphed all sorts of meaning messages to
Rose when the Cynic's back was turned.  I was cross with myself for
becoming embarrassed, but I hate to be placed in a false position.
What on earth is the Cynic to me?

I thought he was rather subdued and not quite as satirical as usual,
but he was obviously very much taken with Rose, who was quite brilliant
in her cuts and thrusts.  She soon took the Cynic's measure, and I saw
how keenly he enjoyed the encounter.  I left them to it very largely,
much to the disappointment of Mother Hubbard, who developed a series of
short, admonitory coughs, and pressed my foot beneath the table a score
of times in a vain effort to induce me to shine.  It was not my "night
out," and her laudable endeavours simply resulted in a sore foot--the
injured member being mine!

We accompanied him a little way along the road, and when we left him
Rose turned upon me:

"Now 'fess!" she said.

"Rose, don't be a goose!" I replied, whilst the stupid colour flooded
my face; "there is nothing to confess.  I have seen Mr. Derwent only
twice before in my life.  He is little more than a stranger to me."

"A remarkable circumstance, however, my dear Grace, is that you have
never mentioned his name in your rather voluminous correspondence, and
yet you seem to be on familiar and even friendly terms; and our good
friend Mother Hubbard----"

"Mother Hubbard, Rose, is romantic.  The moment the man turned up at
Easter she designated him as my lover.  Let me be quite candid with
you.  If I was not so constituted that blushing comes as naturally to
me as to a ripe cherry you would have had no reason to suspect
anything.  It is the innocent, I would remind you, who blush and look
guilty.  Mr. Derwent is a barrister--a friend of the vicar and of the
squire--and he amuses himself by calling here when he is in the
village--that is all.  And if you are going to be as silly as Mother
Hubbard it is too bad of you."

I felt this was frightfully weak and unconvincing, as the truth so
often is.

"U-m!" said Rose, spreading the ejaculation over ten seconds; "I see.
Then there's nothing more to be said about it.  He isn't a bad sort, is
he?  Why in the world you never mentioned him in your letters I cannot
conceive."

It was too bad of Rose.

CHAPTER XVI

THE CYNIC SPEAKS IN PARABLES

"What makes you call me the Cynic?" he inquired.

It was Rose's fault; she is really incorrigible, and absolutely
heedless of consequences!  If I had dreamed that she would have done
such a thing I would never have told her, but that is the worst of
blanket confidences.  I call them "blanket" confidences because it was
after we had gone to bed, when it was quite dark and Rose was inclined
to be reasonable, that I had explained to her calmly and quite
seriously that I had not mentioned the Cynic in my letters because
there had been no reason to do so; and Rose had accepted the
explanation, like a good girl, and kissed me to show her penitence.
Then I told her of the nickname I had given him, which she thought very
appropriate.  But I would have held my tongue between my teeth if I had
contemplated the possibility of her revealing the secret; and here she
had blurted it out with a laugh, to my utter and dire confusion.

We had had a glorious day, and I must admit that the Cynic had added
not a little to our enjoyment.  He said he would have felt like a fool
to be walking out in black West of Englands, so he had called at the
Hall and got the butler to find up an old shooting jacket of the
squire's, which was much too large for him, but in which he appeared
quite unconcernedly a full ten minutes before the time appointed.

"It isn't a good fit," he remarked with a laugh, "but the other toggery
was impossible for the moors."

Under his guidance we had gone farther than we should otherwise have
ventured, and he had pointed out a hundred beauties and wonders our
untrained eyes would never have seen.  He had interpreted the varying
cries of the curlew, and shown us how intently the gamekeeper listened
to them, so that he might know whether man or beast or bird was
attracting the watcher's notice.  He had pointed out the trustful
little twite, which I should have mistaken for a linnet, and followed
it to its abode, where he told us we should find a single feather stuck
conspicuously in the edge of the nest; and it had been even so.  Our
botanical knowledge would have been greatly increased if we had
remembered all he told us, but though we did not do so we were deeply
interested, for he had none of the air of the schoolmaster, and he did
not expect us to take our lessons very seriously.

