The Squire of Sandal-Side: A Pastoral Romance

THUS RUNS THE WORLD AWAY.

                “But we mortals
     Planted so lowly, with death to bless us,
     Sorrow no longer.”

     “Our choices are our destiny.  Nothing is ours that our choices have
     not made ours.”

Julius Sandal had precisely those superficial excellences which the world is ready to accept at their apparent value; and he had been in so many schools, and imbibed such a variety of opinions, that he had a mental suit for all occasions.  “He knows about every thing,” said Sandal to the clergyman, at the close of an evening spent together,—­an evening in which Julius had been particularly interesting.  “Don’t you think so, sir?”

The rector looked up at the starry sky, and around the mountain-girdled valley, and answered slowly, “He has a great many ideas, squire; but they are second-hand, and do not fit his intellect.”

Charlotte had much the same opinion of the paragon, only she expressed it in a different way.  “He believes in every thing, and he might as well believe in nothing.  Confucius and Christ are about the same to him, and he thinks Juggernaut only ’a clumsier spelling of a name which no man spells correctly.’”

“His mind is like a fine mosaic, Charlotte.”

“Oh, indeed, Sophia, I don’t think so!  Mosaics have a design and fit it.  The mind of Julius is more like that quilt of a thousand pieces which grandmother patched.  There they are, the whole thousand, just bits of color, all sizes and shapes.  I would rather have a good square of white Marseilles.”

“I don’t think you ought to speak in such a way, Charlotte.  You can’t help seeing how much he admires you.”

There was a tone in Sophia’s carefully modulated voice which made Charlotte turn, and look at her sister.  She was sitting at her embroidery-frame, and apparently counting the stitches in the rose-leaf she was copying; but Charlotte noticed that her hand trembled, and that she was counting at random.  In a moment the veil fell from her eyes:  she understood that Sophia was in love with Julius, and fearful of her own influence over him.  She had been about to leave the room:  she returned to the window, and stood at it a few moments, as if considering the assertion.

“I should be very sorry if that were the case, Sophia.”

“Why?”

“Because I do not admire Julius in any way.  I never could admire him.  I don’t want to be in debt to him for even one-half hour of sentimental affection.”

“You should let him understand that, Charlotte, if it be so.”

“He must be very dull if he does not understand.”

“When father and you went fishing yesterday, he went with you.”

“Why did you not come also?  We begged you to do so.”

“Because I hate to be hot and untidy, and to get my hands soiled, and my face flushed.  That was your condition when you returned home; but all the same, he said you looked like a water-nymph or a wood-nymph.”

“I think very little of him for such talk.  There is nothing ‘nymphy’ about me.  I should hate myself if there were.  I am going to write, and ask Harry to get a furlough for a few weeks.  I want to talk sensibly to some one.  I am tired of being on the heights or in the depths all the time; and as for poetry, I wish I might never hear words that rhyme again.  I’ve got to feel that way about it, that if I open a book, and see the lines begin with capitals, my first impulse is to tear it to pieces.  There, now, you have my opinions, Sophia!”

Sophia laughed softly.  “Where are you going?  I see you have your bonnet on.”

“I am going to Up-Hill.  Grandfather Latrigg had a fall yesterday, and that’s a bad thing at his age.  Father is quite put out about it.”

“Is he going with you?”

“He was, but two of the shepherds from Holler Scree have just come for him.  There is something wrong with the flocks.”

“Julius?”

“He does not know I am going; and if he did, I should tell him plainly he was not wanted either at Up-Hill, or on the way to it.  Ducie thinks little of him, and grandfather Latrigg makes his face like a stone wall when Julius talks his finest.”

“They don’t understand Julius.  How can they?  Steve is their model, and Steve is not the least like Julius.”

“I should think not.”

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind.  Good-by.”

She shut the door with more emphasis than she was aware of, and went to her mother for some cordials and dainties to take with her.  As she passed through the hall the squire called her, and she followed his voice into the small parlor which was emphatically “master’s room.”

