Robert Elsmere
the front garden and down the steps to where Mr. Backhouse the carrier
stood, bracing himself for self-defence.
'Ya may weel fret, mum,' said Mr. Backhouse, interrupting the flood of
her reproaches, with the comparative _sang-froid_ of one who knew that,
after all, he was the only carrier on the road, and that the vicarage
was five miles from the necessaries of life; 'it's a bad job, and I's
not goin' to say it isn't. But ya jest look 'ere, mum, what's a man to
du wi' a daft thingamy like _that_, as caan't teak a plain order, and
spiles a poor man's business as caan't help hissel'?'
And Mr. Backhouse pointed with withering scorn to a small, shrunken old
man, who sat dangling his legs on the shaft of the cart, and whose
countenance wore a singular expression of mingled meekness and
composure, as his partner flourished an indignant finger towards him.
'Jim,' cried Mrs. Thornburgh reproachfully, 'I did think you would have
taken more pains about my order!'
'Yis, mum,' said the old man placidly, 'ya might 'a' thowt it. I's reet
sorry, bit ya caan't help these things _sum_times--an' it's naw gud, a
hollerin' ower 'em like a mad bull. Aa tuke yur bit paper to Randall's
and aa laft it wi' 'em to mek up, an' than, aa, weel, aa went to a
frind, an' ee _may_ hev giv' me a glass of yale, aa doon't say ee
_dud_--but ee may, I ween't sweer. Hawsomiver, aa niver thowt naw mair
aboot it, nor mair did John, so _ee_ needn't taak--till we wur jest two
mile from 'ere. An' ee's a gon' on sence! My! an' a larroping the poor
beeast like onything!'
Mrs. Thornburgh stood aghast at the calmness of this audacious recital.
As for John, he looked on surveying his brother's philosophical
demeanour at first with speechless wrath, and then with an inscrutable
mixture of expressions, in which, however, any one accustomed to his
weather-beaten countenance would have probably read a hidden admiration.
'Weel, aa niver!' he exclaimed, when Jim's explanatory remarks had come
to an end, swinging himself up on to his seat and gathering up the
reins. 'Yur a boald 'un to tell the missus theer to hur feeace as how ya
wur 'tossicatit whan yur owt ta been duing yur larful business. Aa've
doon wi' yer. Aa aims to please ma coostomers, an' aa caan't abide sek
wark. Yur like an oald kneyfe, I can mak' nowt o' ya', nowder back nor
edge.'
Mrs. Thornburgh wrung her fat short hands in despair, making little
incoherent laments and suggestions as she saw him about to depart, of
which John at last gathered the main purport to be that she wished him
to go back to Whinborough for her precious parcel.
He shook his head compassionately over the preposterous state of mind
betrayed by such a demand, and with a fresh burst of abuse of his
brother, and an assurance to the vicar's wife that he meant to 'gie that
oald man nawtice when he got haum; he wasn't goan to hev his bisness
spiled for nowt by an oald ijiot wi' a hed as full o' yale as a
hayrick's full of mice,' he raised his whip and the clattering vehicle
moved forward; Jim meanwhile preserving through all his brother's wrath
and Mrs. Thornburgh's wailings the same mild and even countenance, the
meditative and friendly aspect of the philosopher letting the world go
'as e'en it will.'
So Mrs. Thornburgh was left gasping, watching the progress of the
lumbering cart along the bit of road leading to the hamlet at the head
of the valley, with so limp and crestfallen an aspect that even the
gaunt and secretly jubilant Sarah was moved to pity.
'Why, missis, we'll do very well. I'll hev some scones in t'oven in naw
time, an' theer's finger biscuits, an' wi' buttered toast an' sum o' t'
best jams, if they don't hev enuf to eat they ought to.' Then, dropping
her voice, she asked with a hurried change of tone, 'Did ye ask un' hoo
his daater is?'
Mrs. Thornburgh started. Her pastoral conscience was smitten. She opened
the gate and waved violently after the cart. John pulled his horse up,
and with a few quick steps she brought herself within speaking, or
rather shouting, distance.
'How's your daughter to-day, John?'
The old man's face peering round the oilcloth hood of the cart was
darkened by a sudden cloud as he caught the words. His stern lips
closed. He muttered something inaudible to Mrs. Thornburgh and whipped
up his horse again. The cart started off, and Mrs. Thornburgh was left
staring into the receding eyes of 'Jim the Noodle,' who, from his seat
on the near shaft, regarded her with a gaze which had passed from
benevolence into a preternatural solemnity.
'He's sparin' ov 'is speach is John Backhouse,' said Sarah grimly, as
her mistress returned to her. 'Maybe ee's aboot reet. It's a bad
business an' ee'll not mend it wi' taakin'.'
Mrs. Thornburgh, however, could not apply herself to the case of Mary
Backhouse. At any other moment it would have excited in her breast the
shuddering interest which, owing to certain peculiar attendant
circumstances, it awakened in every other woman in Long Whindale. But
her mind--such are the limitations of even clergymen's wives--was now
absorbed by her own misfortune. Her very cap-strings seemed to hang limp
with depression, as she followed Sarah dejectedly into the kitchen, and
gave what attention she could to those second-best arrangements so
depressing to the idealist temper.
Poor soul! All the charm and glitter of her little social adventure was
gone. When she once more emerged upon the lawn, and languidly readjusted
her spectacles, she was weighed down by the thought that in two hours
Mrs. Seaton would be upon her. Nothing of this kind ever happened to
Mrs. Seaton. The universe obeyed her nod. No carrier conveying goods to
her august door ever got drunk or failed to deliver his consignment. The
thing was inconceivable. Mrs. Thornburgh was well aware of it.
