Victorian Short Stories: Stories of Courtship
It was three weeks since he had fetched his flock down from the fell.
After dinner he and his mother sat together in the parlour: they had
done so every Sunday afternoon, year in and year out, as far back as he
could remember.
A row of mahogany chairs, with shiny, horse-hair seats, were ranged
round the room. A great collection of agricultural prize-tickets were
pinned over the wall; and, on a heavy, highly-polished sideboard stood
several silver cups. A heap of gilt-edged shavings filled the unused
grate: there were gaudily-tinted roses along the mantelpiece, and, on a
small table by the window, beneath a glass-case, a gilt basket filled
with imitation flowers. Every object was disposed with a scrupulous
precision: the carpet and the red-patterned cloth on the centre table
were much faded. The room was spotlessly clean, and wore, in the chilly
winter sunlight, a rigid, comfortless air.
Neither spoke, or appeared conscious of the other's presence. Old Mrs.
Garstin, wrapped in a woollen shawl, sat knitting: Anthony dozed
fitfully on a stiff-backed chair.
Of a sudden, in the distance, a bell started tolling. Anthony rubbed his
eyes drowsily, and taking from the table his Sunday hat, strolled out
across the dusky fields. Presently, reaching a rude wooden seat, built
beside the bridle-path, he sat down and relit his pipe. The air was very
still; below him a white filmy mist hung across the valley: the
fell-sides, vaguely grouped, resembled hulking masses of sombre shadow;
and, as he looked back, three squares of glimmering gold revealed the
lighted windows of the square-towered church.
He sat smoking; pondering, with placid and reverential contemplation,
on the Mighty Maker of the world--a world majestically and inevitably
ordered; a world where, he argued, each object--each fissure in the
fells, the winding course of each tumbling stream--possesses its
mysterious purport, its inevitable signification....
At the end of the field two rams were fighting; retreating, then running
together, and, leaping from the ground, butting head to head and horn to
horn. Anthony watched them absently, pursuing his rude meditations.
... And the succession of bad seasons, the slow ruination of the farmers
throughout the country, were but punishment meted out for the
accumulated wickedness of the world. In the olden time God rained
plagues upon the land: nowadays, in His wrath, He spoiled the produce of
the earth, which, with His own hands, He had fashioned and bestowed upon
men.
He rose and continued his walk along the bridle-path. A multitude of
rabbits scuttled up the hill at his approach; and a great cloud of
plovers, rising from the rushes, circled overhead, filling the air with
a profusion of their querulous cries. All at once he heard a rattling of
stones, and perceived a number of small pieces of shingle bounding in
front of him down the grassy slope.
A woman's figure was moving among the rocks above him. The next moment,
by the trimming of crimson velvet on her hat, he had recognized her. He
mounted the slope with springing strides, wondering the while how it was
she came to be there, that she was not in church playing the organ at
afternoon service.
Before she was aware of his approach, he was beside her.
'I thought ye'd be in church--' he began.
She started: then, gradually regaining her composure, answered, weakly
smiling:
'Mr. Jenkinson, the new schoolmaster, wanted to try the organ.'
He came towards her impulsively: she saw the odd flickers in his eyes as
she stepped back in dismay.
'Nay, but I will na harm ye,' he said. 'Only I reckon what 'tis a
special turn o' Providence, meetin' wi' ye oop here. I reckon what ye'll
hev t' give me a square answer noo. Ye canna dilly-dally everlastingly.'
He spoke almost brutally; and she stood, white and gasping, staring at
him with large, frightened eyes. The sheep-walk was but a tiny
threadlike track: the slope of the shingle on either side was very
steep: below them lay the valley; distant, lifeless, all blurred by the
evening dusk. She looked about her helplessly for a means of escape.
'Miss Rosa,' he continued, in a husky voice, 'can ye na coom t' think on
me? Think ye, I've bin waitin' nigh upon two year for ye. I've watched
ye tak oop, first wi' this young fellar, and then wi' that, till
soomtimes my heart's fit t' burst. Many a day, oop on t' fell-top, t'
thought o' ye's nigh driven me daft, and I've left my shepherdin' jest
t' set on a cairn in t' mist, picturin' an' broodin' on yer face. Many
an evenin' I've started oop t' vicarage, wi' t' resolution t' speak
right oot t' ye; but when it coomed t' point, a sort o' timidity seemed
t' hould me back, I was that feared t' displease ye. I knaw I'm na
scholar, an' mabbe ye think I'm rough-mannered. I knaw I've spoken
sharply to ye once or twice lately. But it's jest because I'm that mad
wi' love for ye: I jest canna help myself soomtimes--'
He waited, peering into her face. She could see the beads of sweat above
his bristling eyebrows: the damp had settled on his sandy beard: his
horny fingers were twitching at the buttons of his black Sunday coat.
She struggled to summon a smile; but her under-lip quivered, and her
large dark eyes filled slowly with tears.
And he went on:
'Ye've coom t' mean jest everything to me. Ef ye will na hev me, I care
for nought else. I canna speak t' ye in phrases: I'm jest a plain,
unscholarly man: I canna wheedle ye, wi' cunnin' after t' fashion o'
toon folks. But I can love ye wi' all my might, an' watch over ye, and
work for ye better than any one o' em--'
She was crying to herself, silently, while he spoke. He noticed nothing,
however: the twilight hid her face from him.
'There's nought against me,' he persisted. 'I'm as good a man as any one
on 'em. Ay, as good a man as any one on 'em,' he repeated defiantly,
raising his voice.
'It's impossible, Mr. Garstin, it's impossible. Ye've been very kind to
me--' she added, in a choking voice.