“I have had very bad news about the Holler Scree flock, Charlotte, and I must away there to see what can be done.  Tell Barf Latrigg it is the sheep, and he will understand:  he was always one to put the dumb creatures first.  The kindest thing that is in your own heart say it to the dear old man for me; will you, Charlotte?”

“You can trust to me, father.”

“Yes, I know I can; for that and more too.  And there is more.  I feel a bit about Stephen.  Happen I was less than kind to him the other day.  But I gave you good reasons, Charlotte; and I have such confidence in you, that I said to mother, ’You can send Charlotte.  There is nothing underhand about her.  She knows my will, and she’ll do it.’  Eh?  What?”

“Yes, father:  I’ll be square on all four sides with you.  But I told you there had been no love-making between me and Steve.”

“Steve was doing his best at it.  Depend upon it he meant love-making; and I must say I thought you made out to understand him very well.  Maybe I was mistaken.  Every woman is a new book, and a book by herself; and it isn’t likely I can understand them all.”

“Stephen is sure to speak to me about your being so queer to him.  Had I not better tell the truth?”

“I have a high opinion of that way.  Truth may be blamed, but it can’t be shamed.  However, if he was not making love to you at the shearing, won’t you find it a bit difficult to speak your mind?  Eh?  What?”

“He will understand.”

“Ay, I thought so.”

“Father, we have never had any secrets, you and me.  If I am not to encourage Stephen Latrigg, do you want me to marry Julius Sandal?”

“Well, I never!  Such a question!  What for?”

“Because, at the very first, I want to tell you that I could not do it—­no way.  I am quite ready to give up my will to your will, and my pleasure to your pleasure.  That is my duty; but to marry cousin Julius is a different thing.”

“Don’t get too far forward, Charlotte.  Julius has not said a word to me about marrying you.”

“But he is doing his best at it.  Depend upon it he means marrying; and I must say I thought you made out to understand him very well.  Maybe I was mistaken.  Every man is a new book, and a book by himself; and it is not likely I can understand them all.”

“Now you are picking up my own words, and throwing them back at me.  That isn’t right.  I don’t know whatever to say for myself.  Eh?  What?”

“Say, ‘dear Charlotte,’ and ‘good-by Charlotte,’ and take an easy mind with you to Holler Scree, father.  As far as I am concerned, I will never grieve you, and never deceive you,—­no, not in the least little thing.”

So she left him.  Her face was bright with smiles, and her words had even a ring of mirth in them; but below all there was a stubborn weight that she could not throw off, a darkness of spirit that no sunshine could brighten.  Since Julius had come into their home, home had never been the same.  There was a stranger at the table and in all its sweet, familiar places, and she was sure that to her he always would be a stranger.  Something was said or done that put them farther apart every day.  She could not understand how any Sandal could be so absolutely out of her love and sympathy.  Who has not experienced these invasions of hostile natures?  Alien voices, characters fundamentally different, yet bound to them by natural ties which the soul refuses to recognize.

The somberness of her thoughts affected her surroundings very much as rain affects the atmosphere.  The hills looked melancholy:  she was aware of every stone on the road.  Alas! this morning she had begun to grow old, for she felt that she had a past,—­a past that could never return.  Hitherto her life had been to-day and to-morrow, and to-morrow always in the sunshine.  Hitherto the thought of Stephen had been blended with something that was to happen.  Now she knew she must always be remembering the days that for them would come no more.  She found herself reviewing even her former visits to Up-Hill.  In them also change had begun.  And it is over the young, sorrow triumphs most cruelly.  They are so easily wounded, so inapt to resist, so harassed by scruples, so astonished at troubles they cannot comprehend, that their very sensitiveness prepares them for suffering.  Very bitter tears are shed before we are twenty years old.  At forty we have learned to accept the inevitable, and to feel many things possible which we once declared would break our hearts in two.

There was an air of great depression also at Up-Hill.  Ducie was full of apprehension.  She said to Charlotte, “When men as old as father fall, they stumble at their own grave; and I can’t think what I’ll do without father.”

“You have Steve.”