And now the day was spent, and our energy, though not our spirits, had
flagged considerably.  We were sitting on the edge of the moor, a mile
or so away from home, and the flush of evening spread over the valley
and the distant hills, turning the landscape into mystery.  The lamp of
the setting sun was flickering out in the west, but the handmaidens of
the night had lit their tiny torches here and there, and they shone
faintly behind the veil of twilight, giving promise of greater radiance
when the time should come for them to go forth to meet the crescent
bride who tarried in her coming.

I was gazing on it dreamily, and breathing out peace and goodwill
towards men when Rose dropped her bomb, and shattered my complacency.

"What makes you call me the Cynic?"  He turned his eyes upon me and
awaited my answer with evident curiosity.

I looked at him in my turn.  He had been bareheaded all day, for he had
left his hat at the Hall, and he was now leaning back against a rock,
his hands clasped behind his head, and the mischievous look I have so
often noticed sparkling in his eyes.  He really is rather a fine man,
and he has certainly a good strong face.  I replied, calmly enough to
outward seeming:

"Because it has seemed to me an apt description."

"I hope not," he replied.  "Cynicism is the small change of shallow
minds.  All the same, it is interesting to be criticised.  I did not
know when I offered to analyse your character that I was being
subjected to the same test."

"Indeed you were not," I protested; "it was an appellation that came to
me spontaneously whilst you were discoursing so luminously on woman a
few months ago, and it is not to be taken seriously.  It was wicked of
Rose to tell you."

Rose laughed and put an arm around me.  "Never mind, old girl," she
said, "I'm going back to-morrow, so you must forgive me."

"I'm afraid you have not distinguished with sufficient care, Miss
Holden, between satire and cynicism.  I daresay there is a strain of
satire in my composition, but I do not plead guilty to cynicism.  A
cynic is a surly, misanthropical man, with a disordered liver and a
contempt for the good things of life."

"Oh, Grace!" murmured Rose in pathetic tones, "how could you!"

"Nonsense!" I said, "I am not going to allow you to pretend to take me
seriously.  Do you think I subjected the word to subtle analysis before
I adopted it?  I tell you it came to me as an inspiration, heaven-born,
doubtless, but if you don't like it pray forget it; and for your
comfort I will add that I have never attached to the word the meaning
you read into it.  I know you have no contempt for art and poetry and
the good things of life.  Now tell us what you see before you?"

I wished to change the subject, and referred simply to the view, as
anyone might have known.  Night was dropping her blue curtain as
gently, as silently, as the nurse spreads the coverlet over the
sleeping babe; but the stupid man professed to misunderstand me.

"I see before me," he replied, "two interesting specimens of the sex
which ruins the peace and creates the paradise of the bulk of mankind.
I would call them charming but for the fear that my candour might be
mistaken for cajolery, which my soul abhorreth."

"Oh, please stop this!" I pleaded, but Rose said: "Let him ramble on,"
and he continued:

"The one whom I judge to be the elder is tall and well proportioned.
She has a fairly deep brow which indicates some intellectual power, but
whether this is modified or intensified by cranial depressions and
protuberances, a mass of dark hair, arranged in a fashion that beggars
my feeble powers of description, hides from my eyes.

"Her mouth is firm, and set above a determined chin, which would lead
me to conclude that she has a will of her own and is accustomed to
exercise it; but her eyes are tender and pleading, and so near the
reservoir of her emotions that the waters readily overflow, and this in
some measure counteracts the qualities of the chin.  She has a pretty
wit and a ready tongue--usually--and has lived long enough to be
convinced of her own powers; rather masterful with the world at large,
but not mistress of herself."

"Thank you!" I interrupted.  He bowed.

"She dresses with taste and has tidy and methodical habits; is ever
ready with sympathy, but would never care deeply for anybody who did
not show her a heap of affection."

"Do I cross your hand with silver?" I inquired.

He ignored my interruption and turned his whimsical gaze upon Rose.

