"But now, Miss Deveen, we _could_ marry if we would--all of us,"
interrupted Helen. "If we did not have to regard suitability and propriety, and all that, there"s not a girl but could go off to church and marry _somebody_."
"If it"s only a broomstick," acquiesced Miss Deveen, "or a man no better than one. Yes, Helen, you are right: and it has occasionally been done. But when we fly wilfully in the teeth of circ.u.mstances, bent on following our own resolute path, we take ourselves out of G.o.d"s hands--and must reap the consequences."
"I--do not--quite understand," slowly spoke Helen.
"Suppose I give you an instance of what I mean, my dear. Some years ago I knew a young lady----"
"Is it _true_? What was her name?"
"Certainly it is true, every detail of it. As to her name--well, I do not see any reason why I should not tell it: her name was Eliza Lake. I knew her family very well indeed, was intimate with her mother. Eliza was the third daughter, and desperately eager to be married. Her chances came. The first offer was eligible; but the two families could not agree about money matters, and it dropped through. The next offer Eliza would not accept--it was from a widower with children, and she sent him to the right-about. The third went on smoothly nearly to the wedding-day, and a good and suitable match it would have been, but something occurred then very unpleasant though I never knew the precise particulars. The bridegroom-elect fell into some trouble or difficulty, he had to quit his country hastily, and the marriage was broken off--was at an end.
That was the last offer she had, so far as I knew; and the years went on, Eliza gadding out to parties, and flirting and coquetting, all in the hope to get a husband. When she was in her thirtieth year, her mother came to me one day in much distress and perplexity. Eliza, she said, was taking the reins into her own hands, purposing to be married in spite of her father, mother, and friends. Mrs. Lake wanted me to talk to Eliza; she thought I might influence her, though they could not; and I took an opportunity of doing so--freely. It is of no use to mince matters when you want to save a girl from ruin. I recalled the past to her memory, saying that I believed, judging by that past, that Heaven did not intend her to marry. I told her all the ill I had heard of the man she was now choosing; also that she had absolutely thrown herself at him, and he had responded for the sake of the little money she possessed; and that if she persisted in marrying him she would a.s.suredly rue it. In language as earnest as I knew how to choose, I laid all this before her."
"And what was her answer to you?" Helen spoke as if her breath was short.
"Just like the reckless answer that a blinded, foolish girl would make.
"Though Heaven and earth were against me, I should marry him, Miss Deveen. I am beyond the control of parents, brothers, sisters, friends; and I will not die an old maid to please any of you." Those were the wilful words she used; I have never forgotten them; and the next week she betook herself to church."
"Did the marriage turn out badly?"
"Ay, it did. Could you expect anything else? Poor Eliza supped the cup of sorrow to its dregs: and she brought bitter sorrow and trouble also on her family. _That_, Helen, is what I call taking one"s self out of G.o.d"s hands, and flying determinedly in the face of what is right and seemly, and _evidently appointed_."
"You say yourself it is hard not to be married," quoth Helen.
"No, I do not," laughed Miss Deveen. "I say that it appears hard to us when our days of youth are pa.s.sing, and when we see our companions chosen and ourselves left: but, rely upon it, Helen, as we advance in years, we acquiesce in the decree; many of us learning to be thankful for it."
"And you young people little think what great cause you have to be thankful for it," cried Lady Whitney, all in a heat. "Marriage brings a bushel of cares: and no one knows what anxiety boys and girls entail until they come."
Miss Deveen nodded emphatically. "It is very true. I would not exchange my present lot with that of the best wife in England; believe that, or not, as you will, Helen. Of all the different states this busy earth can produce, a lot such as mine is a.s.suredly the most exempt from trouble.
And, my dear, if you are destined never to marry, you have a great deal more cause to be thankful than rebellious."
"The other day, when you were preaching to us, you told us that trouble came for our benefit," grumbled Helen, pa.s.sing into rebellion forthwith.
"I remember it," a.s.sented Miss Deveen, "and very true it is. My heart has sickened before now at witnessing the troubles, apparently unmerited, that some people, whether married or single, have to undergo; and I might have been almost tempted to question the loving-kindness of Heaven, but for remembering that we must through much tribulation enter into the Kingdom."
Anna interrupted the silence that ensued. She came running up with a handful of wild roses and sweetbriar, gathered in the hedge below. Miss Deveen took them when offered to her, saying she thought of all flowers the wild rose was the sweetest.
"How solemn you all look!" cried Anna.
"Don"t we!" said Helen. "I have been having a lecture read to me."
"By whom?"
"Every one here--except Johnny Ludlow. And I am sure I hope _he_ was edified. I wonder when tea is going to be ready!"
"Directly, I should say," said Anna: "for here comes Mrs. Ness with the cups and saucers."