“Steve is going away.  He would have left this morning, but for this fresh trouble.  I see you are startled, Charlotte.”

“I am that.  I heard nothing of it.  He moves in a great hurry.”

“He always moves that way, does Steve.”

“How is grandfather?”

“He has had quite a backening since yesterday night.  He has got ’the call,’ Charlotte.  I’ve had more than one sign of it.  Just before he fell he went into the garden, and brought in with him a sprig of ‘Death-come-quickly.’ [The plant Geranium Robertianum.] ‘Father,’ I asked, ‘whatever made you pull that?’ Then he looked so queerly, and answered, ‘I didn’t pull it, Ducie:  I found it on the wall.’  He was quite curious, and sent me to ask this one and the other one if they had been in the garden.  No one had been there; and, at the long end, he said, ’Make no more talk about it, Ducie.  There’s them that go up and down the fellside that no one sees. They lift the latch, and wait not for the open door, the king’s command being urgent.  I have had a message.’  He fell an hour afterwards, Charlotte.  He did not think he was much hurt at the time, but he got his death-throw.  I know it.”

“I should like to speak to him, Ducie.  Tell him that Charlotte Sandal wants his blessing.”

He was lying on the big oak bed in the best room, waiting for his dismissal in cheerful serenity.  “Come here, Charlotte,” he said; “stoop down, and let me see you once more.  My sight grows dim.  I am going away, dear.”

“O grandfather! is there any thing I can do for you?”

“Be a good girl.  Be good, and do good.  Stand true to Steve,—­remember,—­true to Steve.”  And he did not seem inclined to talk more.

“He is saving his strength for the squire,” said Ducie.  “He has a deal to say to him.”

“Father hoped to be back this afternoon.”

“Though it be the darkening when he gets home, ask him to come at once, Charlotte.  Father is waiting for him, and I don’t think he will pass the turn of the night.”

There were many subtle links of sympathy between Up-Hill and Sandal.  Death could not be in one house without casting a shadow in the other.  Julius privately thought such a fellow-feeling a little stretched.  The Latriggs were on a distinctly lower social footing than the Sandals.  Rich they might be; but they were not written among the list of county families, nor had they even married into their ranks.  He could not understand why Barf Latrigg’s death should be allowed to interfere with life at Seat-Sandal.  Yet Mrs. Sandal was at Up-Hill all the afternoon; and, though the squire did not get home until quite the darkening, he went at once, without taking food or rest, to the dying man.

“Why, Barf is very near all the same as my own father,” he said.  And then, in a lower voice, “and he may see my father before the strike of day.  I wouldn’t miss Barfs last words for a year of life.  I wouldn’t that.”

It was a lovely night,—­warm, and sweet with the scent of August lilies, and the rich aromas of ripening fruit and grain.  The great hills and the peaceful valleys lay under the soft radiance of a full moon; and there was not a sound but the gurgle of running water, or the bark of some solitary sheep-dog, watching the folds on the high fells.  Sophia and Julius were walking in the garden, both feeling the sensitive suggestiveness of the hour, talking softly together on topics people seldom discuss in the sunshine,—­intimations of lost powers, prior existences, immortal life.  Julius was learned in the Oriental view of metempsychosis.  Sophia could trace the veiled intuition through the highest inspiration of Western thought.

“It whispers in the heart of every shepherd on these hills,” she said; “and they interpreted for Mr. Wordsworth the dream of his own soul.”

“I know, Sophia.  I lifted the book yesterday:  your mark was in it.”  And he recited in a low, intense voice,—­

“’Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting: 
The soul that rises with us, our life’s star,
Hath had elsewhere its setting,
And cometh from afar: 
Not in entire forgetfulness,
And not in utter nakedness,
But trailing clouds of glory do we come
From God, who is our home:’”

“Oh, yes!” answered Sophia, lifting her dark eyes in a real enthusiasm.

“Though inland far we be,
Our souls have sight of that immortal sea
Which brought us hither.’”