"Her companion, whom I have had fewer opportunities of observing, is
slight, fair, and small of stature.  I should say she might be
scheduled as 'dangerous,' for she flashes most unexpectedly.  She is
rather proud of her self-possession, and delights in appearing cool and
unemotional, but in reality she is neither.  She has simply cultivated
repression for the sake of effect.  She is intense in her likes and
dislikes and quite capable of hating those whom she regards with
aversion, whilst she would apotheosise anyone for whom she really
cared.  Her wit is more brilliant but also more superficial than that
of her friend, and her mental outlook is clearer and consequently more
optimistic.  She prides herself on unconventionality, and is at heart
the slave of conventionalism.  In a word she is a paradox, but a very
agreeable and fascinating one."

"I had much rather be a paradox than a paragon," said Rose; "but after
your very inadequate delineation of my character I am trying to
determine in which pigeon-hole of my carefully concealed emotions I am
to docket you."

"Is that quite true, Miss Fleming?" inquired the Cynic, looking at her
keenly.  "I should have said you made up your mind on that point last
evening."

The tan upon her cheeks and the cloak of twilight covered Rose's
blushes to a large extent, but I am sure the colour deepened, and I am
convinced the Cynic saw it.

He rose and gathered up the wraps.  "It is getting chilly," he
observed; "shall we be moving?"

I turned the conversation into another channel.  "You are going to town
this week-end.  Is most of your time spent there?"

"Yes," he replied, "my work lies in London, though Broadbeck is my
home, and I ran down very often, merely, I believe, to breathe the
murky air and refresh my soul with the Yorkshire burr.  I go back
refreshed without knowing why.  I have no relatives here now, and few
friends, but the few I have, though they do not guess it, are my
greatest comfort."

"Comfort!" ejaculated Rose; "what can you know of the need of comfort?
You, at any rate, are self-centred and self-possessed.  You have
evidently a sufficient income and lots of the good things of life; you
are entirely your own master, and on the high-road to fame; what more
can you want?"

"Much," he replied simply; "and chiefly the sympathy which understands
without explanations, and I get that only amongst my own folk.  Do you
know what that means?  I have all the things you speak of: an
increasing practice, an adequate income, good health, work that brings
its own pleasure, an appreciation of life, consequent, no doubt, upon
all these things, and an ardent longing for the relief which only real
sympathy affords."

"I don't understand," said Rose, "notwithstanding my clear outlook on
life."

"Do you?"  The Cynic turned to me.

"Partially," I replied.  "I can understand that none of these things
satisfies in itself, and that you may have 'all things and abound,' and
yet crave something you cannot work for and earn.  But I should have
thought your profession would have left you little time for sentiment,
even if it afforded scope for it."

"You know, then, what my profession is?"

"You are a barrister, and, as Rose says, on the high-road to fame."

"Well," he replied, "I suppose that is true.  I have as much work as I
can undertake and I am well paid for it.  Success, in that sense, has
come, though slowly, and I am considered by many a lucky fellow.  My
future is said to be full of promise.  I have, in the sense in which
you spoke, 'all things and abound,' and when I step into the arena of
conflict I am conscious of this, and of this only.  In the heat of the
fray the joy of battle comes upon me, and I am oblivious to all else.

"Then comes the after-thought, when the fray is ended and the arena has
been swept clean for the next encounter.  'What lack I yet?'  In the
process of gaining the whole world am I going to lose myself?  And the
throng presses upon me and slaps my back and shakes my hand and shouts,
'Lucky dog!' into my ear, and I smile and look pleased--am
pleased--until my Good Spirit drives me north, where the air is not
soft, but biting, and men speak their minds without circumlocution and
talk to you without deference, and give you a rough but kindly thrust
if they think you need it.  And there I find vision and comfort."

"You are utterly beyond me," said Rose.  "You are soaring in the clouds
miles above my head, and I cannot yet understand why you need comfort."

