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CHARLOTTE. “Oh, how this
spring of love resembleth “Hammering and
clinking, chattering stony names When Charlotte again went to Up-Hill she found herself walking through a sober realm of leafless trees. The glory of autumn was gone. The hills, with their circular sheep-pens, were now brown and bare; and the plaided shepherds, descending far apart, gave only an air of loneliness to the landscape. She could see the white line of the stony road with a sad distinctness. It was no longer bordered with creeping vines and patches of murmuring bee-bent heather. And the stream-bed also had lost nearly all its sentinel rushes, and the tall brakens from its shaggy slopes were gone. But Silver Beck still ran musically over tracts of tinkling stones; and, through the chilly air, the lustered black cock was crowing for the gray hen in the hollow. Very soon the atmosphere became full of misty rain; and ere she reached the house, there was a cold wind, and the nearest cloud was sprinkling the bubbling beck. It was pleasant to see Ducie at the open door ready to welcome her; pleasant to get into the snug houseplace, and watch the great fire leaping up the chimney, and throwing lustres on the carved oak presses and long settles, and on the bright brass and pewter vessels, and the rows of showy chinaware. Very pleasant to draw her chair to the little round table on the hearthstone, and to inhale the fragrance of the infusing tea, and the rich aroma of potted char and spiced bread and freshly-baked cheese-cakes. And still more pleasant to be taken possession of, to have her damp shoes and cloak removed, her chill fingers warmed in a kindly, motherly clasp, and to be made to feel through all her senses that she was indeed “welcome as sun-shining.” With a little shiver of disappointment she noticed that there were only two tea-cups on the table; and the house, when she came to analyze its atmosphere, had in it the perceptible loneliness of the absent master. “Is not Stephen at home?” she asked, as Ducie settled herself comfortably for their meal; “I thought Stephen was at home.” “No, he isn’t. He went to Kendal three days ago about his fleeces. Whitney’s carpet-works have made him a very good offer. Did not the squire speak of it?” “No.” “Well he knew all about it. He met Steve, and Steve told him. The squire has been a little queer with us lately, Charlotte. Do you know what the trouble is? I thought I would have you up to tea, and ask you; so when Sandal was up here this morning, I said, ’Let Charlotte come, and have a cup of tea with me, squire, I’d be glad.’ And he said, ‘When?’ And I said, ‘This afternoon. I am fair lonely without Steve.’ And he said, ‘I’m agreeable. She’ll be glad enough to come.’ And I said, ’Thank’ee, squire, I’ll be glad enough to see her.’ But what is the matter, Charlotte? The squire has been in his airs with Steve ever so long.” Then Charlotte’s face grew like a flame; and she answered, in a tone of tender sadness, “Father thinks Steve loves me; and he says there is no love-line between our houses, and that, if there were, it is crossed with sorrow, and that neither the living nor the dead will have marriage between Steve and me.” “I thought that was the trouble. I did so. As for the living, he speaks for himself; as for the dead, it is your grandmother Sandal he thinks of. She was a hard, proud woman, Charlotte. Her two daughters rejoiced at their wedding-days, and two out of her three sons she drove away from their home. Your father was on the point of going, when his brother Launcie’s death made him the heir. Then she gave him a bit more respect, and for pretty Alice Morecombe’s sake he stayed by the old squire. Ten years your mother waited for William Sandal, Charlotte.” “Yes, I know.” “Do you love Steve, Charlotte? I am Steve’s mother, dear, and you may speak to me as if you were talking to your own heart. I would never tell Steve either this way or that way for any thing. Steve would not thank me if I did. He is one of them that wants to reach his happiness in his own way, and by his own hand. And I have good reasons for asking you such a question, or I would not ask it; you may be sure I have, that you may.” Charlotte had put down her cup, and she sat with her hands clasped upon her lap, looking down into it. Ducie’s question took her by surprise, and she was rather offended by it. For Charlotte Sandal had been taught all the reticences of good society, and for a moment she resented a catechism so direct and personal; but only for a moment. Before Ducie had done speaking, she had remembered that nothing but true kindness could have prompted the inquiry. Ducie was not a curious, tattling, meddlesome woman; Charlotte had never known her to interfere in any one’s affairs. She had few visitors, and she made no calls. Year in and year out, Ducie could always be found at home with herself. “You need not tell me, dear, if