And they were both very happy in this luxury of mystical speculation.  Eternity was behind as before them.  Soft impulses from moon and stars, and from the witching beauty of lonely hills and scented garden-ways, touched within their souls some primal sympathy that drew them close to that unseen boundary dividing spirits from shadow-casting men.  It is true they rather felt than understood; but when the soul has faith, what matters comprehension?

In the cold sweetness of the following dawn, the squire returned from Up-Hill.  “Barf is gone, Alice,” were his first words.

“But all is well, William.”

“No doubt of it.  I met the rector on the hillside.  ‘How is Barf?’ I asked; and he answered, ‘Thank God, he has the mastery!’ Then he went on without another word.  Barf had lost his sight when I got there; but he knew my voice, and he asked me to lay my face against his face.  ’I’ve done well to Sandal,—­well to Sandal,’ he muttered at intervals.  ‘You’ll know it some day, William.’  I can’t think what he meant.  I hope he hasn’t left me any money.  I could not take it, Alice.”

“Was that all?”

“When Steve came in he said something like ‘Charlotte,’ and he looked hard at me; and then again, ‘I’ve done well by Sandal.’  But I was too late.  Ducie said he had been very restless about me earlier in the afternoon:  he was nearly outside life when I got there.  We thought he would speak no more; but about three o’clock this morning he called quite clearly, ‘Ducie, the abbot’s cross.’  Then Ducie unlocked the oak chest that stands by the bed-side, and took from it an ivory crucifix.  She put it in his left hand.  With a smile he touched the Christ upon it; and so, clasping the abbot’s cross, he died.”

“I wonder at that, William.  A better Church-of-England man was not in all the dales than Barf Latrigg.”

“Ay; but you see, Alice, that cross is older than the Church of England.  It was given to the first Latrigg of Up-Hill by the first abbot of Furness.  Before the days of Wyckliffe and Latimer, every one of them, babe and hoary-head, died with it in their hands.  There are things that go deeper down than creeds, Alice; and the cross with the Saviour on it is one of them.  I would like to feel it myself, even when I was past seeing it.  I would like to take the step between here and there with it in my hands.”

In the cool of the afternoon, Julius and the girls went to Up-Hill.  He had a solemn curiousness about death; and both personally and theoretically the transition filled him with vague, momentous ideas, relating to all sides of his conscious being.  In every land where he had sojourned, the superstitions and ceremonials that attended it were subjects of interest to him.  So he was much touched when he entered the deep, cool porch, and saw the little table at the threshold, covered with a white linen cloth, and holding a plate of evergreens and a handful of salt.  And when Sophia and Charlotte each scattered a little salt upon the ground, and broke off a small spray of boxwood, he knew instinctively that they were silently expressing their faith in the preservation of the body, and in the life everlasting; and he imitated them in the simple rite.

Ducie met them with a grave and tender pleasure.  “Come, and see the empty soul-case,” she said softly; “there is nothing to fear you.”  And she led them into the chamber where it lay.  The great bed was white as a drift of snow.  On the dark oak walls, there were branches of laurel and snowberry.  The floor was fragrant under the feet, with bits of rosemary, and bruised ears of lavender, and leaves of thyme.  The casements were wide open to admit the fresh mountain breeze; and at one of them Steve rested in the carved chair that had been his grandfather’s, and was now his own.

The young men did not know each other; but this was neither the time nor the place for social civilities, and they only slightly bowed as their eyes met.  Indeed, it seemed wrong to trouble the peaceful silence with mere words of courtesy; but Charlotte gave her hand to Stephen, and with it that candid, loving gaze, which has, from the eyes of the beloved, the miraculous power of turning the water of life into wine.  And Charlotte perceived this, and she went home happy in the happiness she had given.

Four days later, Barf Latrigg was buried.  In the glory of the August afternoon, the ladies of Seat-Sandal stood with Julius in the shadow of the park gates, and watched the long procession winding slowly down the fells.  At first it was accompanied by fitful, varying gusts of solemn melody; but as it drew nearer, the affecting tones of the funeral hymn became more and more distinct and sustained.  There were at least three hundred voices thrilling the still, warm air with its pathetic music; and, as they approached the church gates, it blended itself with the heavy tread of those who carried and of those who followed the dead, like a wonderful, triumphant march.