"Do you remember the young ruler who went away sorrowful?" he replied.
He was looking straight ahead, with a sad, fixed look in his eyes such
as I had not seen there before.  "I wonder if he went north and found a
friend who understood, and from him gained comfort.  You see, he _knew_
that something was lacking, but could not make up his mind to pay the
price of the remedy, and even the Great Physician, whilst He gave the
unwelcome prescription, pitied and loved him.  The world called him a
lucky dog, and he called himself one--with a reservation.  And he
wanted comfort; not the comfort which simply says, 'Buck-up, old man!'
but that which says, 'Brace-up, old man!  If to sell all is the summum
bonum, go, see the broker now and have done with it.'  I wonder if he
went eventually."

This was a new mood, and I glanced at the Cynic curiously.  What had
become of his cynicism?  He was speaking quietly, contemplatively, and
I felt sure there was meaning behind his words.

I said nothing, but Rose shook her head and muttered: "You speak in
parables."

"Let me give you a parable," he continued.  "Once upon a time a certain
boy on leaving school left also a large number of marbles.  These were
claimed by two of his companions, and one of the two took possession of
them.  Then arose a great outcry on the part of him who would have
taken them if he could, and he dragged his fellow before a council of
their peers.  The monitor was judge, and two sharp young fellows who
were good in debate and of ready tongue acted as counsel for the
claimant and his foe respectively.

"In the end judgment was given for the claimant, who carried off
triumphantly the spoils of battle.  And this judgment was given, not
because the defendant had no right to the marbles, but because the lad
who championed his cause was not so glib of speech nor so ready in
argument as the fellow on the other side.  Now it came to pass that the
lad who won the case for his friend discovered soon after, what he had
suspected all along--that the latter had no real claim to the marbles
at all, and that they had been taken unjustly from the lad to whom they
rightfully belonged.  Yet the judgment of the court could not be upset.
What was he to do?"

"Nothing," replied Rose promptly.

"Why?" inquired the Cynic.

"It was the fortune of war," she answered; "the case was properly tried
by an impartial court, and the defendant should have taken care to
secure the services of the smarter advocate.  It would be a lesson to
him for the future.  The world would never get on if everyone worried
about things of that sort."

"And you?" he said, turning to me.

"Was there no chance of reversing the judgment?" I inquired.

"None: it was irrevocable."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel reason to suspect, did you say, that his
client's cause was unjust before the verdict was given?"

"He became practically convinced of it as the case proceeded, but not
absolutely certain.  Yet he fought for his client with might and main."

"Had the plaintiff's counsel any marbles of his own?" I continued.

"He had.  Quite a fair store."

"Sufficient to pay back the lad who had suffered the unjust judgment?"

"About sufficient; no more."

My heart thumped painfully, but I did not hesitate to answer: "I think
he ought to have parted with his own marbles, and so redressed the
wrong and saved his soul."

There was silence for a moment before the Cynic spoke: "I think so,
too."  Then, irrelevantly: "There is something about this northern air
that is very bracing."

CHAPTER XVII

GRACE BECOMES DEJECTED

I had no time to feel depressed after Rose left on Saturday, for the
afternoon brought me more customers than I could well accommodate.

My reputation must have travelled as far as Broadbeck, for the greater
number of my patrons are from that town.  They consist for the most
part of engaged couples, or couples that obviously intend to become
engaged; and whether it is the excellence of my productions, or the low
charges, or just the fun of being photographed by a woman in a hamlet
like Windyridge that attracts them, I have not been able to determine,
and it does not very much matter.  Mother Hubbard, on the other hand,
finds the explanation simple.  I am the most talented of artists, with
all the indifference of the genuine genius to adequate remuneration.

I was thoroughly tired when tea-time came and my day's labours ended,
and was quite ready to be petted and made a fuss of by my dear old
lady.  By the way, the summer has unfortunately not brought back her
old vigour, and I cannot help worrying a little about her, though she
is as bright and optimistic as ever.

I got a long letter from Rose on Monday morning.  It had been written,
of course, on the Sunday, whilst the scent of the moors was still in
her nostrils; but though she feels the change pretty badly I am sure
she is not so depressed as I am.  It must have taken her a heap of time
to fill so many sheets of notepaper with her small, business-like
handwriting.  There were a good many sparkling sentences in the letter,
but I cannot say that I felt particularly cheerful when I had finished
it.