you do not know; or if you do not want to tell me.” “I do know, Ducie; and I do not mind telling you in the least. I love Stephen very dearly. I have loved him ever since—I don’t know when.” “And you have always had as good and as true as you have given. Steve is fondly heart-grown to you, Charlotte. But we will say no more; and what we have said is dropped into my heart like a stone dropped into deep water.” Then they spoke of the rector, how he was failing a little; and of one of the maids at Seat-Sandal who was to marry the head shepherd at Up-Hill; and at last, when there had been enough of indifferent talk to effectually put Steve out of mind, Ducie asked suddenly, “How is Harry, and is he doing well?” This was a subject Charlotte was glad to discuss with Ducie. Harry was a great favorite with her, and had been accustomed to run to Up-Hill whenever he was in any boyish scrape. And Harry was not doing well. “Father is vexed and troubled about him, Ducie,” she answered. “Whenever a letter comes from Harry, it puts every thing wrong in the house. Mother goes away and cries; and Sophia sulks because, she says, ’it is a shame any single one of the family should be allowed to make all the rest uncomfortable.’” “Harry should never have gone into the army. He hasn’t any resisting power, hasn’t Harry. And there is nothing but temptation in the army. Dear me, Charlotte! We may well pray not to be led into the way of temptation; for if we once get into it, we are no better off than a fly in a spider’s web.” She was filling the two empty cups as she spoke, but she suddenly set down the teapot, and listened a moment. “I hear Steve’s footsteps. Sit still, Charlotte. He is opening the door. I knew it was he.” “Mother! mother!” “Here I am, Steve.” He came in rosy and wet with his climb up the fellside; and, as he kissed his mother, he put out his hand to Charlotte. Then there was the pleasantest stir of care and welcome imaginable; and Steve soon found himself sitting opposite the girl he loved so dearly, taking his cup from her hands, looking into her bright, kind eyes, exchanging with her those charming little courtesies which can be made the vehicles of so much that is not spoken, and that is understood without speech. But the afternoons were now very short, and the happy meal had to be hastened. The clouds, too, had fallen low; and the rain, as Ducie said, “was plashing and pattering badly.” She folded her own blanket-shawl around Charlotte; and as there was no wind, and the road was mostly wide enough for two, Steve could carry an umbrella, and get her safely home before the darkening. How merrily they went out together into the storm! Steve thought he could hardly have chosen any circumstances that would have pleased him better. It was quite necessary that Charlotte should keep close to his side; it was quite natural that she should lift her face to his in talking; it was equally natural that Steve should bend towards Charlotte, and that, in a moment, without any conscious intention of doing so, he should kiss her. She trembled and stood still, but she was not angry. “That was very wrong, Steve. I told you at the harvest-home what father said, and what I had promised father. I’ll break no squares with father, and you must not make me do so.” “I could not help it, Charlotte, you looked so bewitching.” “Oh, dear! the old, old excuse, ‘The woman tempted me,’ etc.” “Forgive me, dear Charlotte. I was going to tell you that I had been very fortunate in Kendal, and next week I am going to Bradford to learn all about spinning and weaving and machinery. But what is success without you? If I make every dream come to pass, and have not Charlotte, my heart will keep telling me, night and day, ’All for nothing, all for nothing.’” “Do not be so impatient. You are making trouble, and forespeaking disappointment. Before you have learned all about manufacturing, and built your mill, before you are really ready to begin your life’s work, many a change may have taken place in Sandal-Side. When Julius comes at Christmas I think he will ask Sophia to marry him, and I think Sophia will accept his offer. That marriage would open the way for our marriage.” “Only partly I fear. I can see that squire Sandal has taken a dislike, and your mother was a little high with me when I saw her last.” “Partly your own fault, sir. Why did you give up the ways of your fathers? The idea of mills and trading in these dales is such a new one.” “But a man must move with his own age, Charlotte. There is no prospect of another Stuart rebellion. I cannot do the queen’s service, and get rewarded as old Christopher Sandal did. And I want to go to Parliament, and can’t go without money. And I can’t make money quick enough by keeping sheep and planting wheat. But manufacturing means money, land, influence, power.” “Father does not see these things as you do, Steve. He sees the peaceful dales invaded by white-faced factory-hands, loud-voiced, quarrelling, disrespectful. All the old landmarks and traditions will disappear; also simple ways of living, calm religion, true friendships. Every good old sentiment will be gauged by money, will finally vanish before money, and what the busy world calls ‘improvements.’ It makes him fretful, jealous, and unhappy.” “That is just the trouble, Charlotte. When a man has not the spirit of his age, he has all its unhappiness. But my greatest fear is, that you will grow weary of waiting for our hour.” “I have told you that I shall not. There is an old proverb which says, ‘Trust not the man who promises with an oath.’ Is not my simple word, then, the best and the surest hope?” Then she nestled close to his side, and began to talk of his plans and his journey, and to anticipate the time when he would break ground upon Silver Beck, and build the many-windowed factory that had been his dream ever since he had began to plan his own career. The wind rose, the rain fell in a down-pour before they reached the park-gates; but there was a certain joy in facing the wet breeze, and although they did not loiter, yet neither did they hurry. In both their hearts there was a little fear of the squire, but neither spoke of it. Charlotte would not suppose or suggest any necessity for avoiding him, and Steve was equally sensitive on the subject. When they arrived at Seat-Sandal the main entrance was closed, and Stephen stood with her on the threshold until a man-servant opened slowly its ponderous panels. There was a bright fire burning in the hall, and lights were in the sconces on the walls. Charlotte asked Steve to come in and rest a while. She tried to avoid showing either fear or hurry, and Steve was conscious of the same effort on his own part; but yet he knew that they both thought it well none of the family were aware of her return, or of his presence. She watched him descend the dripping steps into the darkness, and then went towards the fire. An unusual silence was in the house. She stood upon the hearthstone while the servant rebolted the door, and then asked,— “Is dinner served, Noel?” “It be over, Miss Charlotte.” So she went to her own room. It was chilly and dreary. The fire had been allowed to die down, and had only just been replenished. It was smoking also, and the candles on her toilet-table burned dimly in the damp atmosphere. She hurriedly changed her gown, and was going down-stairs, when a movement in Sophia’s room arrested her attention. It was very unusual for Sophia to be up-stairs at that hour, and the fact struck her significantly. She knocked at the door, and was told rather irritably to “Come in.” “Dear me, Sophia! what is the matter? It feels as if there were something wrong in the house.” “I suppose there is something wrong. Father got a letter from Harry by the late post, and he left his dinner untouched; and mother is in her room crying, of course. I do think it is a shame that Harry is allowed to turn the house upside down whenever he feels like it.” “Perhaps he is in trouble.” “He is always in trouble, for he is always busy making trouble. His very amusements mean trouble for all who have the misfortune to have any thing to do with him. Julius told me that no man in the ‘Cameronians’ had a worse name than Harry Sandal.” “Julius! The idea of Julius talking badly about our Harry, and to you! I wonder you listened to him. It was a shabby thing to do; it was that.” “Julius only repeated what he had heard, and he was very sorry to do so. He felt it to be conscientiously his duty.” “Bah! God save me from such a conscience! If Julius had heard any thing good of Harry, he would have had no conscientious scruples about silence; not he! I dare say Julius would be glad if poor Harry was out of his way.” “Charlotte Sandal, you shall not say such very unladylike, such unchristianlike, things in my room. It is quite easy to see whose company you have been in.” “I have been with Ducie. Can you find me a sweeter or better soul?” “Or a handsomer young man than her son?” “I mean that also, certainly. Handsome, energetic, enterprising, kind, religious.” “Spare me the balance of your adjectives. We all know that Steve is square on every side, and straight in every corner. Don’t be so earnest; you fatigue me to-night. I am on the verge of a nervous headache, and I really think you had better leave me.” She turned her chair towards the fire as she spoke, and hardly palliated this act of dismissal by the faint “excuse me,” which accompanied it. And Charlotte made no remark, though she left her sister’s room, mentally promising herself to keep away from it in the future. She went next to the parlor. The squire’s chair was empty, and on the little stand at its side, the “Gentleman’s Magazine” lay uncut. His slippers, usually assumed after dinner, were still warming on the white sheepskin rug before the fire. But the large, handsome face, that always made a sunshiny feeling round