After the funeral was over, the squire went back to Up-Hill to eat the arvel-meal, [Death-feast.] and to hear the will of his old friend read.  It was nearly dark when he returned, and he was very glad to find his wife alone.  “I have had a few hard hours, Alice,” he said wearily; “and I am more bothered about Barfs will than I can tell why.”

“I suppose Steve got all.”

“Pretty nearly.  Barf’s married daughters had their portions long ago, but he left each of them three hundred pounds as a good-will token.  Ducie got a thousand pounds and her right in Up-Hill as long as she lived.  All else was for Steve except—­and this bothers me—­a box of papers left in Ducie’s charge.  They are to be given to me at her discretion; and, if not given during her lifetime or my lifetime, the charge remains then between those that come after us.  I don’t like it, and I can’t think what it means.  Eh?  What?”

“He left you nothing?”

“He left me his staff.  He knew better than to leave me money.  But I am bothered about that box of papers.  What can they refer to?  Eh?  What?”

“I can make a guess, William.  When your brother Tom left home, and went to India, he took money enough with him; but I’m afraid he got it queerly.  At any rate, your father had some big sums to raise.  You were at college at the time; and though there was some underhand talk, maybe you never heard it, for no one round Sandal-Side would pass on a word likely to trouble the old squire, or offend Mistress Charlotte.  Now, perhaps it was at that time Barf Latrigg ‘did well to Sandal.’”

“I think you may be right, Alice.  I remember that father was a bit mean with me the last year I was at Oxford.  He would have reasons he did not tell me of.  One should never judge a father.  He is often forced to cut the loaf unevenly for the good of every one.”

But this new idea troubled Sandal.  He was a man of super-sensitive honor with regard to money matters.  If there were really any obligation of that kind between the two houses, he hardly felt grateful to Latrigg for being silent about it.  And still more the transfer of these papers vexed him.  Ducie might know what he might never know.  Steve might have it in his power to trouble Harry when he was at rest with his fore-elders.  The subject haunted and worried him; and as worries are never complete worries till they have an individuality, Steve very soon became the personal embodiment of mortifying uncertainty, and wounded amour propre.  For if Mrs. Sandal’s suspicion were true, or even if it were not true, she was not likely to be the only one in Sandal-Side who would construe Latrigg’s singular disposition of his papers in the same way.  Certainly Squire William did not feel as if the dead man had ’done well to Sandal.’

Stephen was equally annoyed.  His grandfather had belonged to a dead century, and retained until the last his almost feudal idea of the bond between his family and the Sandals.  But the present squire had stepped outside the shadows of the past, and Stephen was fully abreast of his own times.  He understood very well, that, whatever these papers related to, they would be a constant thorn in Sandal’s side; and he saw them lying between Charlotte and himself, a barrier unknown, and insurmountable because unknown.

From Ducie he could obtain neither information nor assistance.  “Mother,” he asked, “do you know what those papers are about?”

“Ratherly.”

“When can you tell me?”

“There must be a deal of sorrow before I can tell you.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“If I should dare to want it one minute, I should ask God’s pardon the next.  When I unlock that box, Steve, there is like to be trouble in Sandal.  I think your grandfather would rather the key rusted away.”

“Does the squire know any thing about them?”

“Not he.”

“If he asks, will you tell him?”

“Not yet.  I—­hope never.”

“I wish they were in the fire.”

“Perhaps some day you may put them there.  You will have the right when I am gone.”

Then Steve silently kissed her, and went into the garden; and Ducie watched him through the window, and whispered to herself, “It is a bit hard, but it might be harder; and right always gets the over-hand at the long end.”