It appears that the Cynic was travelling by the Midland express, and
they were companions all the way from Airlee.  He was already in the
train, which starts from Broadbeck, and he caught sight of her on the
platform.  It seems strange that he should have gone round that way,
for I remember he told us once that he always travelled by Great
Northern, as it is the shorter route.

I fancy he was rather taken with Rose, and I know she liked him very
much, for she said so quite openly.  It would do the Cynic good to be
married, especially as he seems to need comforting, and Rose is one of
the dearest girls in existence, and would make him a good wife--at
least, I hope she would.  And although she has to earn her own living,
she is really very well connected, and had a quite superior education.
It was simply her father's recklessness that threw her on her own
resources, and I should say that her origin is as good as the Cynic's.

And yet I should hardly have thought that she was just his sort.  He is
a man who will make large demands upon his wife if she is to be a real
helpmeet, and he needs to be understood.  I am sure Rose did not
understand him.  But perhaps, after all, she would be very suitable in
one way.  She is ambitious, and would see that he did not hide his
light under a bushel in social circles; though, to be sure, society
might turn up its nose at _her_.  It would worry me terribly if
anything should come of this chance encounter under my chaperonage, and
either party should be unhappy.  It may be undue sensitiveness on my
part, but I feel rather oppressed with a sense of responsibility.

Of course, looking at the matter quite calmly, it seems ridiculous to
be building air-castles like this, but I am _very fond_ of Rose and I
would not for worlds have her marry unsuitably; and I cannot help
respecting the Cynic after what he said the other night.  It would be
just terrible if they were to make a mess of their lives.  Marriage is
such a very serious undertaking, and lots of really sensible people
appear to lose their heads altogether when they come to make the
important choice.  However, it is none of my business, and I won't
refer to it again.

Rose says he was very attentive to her during the journey, and handed
her quite a number of illustrated papers, including some ladies'
journals.  If I were a barrister I should never dream of buying papers
which make their appeal to the other sex; but perhaps he finds it
necessary to the study of human nature.  A man in his profession must
have to be as many-sided as a poet.

I conclude that she did not read the magazines, for she says so much
about their conversation that it is evident there was little
opportunity, and besides, they lunched together in the diner, and that
must have taken up a lot of time.  She admits that she teased him, and
that he seemed to like it, but she does not say what about.  He said
the other day that she was dangerous.  I wonder if he really thought
so, and is on his guard against the danger, for Rose has always been
somewhat of a flirt, and it would hurt a man like him deeply if he
really cared and found she was only playing with him.  He is the sort
that----  But I said I would not refer to it, and here I am doing so.

He told her he hoped to see something of her occasionally, and she was
unconventional enough to hope the same.  They are sure to make
opportunities easily enough when they are both in London.  I feel glad
for Rose, for he is the kind of man who will steady her a bit, but I
hope she----  Oh, bother it!

Madam Rusty received my kind messages, it appears, with apparent
indifference, so Rose waxed eloquent over the Sunday dinner table, and
painted a picture of my surroundings in the most brilliant colours from
the palette of her imagination.  She stimulated the curiosity of the
boarders, who showed a great interest in me and my adventures, and were
eager to know what kind of fare was provided in the wilderness, and
what was the character of the heathen in whose midst I dwelt; to all of
which she replied in a strain of subdued enthusiasm which she assured
me carried conviction.  I was regarded, she informed them, with the
same respect as was naturally accorded to the squire of the place, with
whom I was on terms of extreme intimacy.  Good air and really good food
(Rose emphasised this for madam's benefit) had brought to my cheeks the
glow of health; and my abilities had secured for me a clientele which
would make a West End photographer think sad thoughts.  This, goodness
knows, was true enough.

She went into ecstasies over Mother Hubbard's cooking, and caused the
company to believe that the fatted calf, and all other makes of fatted
beasts and birds of the primest and tenderest quality, appeared upon my
table regularly during her visit.  When I remember the "pot-luck" we
had so often laughed over at dinner-time, my admiration for Rose's
imaginative faculties assumed huge proportions.