'Wa dang it, I didna mean t' mak ye cry, lass,' he exclaimed, with a
softening of his tone. 'There's nought for ye t' cry ower.'
She sank on to the stones, passionately sobbing in hysterical and
defenceless despair. Anthony stood a moment, gazing at her in clumsy
perplexity: then, coming close to her, put his hand on her shoulder, and
said gently:
'Coom, lass, what's trouble? Ye can trust me.'
She shook her head faintly.
'Ay, but ye can though,' he asserted, firmly. 'Come, what is't?'
Heedless of him, she continued to rock herself to and fro, crooning in
her distress:
'Oh! I wish I were dead!... I wish I could die!'
--'Wish ye could die?' he repeated. 'Why, whatever can't be that's
troublin' ye like this? There, there, lassie, give ower: it 'ull all
coom right, whatever it be--'
'No, no,' she wailed. 'I wish I could die!... I wish I could die!'
Lights were twinkling in the village below; and across the valley
darkness was draping the hills. The girl lifted her face from her hands,
and looked up at him with a scared, bewildered expression.
'I must go home: I must be getting home,' she muttered.
'Nay, but there's sommut mighty amiss wi' ye.'
'No, it's nothing... I don't know--I'm not well... I mean it's
nothing... it'll pass over... you mustn't think anything of it.'
'Nay, but I canna stand by an see ye in sich trouble.'
'It's nothing, Mr. Garstin, indeed it's nothing,' she repeated.
'Ay, but I canna credit that,' he objected stubbornly.
She sent him a shifting, hunted glance.
'Let me get home... you must let me get home.'
She made a tremulous, pitiful attempt at firmness. Eyeing her keenly, he
barred her path: she flushed scarlet, and looked hastily away across the
valley.
'If ye'll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye.'
'No, no, it's nothing... it's nothing.'
'If ye'll tell me yer distress, mabbe I can help ye,' he repeated, with
a solemn, deliberate sternness. She shivered, and looked away again,
vaguely, across the valley.
'You can do nothing: there's nought to be done,' she murmured drearily.
'There's a man in this business,' he declared.
'Let me go! Let me go!' she pleaded desperately.
'Who is't that's bin puttin' ye into this distress?' His voice sounded
loud and harsh.
'No one, no one. I canna tell ye, Mr. Garstin.... It's no one,' she
protested weakly. The white, twisted look on his face frightened her.
'My God!' he burst out, gripping her wrist, 'an' a proper soft fool
ye've made o' me. Who is't, I tell ye? Who's t' man?'
'Ye're hurtin' me. Let me go. I canna tell ye.'
'And ye're fond o' him?'
'No, no. He's a wicked, sinful man. I pray God I may never set eyes on
him again. I told him so.'
'But ef he's got ye into trouble, he'll hev t' marry ye,' he persisted
with a brutal bitterness.
'I will not. I hate him!' she cried fiercely.
'But is he _willin'_ t' marry ye?'
'I don't know ... I don't care ... he said so before he went
away ... But I'd kill myself sooner than live with him.'
He let her hands fall and stepped back from her. She could only see his
figure, like a sombre cloud, standing before her. The whole fell-side
seemed still and dark and lonely. Presently she heard his voice again:
'I reckon what there's one road oot o' yer distress.'
She shook her head drearily.
'There's none. I'm a lost woman.'
'An' ef ye took me instead?' he said eagerly.
'I--I don't understand--'
'Ef ye married me instead of Luke Stock?'
'But that's impossible--the--the--'
'Ay, t' child. I know. But I'll tak t' child as mine.'
She remained silent. After a moment he heard her voice answer in a
queer, distant tone:
'You mean that--that ye're ready to marry me, and adopt the child?'
'I do,' he answered doggedly.
'But people--your mother--?'
'Folks 'ull jest know nought about it. It's none o' their business. T'
child 'ull pass as mine. Ye'll accept that?'
'Yes,' she answered, in a low, rapid voice.
'Ye'll consent t' hev me, ef I git ye oot o' yer trouble?'
'Yes,' she repeated, in the same tone.
She heard him draw a long breath.
'I said 't was a turn o' Providence, meetin' wi' ye oop here,' he
exclaimed, with half-suppressed exultation.
Her teeth began to chatter a little: she felt that he was peering at
her, curiously, through the darkness.
'An' noo,' he continued briskly, 'ye'd best be gettin' home. Give me
ye're hand, an' I'll stiddy ye ower t' stones.'
He helped her down the bank of shingle, exclaiming: 'By goom, ye're
stony cauld.' Once or twice she slipped: he supported her, roughly
gripping her knuckles. The stones rolled down the steps, noisily,
disappearing into the night.
Presently they struck the turf bridle-path, and, as they descended
silently towards the lights of the village, he said gravely:
'I always reckoned what my day 'ud coom.'
She made no reply; and he added grimly:
'There'll be terrible work wi' mother over this.'
He accompanied her down the narrow lane that led past her uncle's house.
When the lighted windows came in sight he halted.
'Good night, lassie,' he said kindly. 'Do ye give ower distressin'
yeself.'
'Good night, Mr. Garstin,' she answered, in the same low, rapid voice in
which she had given him her answer up on the fell.
'We're man an' wife plighted now, are we not?' he blurted timidly.
She held her face to his, and he kissed her on the cheek, clumsily.
VI
The next morning the frost had set in. The sky was still clear and
glittering: the whitened fields sparkled in the chilly sunlight: here
and there, on high, distant peaks, gleamed dainty caps of snow. All
the week Anthony was to be busy at the fell-foot, wall-building against
the coming of the winter storms: the work was heavy, for he was