The first interview between the squire and Stephen after Barf Latrigg’s funeral was not a pleasanter one than this misunderstanding promised.  Sandal was walking on Sandal Scree-top one morning, and met Steve.  “Good-morning, Mr. Latrigg,” he said; “you are a statesman now, and we must give you your due respect.”  He did not say it unkindly; but Steve somehow felt the difference between Mr. Latrigg and Squire Sandal as he had never felt it when the greeting had only been, “Good-morning, Steve.  How do all at home do?”

Still, he was anxious to keep Sandal’s good-will, and he hastened to ask his opinion upon several matters relating to the estate which had just come into his hands.  Ordinarily this concession would have been a piece of subtle flattery quite irresistible to the elder man, but just at that time it was the most imprudent thing Steve could have done.

“I had an offer this morning from Squire Methley.  He wants to rent the Skelwith ‘walk’ from me.  What do you think of him, sir?”

“As how?”

“As a tenant.  I suppose he has money.  There are about a thousand sheep on it.”

“He lives on the other side of the range, and I know him not; but our sheep have mingled on the mountain for thirty years.  I count not after him, and he counts not after me;” and Sandal spoke coldly, like a man defending his own order.  “Are you going to rent your ‘walks’ so soon?  Eh?  What?”

“As soon as I can advantageously.”

“I bethink me.  At the last shearing you were all for spinning and weaving.  The Coppice Woods were to make your bobbins; Silver Force was to feed your engines; the little herd lads and lassies to mind your spinning-frames.  Well, well, Mr. Latrigg, such doings are not for me to join in!  I shall be sorry to see these lovely valleys turned into weaving-shops; but you belong to a new generation, and the young know every thing,—­or they think they do.”

“And you will soon join the new generation, squire.  You were always tolerant and wide awake.  I never knew your prejudices beyond reasoning with.”

“Mr. Latrigg, leave my prejudices, as you call them, alone.  To-day I am not in the humor either to defend them or repent of them.”

They talked for some time longer,—­talked until the squire felt bored with Steve’s plans.  The young man kept hoping every moment to say something that would retrieve his previous blunders; but who can please those who are determined not to be pleased?  And yet Sandal was annoyed at his own injustice, and then still more annoyed at Steve for causing him to be unjust.  Besides which, the young man’s eagerness for change, his enthusiasms and ambitions, offended him in a particular way that morning; for he had had an unpleasant letter from his son Harry, who was not eager and enthusiastic and ambitious, but lazy, extravagant, and quite commonplace.  Also Charlotte had not cared to come out with him, and the immeasurable self-complacency of his nephew Julius had really quite spoiled his breakfast; and then, below all, there was that disagreeable feeling about the Latriggs.

So Stephen did not conciliate Sandal, and he was himself very much grieved at the squire’s evident refusal of his friendly advances.  There is no humiliation so bitter as that of a rejected offering.  Was it not the failure of Cain’s attempted propitiation that kindled the flame of hate and murder in his heart?  Steve Latrigg went back to Up-Hill, nursing a feeling of indignation against the man who had so suddenly conceived a dislike to him, and who had dashed, with regrets and doubtful speeches and faint praise, all the plans which at sunrise had seemed so full of hope, and so worthy of success.

The squire was equally annoyed.  He could not avoid speaking of the interview, for it irritated him, and was uppermost in his thoughts.  He detailed it with a faint air of pitying contempt.  “The lad is upset with the money and land he has come into, and the whole place is too small for his greatness.”  That was what he said, and he knew he was unjust; but the moral atmosphere between Steve and himself had become permeated with distrust and dislike.  Unhappy miasmas floated hither and thither in it, and poisoned him.  When with Stephen he hardly recognized himself:  he did not belong to himself.  Sarcasm, contradiction, opposing ideas, took possession of and ruled him by the forces of antipathy, just as others ruled him by the forces of love and attraction.

The days that had been full of peaceful happiness were troubled in all their hours; and yet the sources of trouble were so vague, so blended with what he had called unto himself, that he could not give vent to his unrest and disappointment.  His life had had a jar; nothing ran smoothly; and he was almost glad when Julius announced the near termination of his visit.  He had begun to feel as if Julius were inimical to him; not consciously so, but in that occult way which makes certain foods and drinks, certain winds and weathers, inimical to certain personalities.  His presence seemed to have blighted his happiness, as the north wind blighted his myrtles.  “If I could only have let ‘well’ alone.  If I had never written that letter.”  Many a time a day he said such words to his own heart.