The heathen amongst whom I dwelt were, it appears, Nature's gentlefolk,
hating unreality and humbug as they hated the devil.  I think this was
really rather clever of Rose, for it hits off some of my neighbours
exactly, though the devil with whom they are on speaking terms might
possibly seem a mild and blunt-horned personage to some of my London
acquaintances.

There was a good deal more to the same effect, and having driven the
Rusty one to the verge of apoplexy, Rose retired to her own room and
penned her epistle.  Seclusion evidently induced reaction, and she
confessed to the depression I have hinted at.  I don't wonder, poor
girl.  I should hate to be going to work in the crowded city after
having tasted the freedom of the moors.  All the same, there are
compensations if you look for them.  If you have friends who are
congenial you have more opportunities of seeing them in a place like
London.  Everybody goes to London.  Perhaps the Cynic will take her to
see the new play at the St. James's Theatre.  I shall be very glad, I
am sure, if they become firm friends.  My only doubt is of Rose.  She
is so thoughtless and flighty, and might do harm without meaning it....

Oh, bother it again!  I'm going to bed.

CHAPTER XVIII

CARRIER TED RECEIVES NOTICE TO QUIT

I have not been sleeping very well lately, and my dreams have given me
the creeps and left me so irritable that if I had only a considerate
and philanthropic employer like the one Rose patronises I am sure I
should have been sent away somewhere for a change.  Being my own
employer, I stay on and make Mother Hubbard look worried.  And the
worst of it is she does not discuss my state of health as a sensible
woman should, but just pets me and tells me it "will all come right in
the end."  When I ask her what it is that is to come right she smiles
and relapses into silence.  If she were not so gentle and loving and
altogether sweet I should feel inclined to shake her.

Did I not say that the devil had his intimates in Windyridge?  I nod to
him myself just now, but Simon Barjona Higgins has gone into business
with him on quite a large scale, and my friend Maria must surely be
casting longing backward glances in the direction of widowhood.  It
makes one feel that matrimony is a snare which women are fools to enter
with their eyes open; though I suppose all men are not given up to
Satan.

Fancy Rose saying there were no humbugs about here, when such a man as
Barjona flourishes unabashed!  But when I come to think of it, she
didn't quite say that: she simply said that my neighbours hated humbug
as they hate the devil, and Barjona loves them both.  The thought of
him makes me sick, and when I found out what an old Shylock the man is
I went into the studio with a hammer and smashed his negatives into a
hundred pieces, with as much zest as if I had been a militant
suffragette breaking windows in Regent Street under the eyes of a
scandalised policeman.

If nature had been clothed in drab on Wednesday afternoon when the
report of unusual occurrences in the village drew me to the little
group of excited people who were discussing them it would have been
appropriate to the occasion.  But she wasn't--she was dressed in her
gayest and most captivating summer clothing.

I think that in itself is vexing.  Why should nature look so pleased
and happy when people are miserable, and so emphasise the contrast?  If
I am grumpy to begin with it makes me feel ever so much worse to know
that nature is laughing at me, and is just as bright and optimistic as
I am wretched.  And, contrariwise, if I do wake up one morning
determined to "bid dull care begone"--who was it used that expression
recently?--and be merry and cheerful, the skies are sure to be like
lead, and the ram is certain to drip, drip, in that sullen, persistent
fashion that would drive Mark Tapley himself to pessimism.  There is a
law of cussedness, I am convinced, and I believe I have discovered it.
Mother Hubbard says it is my liver, and prescribes pills!

When I joined the group there were so many eager to tell me the story
that it was some time before I could make out its purport.  By the way,
I ought to point out that I am _not_ becoming a gossip, but I am
interested in the news of the village.  We have no _Daily Mail_ to
chronicle our doings, and our methods are therefore necessarily
primitive.  Besides, to hold aloof from one's neighbours is a sign of
what Rose calls "snorkiness."