I ran forward to help her bring the things. Rednal"s trim wife, a neat, active woman with green eyes and a baby in her arms, was following with plates of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and cake, and the news that the kettle was "on the boil." Presently the table was spread; and William, who had come back to us, took up the baby"s whistle and blew a blast, prolonged and shrill.
The stragglers heard it, understood it was the signal for their return, and came flocking in. The Squire and Sir John said they had been sitting under the trees and talking: our impression was, they had been sleeping.
The young Whitneys appeared in various stages of heat; Tod and Featherston"s nephew smelt of smoke. The first cups of tea had gone round, and Tod was making for Rednal"s cottage with a notice that the bread-and-b.u.t.ter had come to an end, when I saw a delicate little fair-haired face peering at us from amid the trees.
"Halloa!" cried the Squire, catching sight of the face at the same moment. "Who on earth"s that?"
"It"s the child we saw this morning--the gipsy"s child," exclaimed William Whitney. "Here, you little one! Stop! Come here."
He only meant to give her a piece of cake: but the child ran off with a scared look and fleet step, and was lost in the trees.
"Senseless little thing!" cried Bill: and sat down to his tea again.
"But what a pretty child it was!" observed the mater. "She put me in mind of Lena."
"Why, Lena"s oceans of years older," said Helen, free with her remarks as usual. "That child, from the glimpse I caught of her, can"t be more than five or six."
"She is about seven, miss," struck in Rednal"s wife, who had just come up with a fresh supply of tea. "It is nigh upon eight years since young Walter North went off and got married."
"Walter North!" repeated Sir John. "Who"s Walter North? Let me see? The name seems familiar to me."
"Old Walter North was the parish schoolmaster over at Easton, sir. The son turned out wild and unsteady; and at the time his father died he went off and joined the gipsies. They had used to encamp about here more than they do now, as Rednal could tell you, Sir John; and it was said young North was in love with a girl belonging to the tribe--Bertha Lee.
Any way, they got married. Right-down beautiful she was--for a gipsy; and so young."
"Then I suppose North and his wife are here now--if that"s their child?"
remarked Sir John.
"They are here sure enough, sir; somewhere in the wood. Rednal has seen him about this day or two past. Two or three times they"ll be here, pestering, during the summer, and stop ten or twelve days. Maybe young North has a hankering after the old spots he was brought up in, and comes to see "em," suggestively added Rednal"s wife; whose tongue ran faster than any other two women"s put together. And that"s saying something.
"And how does this young North get a living?" asked Sir John. "By poaching?--and rifling the poultry-yards?"
"Like enough he do, Sir John. Them tramps have mostly light fingers."
"They sell tins--and collect rabbit skins," struck in William. "Johnny Ludlow and I charged the encampment this morning, and nearly got our fortunes told."
Jessy Rednal"s chin went up. "They"d better let Rednal catch "em at their fortune-telling!--it was the wife, I know, sir, did that. When she was but a slip of a girl she"d go up as bold as bra.s.s to any gentleman or lady pa.s.sing, and ask them to cross her hand with silver."
With this parting fling at the gipsies, Rednal"s wife ran off to the cottage for another basin of sugar. The heat made us thirsty, and we wanted about a dozen cups of tea apiece.
But now, I don"t know why it was, I had rather taken a fancy to this young woman, Bertha North, and did not believe the words "as bold as bra.s.s" could be properly applied to her. Gipsy though she was, her face, for good feeling and refinement, was worth ten of Jessy Rednal"s. It"s true she had followed us, wanting to tell our fortunes, but she might have been hard up for money.
When we had swallowed as much tea as the kettles would produce, and cleared the plates of the eatables, Sir John suggested that it would soon be time to move homewards, as the evening would be coming on. This had the effect of scattering some of us at once. If they did not get us, they could not take us. "Home, indeed! as early as this!" cried Helen, wrathfully--and rushed off with her brother Harry and Featherston"s nephew.
I was ever so far down one of the wood paths, looking about, for somehow I had missed them all, when sounds of wailing and crying from a young voice struck my ear. In a minute, that same fair little child came running into view, as if she were flying for her life from some pursuing foe, her sobs wild with terror, her face white as death.
What she said I could not make out, though she made straight up to me and caught my arm; the language seemed strange, the breath gone. But there was no mistaking the motions: she pulled me along with her across the wood, her little arms and eyes frantically imploring.
Something must be amiss, I thought. What was it? "Is there a mad bull in the way, little one? And are you making off with me to do battle with him?"
No elucidation from the child: only the sobs, and the words I did not catch. But we were close to the outskirts of the wood now (it was but narrow), and there, beyond the hedge that bordered it, crouched down against the bank, was a man. A fair-faced, good-looking young man, small and slight, and groaning with pain.
No need to wonder who he was: the likeness between him and the child betrayed it. How like they were! even to the expression in the large blue eyes, and the colour of the soft fair hair. The child"s face was his own in miniature.