In the mean time, Julius was quite unconscious of his position.  He was thoroughly enjoying himself.  If others were losing, he was not.  He was in love with the fine old hall.  The simple, sylvan character of its daily life charmed his poetic instincts.  The sweet, hot days on the fells, with a rod in his hand, and Charlotte and the squire for company, were like an idyl.  The rainy days in the large, low drawing-room, singing with Sophia, or dreaming and speculating with her on all sorts of mysteries, were, in their way, equally charmful.  He liked to walk slowly up and down, and to talk to her softly of things obscure, cryptic, cabalistic.  The plashing rain, the moaning wind, made just the monotonous accompaniment that seemed fitting; and the lovely girl, listening, with needle half-drawn, and sensitive, sensuous face lifted to his own, made a situation in which he knew he did himself full justice.

At such times he thought Sophia was surely his natural mate,—­’the soul that halved his own,’ the one of ‘nearer kindred than life hinted of.’  At other times he was equally conscious that he loved Charlotte Sandal with an intensity to which his love for Sophia was as water is to wine.  But Charlotte’s indifference mortified him, and their natures were almost antagonistic to each other.  Under such circumstances a great love is often a dangerous one.  Very little will turn it into hatred.  And Julius had been made to feel more than once the utter superfluity of his existence, as far as Charlotte Sandal was concerned.

Still, he determined not to resign the hope of winning her until he was sure that her indifference was not an affectation.  He had read of women who used it as a lure.  If it were Charlotte’s special weapon he was quite willing to be brought to submission by it.  After all, there was piquancy in the situation; for to most men, love sought and hardly won is far sweeter than love freely given.

Yet of all the women whom he had known, Charlotte Sandal was the least approachable.  She was fertile in preventing an opportunity; and if the opportunity came, she was equally fertile in spoiling it.  But Julius had patience; and patience is the art and secret of hoping.  A woman cannot always be on guard, and he believed in not losing heart, and in waiting.  Sooner or later, the happy moment when success would be possible was certain to arrive.

One day in the early part of September, the squire asked his wife for all the house-servants she could spare.  “A few more hands will bring home the harvest to-night,” he said; “and it would be a great thing to get it in without a drop of rain.”

So the men and maids went off to the wheat-fields, as if they were going to a frolic; and there was a happy sense of freedom, with the picnicky dinner, and the general air of things being left to themselves about the house.  After an unusually merry lunch, Julius proposed a walk to the harvest-field, and Sophia and Charlotte eagerly agreed to it.

It was a joy to be out of doors under such a sky.  The intense, repressing greens of summer were now subdued and shaded.  The air was subtle and fragrant.  Amber rays shone through the boughs.  The hills were clothed in purple.  An exquisite, impalpable haze idealized all nature.  Right and left the reapers swept their sharp sickles through the ripe wheat.  The women went after them, binding the sheaves, and singing among the yellow swaths shrill, wild songs, full of simple modulations.

The squire’s field was busy as a fair; and the idle young people sat under the oaks, or walked slowly in the shadow of the hedges, pulling poppies and wild flowers, and realizing all the poetry of a pastoral life, without any of its hard labor or its vulgar cares.  Mrs. Sandal had given them a basket with berries and cake and cream in it.  They were all young enough to get pleasantly hungry in the open air, all young enough to look upon berries and cake and cream as a distinct addition to happiness.  They set out a little feast under the trees, and called the squire to come and taste their dainties.

He was standing, without his coat and vest, on the top of a loaded wain, the very embodiment of a jovial, handsome, country gentleman.  The reins were in his hand; he was going to drive home the wealthy wagon; but he stopped and stooped, and Charlotte, standing on tip-toes, handed him a glass of cream.  “God love thy bonny face,” he said, with a beaming smile, as he handed her back the empty glass.  Then off went the great horses with their towering load, treading carefully between the hedges of the narrow lane, and leaving upon the hawthorns many a stray ear for the birds gleaning.