One of the dearest little cottages in the village is inhabited by a man
called Carrier Ted.  I had never been inside it, but its
picturesqueness appeals to me every time I pass it, and you may often
see visitors leaning over the low wall of the garden and enthusing
about it.  It is just a little one-storeyed, two-roomed cot, not nearly
so big as some gentlemen's motor garages, but large enough for one
occupant, or even for two if their tastes are simple.

The ground rises steeply behind it, and tall trees cover the hill from
base to summit, so that the little white house is quite overshadowed by
them.  I call it a white house, but the walls are almost concealed by
green and yellow and crimson, where the canary creeper and climbing
roses stretch forth their slender arms to embrace the brown, thatched
roof.

The garden is evenly divided into two parts by the flagged footpath
which leads straight to the door, and it is always ablaze with colour
in the summer time; but the arrangement is more orderly than in some of
our Windyridge gardens, for Carrier Ted, albeit old-fashioned in his
tastes, is an epicure in horticulture.  Only a few days ago Rose and I
had stopped to admire his bloom, and especially the wonderful moss
roses which were his especial pride, and to have a word with the old
man whose skill and industry had aroused my friend's enthusiasm.

When I first came to the village I took him to be of weak intellect,
principally, I believe, because he always wore a tall silk hat of
antiquated pattern.  It was a very rough silk of uncertain colour, and
gave one the impression that it was constantly brushed the wrong way;
but whether working in the garden or walking along the road, Carrier
Ted might always be recognised by his peculiar headgear.

But there is no daftness about him really.  He is just a quiet, even
taciturn old man, who is alone in the world and has saved sufficient
money to enable him to spend the evening of life in comfort, and who
finds in his home and garden both business, recreation and religion.
He is a little, bent man, round-faced and ruddy in spite of his eighty
odd years, with thick grey eyebrows, and a half-circle of beard
stretching from ear to ear beneath his chin.  When you praise his
flowers he pauses for a moment, draws his sleeve across his brow in a
confused sort of way, as if to remove perspiration, and smiles.  The
smile and the action always remind me of a bashful child who would like
to be friendly but dare not all at once.  The smile lights up his face
and reveals the angel within him; but he answers only in monosyllables,
and seems relieved when you pass on your way.  It was this man and his
cottage who were the subject of excited conversation.

"It's a burnin' shame, Miss 'Olden, that's what it is!" exclaimed Widow
Smithies, "an' if I'd my way I'd wring that old heathen of a Barjona
his neck for 'im, that I would; the good-for-nowt, graspin' old
money-lender 'at he is."

"He wants hoss-whippin'," said Sar'-Ann's mother, "an' if I were a man
I'd do it!  But our men fowk are no more use nor two penn'orth o' cowd
gin, an' I'll be bound ther' isn't one on 'em 'at'll lift a little
finger agen 'im."

"An' I'm sure anyone 'at can find it in their 'eart to do ought wrong
to poor old Ted isn't fit to bide in t' village," said Martha Treffit;
"an' one 'ud ha' thought wi' 'avin' been in t' same trade, like,
Barjona 'ud never ha' tried to 'urt Ted."

"They may have been in t' same trade, Martha," interposed Susannah,
"but Ted comes off a better pastur' nor ivver Barjona wa' raised on.
'E's as keen as mustard, is Barjona, an' 'ud mor'gage his soul for owt
he took a fancy tul."

"He's as 'ard as iron in his 'eart," snapped Mrs. Smithies, "but as
soft as a boiled turnup in his 'ead.  I'd like to put 'im through t'
wringin' machine, an' squeeze 'im for once, as is so ready to squeeze
other fowk.  'Ere comes Reuben.  What'll Reuben 'ave to say about it, I
wonder?"

Reuben shook his head.  "It's a sad job, neighbours, but law's law, an'
we shall have to make t' best on 't."

"Hark to him!" said Sar'-Ann's mother; "didn't I tell you there isn't a
man in t' village wi' as mich sperrit as a kitlin'?  If Reuben won't do
nowt ye can go bail 'at t' rest 'll noan stir."

"Right's right, an' law's law, all the world over," said Reuben,