Should William be informed? Mrs. Thornburgh had a rooted belief in the
brutality of husbands in all domestic crises, and would have preferred
not to inform him. But she had also a dismal certainty that the secret
would burn a hole in her till it was confessed--bill and all.
Besides--frightful thought!--would they have to eat up all those
_meringues_ next day?
Her reflections at last became so depressing that, with a natural
epicurean instinct, she tried violently to turn her mind away from them.
Luckily she was assisted by a sudden perception of the roof and chimneys
of Burwood, the Leyburns' house, peeping above the trees to the left. At
sight of them a smile overspread her plump and gently wrinkled face. She
fell gradually into a train of thought, as feminine as that in which she
had been just indulging, but infinitely more pleasing.
For, with regard to the Leyburns, at this present moment Mrs. Thornburgh
felt herself in the great position of tutelary divinity or guardian
angel. At least if divinities and guardian angels do not concern
themselves with the questions to which Mrs. Thornburgh's mind was now
addressed, it would clearly have been the opinion of the vicar's wife
that they ought to do so.
'Who else is there to look after these girls, I should like to know,'
Mrs. Thornburgh inquired of herself, 'if I don't do it? As if girls
married themselves! People may talk of their independence nowadays as
much as they like--it always has to be done for them, one way or
another. Mrs. Leyburn, poor lackadaisical thing! is no good whatever. No
more is Catherine. They both behave as if husbands tumbled into your
mouth for the asking. Catherine's too good for this world--but if she
doesn't do it, I must. Why, that girl Rose is a beauty--if they didn't
let her wear those ridiculous mustard-coloured things, and do her hair
fit to frighten the crows! Agnes too--so lady-like and well-mannered;
she'd do credit to any man. Well, we shall see, we shall see!'
And Mrs. Thornburgh gently shook her gray curls from side to side, while
her eyes, fixed on the open spare room window, shone with meaning.
'So eligible, too--private means, no encumbrances, and as good as gold.'
She sat lost a moment in a pleasing dream.
'Shall I bring oot the tea to you theer, mum?' called Sarah gruffly,
from the garden door. 'Master and Mr. Elsmere are just coomin' down t'
field by t' stepping-stones.'
Mrs. Thornburgh signalled assent and the tea-table was brought.
Afternoon tea was by no means a regular institution at the vicarage of
Long Whindale, and Sarah never supplied it without signs of protest. But
when a guest was in the house Mrs. Thornburgh insisted upon it; her
obstinacy in the matter, like her dreams of cakes and confections, being
all part of her determination to move with the times, in spite of the
station to which Providence had assigned her.
A minute afterwards the vicar, a thick-set gray-haired man of sixty,
accompanied by a tall younger man in clerical dress, emerged upon the
lawn.
'Welcome sight!' cried Mr. Thornburgh; 'Robert and I have been coveting
that tea for the last hour. You guessed very well, Emma, to have it just
ready for us.'
'Oh, that was Sarah. She saw you coming down to the stepping-stones,'
replied his wife, pleased, however, by any mark of appreciation from her
mankind, however small. 'Robert, I hope you haven't been walked off your
legs?'
'What, in this air, cousin Emma? I could walk from sunrise to sundown.
Let no one call me an invalid any more. Henceforth I am a Hercules.'
And he threw himself on the rug which Mrs. Thornburgh's motherly
providence had spread on the grass for him, with a smile and a look of
supreme physical contentment, which did indeed almost efface the signs
of recent illness in the ruddy boyish face.
Mrs. Thornburgh studied him; her eye caught first of all by the stubble
of reddish hair which as he took off his hat stood up straight and stiff
all over his head with an odd wildness and aggressiveness. She
involuntarily thought, basing her inward comment on a complexity of
reasons--'Dear me, what a pity; it spoils his appearance!'
'I apologise, I apologise, cousin Emma, once for all,' said the young
man, surprising her glance, and despairingly smoothing down his
recalcitrant locks. 'Let us hope that mountain air will quicken the pace
of it before it is necessary for me to present a dignified appearance at
Murewell.'
He looked up at her with a merry flash in his gray eyes, and her old
face brightened visibly as she realised afresh that in spite of the
grotesqueness of his cropped hair, her guest was a most attractive
creature. Not that he could boast much in the way of regular good looks:
the mouth was large, the nose of no particular outline, and in general
the cutting of the face, though strong and characteristic, had a
bluntness and _naivete_ like a vigorous unfinished sketch. This
bluntness of line, however, was balanced by a great delicacy of
tint--the pink and white complexion of a girl, indeed--enhanced by the
bright reddish hair, and quick gray eyes.
The figure was also a little out of drawing, so to speak; it was tall
and loosely-jointed. The general impression was one of agility and
power. But if you looked closer you saw that the shoulders were narrow,
the arms inordinately long, and the extremities too small for the
general height. Robert Elsmere's hand was the hand of a woman, and few
people ever exchanged a first greeting with its very tall owner without
a little shock of surprise.
Mr. Thornburgh and his guest had visited a few houses in the course of
their walk, and the vicar plunged for a minute or two into some
conversation about local matters with his wife. But Mrs. Thornburgh, it
was soon evident, was giving him but a scatterbrained attention. Her
secret was working in her ample breast. Very soon she could contain it
no longer, and breaking in upon her husband's parish news, she tumbled