When the squire returned he called to Julius and his daughters, “What idle-backs you are!  Come, and bind a sheaf with me.”  And they rose with a merry laugh, and followed him down the field, working a little, and resting a little; and towards the close of the afternoon, listening to the singing of an old man who had brought his fiddle to the field in order to be ready to play at the squire’s “harvest-home.”  He was a thin, crooked, old man, very spare and ruddy.  “Eighty-three years old, young sir,” he said to Julius; and then, in a trembling, cracked voice, he quavered out,—­

    “Says t’ auld man to t’ auld oak-tree,
     Young and lusty was I when I kenned thee: 
     I was young and lusty, I was fair and clear,
     Young and lusty was I, many a long year. 
     But sair failed is I, sair failed now;
     Sair failed is I, since I kenned thou. 
                    Sair failed, honey,
                    Sair failed now;
                    Sair failed, honey,
                    Since I kenned thou.”

It was the appeal of tottering age to happy, handsome youth, and Julius could not resist it.  With a royal grace he laid a guinea in the old man’s open palm, and felt fully rewarded by his look of wonder and delight.

“God give you love and luck, young sir.  I am eighty-three now, and sair failed; but I was once twenty-three, and young and lusty as you be.  But life is at the fag end with me now.  God save us all!” Then, with a meaning look at the two pretty girls watching him, he went slowly off, droning out to a monotonous accompaniment, an old love ballad:—­

    “Picking of lilies the other day,
     Picking of lilies both fresh and gay,
     Picking of lilies, red, white, and blue,
     Little I thought what love could do.”

“‘Little I thought what love could do,’” Julius repeated; and he sang the doleful refrain over and over, as they strolled back to the oak under which they had had their little feast.  Then Sophia, who had a natural love of neatness and order, began to collect the plates and napkins, and arrange them in the basket; and this being done, she looked around for the housemaid in order to put it in her charge.  The girl was at the other end of the field, and she went to her.

Charlotte had scarcely perceived what was going on.  The old man’s singing had made her a little sad.  She, too, was thinking of “what love could do.”  She was standing under the tree, leaning against the great mossy trunk.  Her brown hair had fallen loose, her cheeks were flushed, her lips crimson, her whole form a glowing picture of youth in its perfect beauty and freshness.  Sophia was out of hearing.  Julius stepped close to her.  His soul was in his face; he spoke like a man who was no longer master of himself.

“Charlotte, I love you.  I love you with all my heart.”

She looked at him steadily.  Her eyes flashed.  She threw downward her hands with a deprecating motion.

“You have no right to say such words to me, Julius.  I have done all a woman could do to prevent, them.  I have never given you any encouragement.  A gentleman does not speak without it.”

“I could not help speaking.  I love you, Charlotte.  Is there any wrong in loving you?  If I had any hope of winning you.”

“No, no; there is no hope.  I do not love you.  I never shall love you.”

“Unless you have some other lover, Charlotte, I shall dare to hope”—­

“I have a lover.”

“Oh!”

“And I am frank with you because it is best.  I trust you will respect my candor.”

He only bowed.  Indeed, he found speech impossible.  Never before had Charlotte looked so lovely and so desirable to him.  He felt her positive rejection very keenly.

“Sophia is coming.  Please to forget that this conversation has ever been.”

“You are very cruel.”

“No.  I am truly kind.  Sophia, I am tired; let us go home.”

So they turned out of the field, and into the lane.  But something was gone, and something had come.  Sophia felt the change, and she looked curiously at Julius and Charlotte.  Charlotte was calmly mingling the poppies and wheat in her hands.  Her face revealed nothing.  Julius was a little melancholy.  “The fairies have left us,” he said.  “All of a sudden, the revel is over.”  Then as they walked slowly homeward, he took Sophia’s hand, and swayed it gently to and fro to the old fiddler’s refrain,—­

    “‘Little I thought what love could do.’”