the hearth, was absent; and the room had a loneliness that made her heart fear. She waited a few minutes, looking with expectation towards a piece of knitting which was Mrs. Sandal’s evening work. But the ivory needles and the colored wools remained uncalled for, and she grew rapidly impatient, and went to her mother’s room. Mrs. Sandal was lying upon her couch, exhausted with weeping; and the squire sat holding his head in his hands, the very picture of despondency and sorrow. “Can I come and speak to you, mother?” The squire answered, “To be sure you can, Charlotte. We are glad to see you. We are in trouble, my dear.” “Is it Harry, father?” “Trouble mostly comes that way. Yes, it is Harry. He is in a great strait, and wants five hundred pounds, Charlotte; five hundred pounds, dear, and he wants it at once. Only six weeks ago he wrote in the same way for a hundred and fifty pounds. He is robbing me, robbing his mother, robbing Sophia and you.” “William, I wouldn’t give way to temper that road; calling your own son and my son a thief. It’s not fair,” said Mrs. Sandal, with considerable asperity. “I must call things by their right names, Alice. I call a cat, a cat; and I call our Harry a thief; for I don’t know that forcing money from a father is any better than forcing it from a stranger. It is only using a father’s love as a pick-lock instead of an iron tool. That’s all the difference, Alice; and I don’t think the difference is one that helps Harry’s case much. Eh? What?” “Dear me! it is always money,” sighed Charlotte. “Your father knows very well that Harry must have the money, Charlotte. I think it is cruel of him to make every one ill before he gives what is sure to be given in the end. Sophia has a headache, I dare say, and I am sure I have.” “But I cannot give him this money, Alice. I have not realized on my wool and wheat yet. I cannot coin money. I will not beg or borrow it. I will not mortgage an acre for it.” “And you will let your only son the heir of Sandal-Side, go to jail and disgrace for five hundred pounds. I never heard tell of such cruelty. Never, never, never!” “You do not know what you are saying, Alice. Tell me how I am to find five hundred pounds. Eh? What?” “There must be ways. How can a woman tell?” “Father, have I not got some money of my own?” “You have the accrued interest on the thousand pounds your grandmother left you. Sophia has the same.” “Is the interest sufficient?” “You have drawn from it at intervals. I think there is about three hundred pounds to your credit.” “Sophia will have nearly as much. Call her, father. Surely between us we can arrange five hundred pounds. I shall be real glad to help Harry. Young men have so many temptations now, father. Harry is a good sort in the main. Just have a little patience with him. Eh, father?” And the squire was glad of the pleading voice. Glad for some one to make the excuses he did not think it right to make. Glad to have the little breath of hope that Charlotte’s faith in her brother gave him. He stood up, and took her face between his hands and kissed it. Then he sent a servant for Sophia; and after a short delay the young lady appeared, looking pale and exceedingly injured. “Did you send for me, father?” “Yes, I did. Come in and sit down. There is something to be done for Harry, and we want your help, Sophia. Eh? What?” She pushed a chair gently to the table, and sat down languidly. She was really sick, but her air and attitude was that of a person suffering an extremity of physical anguish. The squire looked at her and then at Charlotte with dismay and self-reproach. “Harry wants five hundred pounds, Sophia.” “I am astonished he does not want five thousand pounds. Father, I would not send him a sovereign of it. Julius told me about his carryings-on.” She could hardly have said any words so favorable to Harry’s cause. The squire was on the defensive for his own side in a moment. “What has Julius to do with it?” he cried. “Sandal-Side is not his property, and please God it never will be. Harry is one kind of a sinner, Julius is another kind of a sinner. God Almighty only knows which kind of sinner is the meaner and worse. The long and the short of it, is this: Harry must have five hundred pounds. Charlotte is willing to give the balance of her interest account, about three hundred pounds, towards it. Will you make up what is lacking, out of your interest money? Eh? What?” “I do not know why I should be asked to do this, I am sure.” “Only because I have no ready money at present. And because, however bad Harry is, he is your brother. And because he is heir of Sandal, and the honor of the name is worth saving. And because your mother will break her heart if shame comes to Harry. And there are some other reasons too; but if mother, brother, and honor don’t seem worth while to you, why, then, Sophia, there is no use wasting words. Eh? What?” “Let father have what is needed, Sophia. I will pay you back.” “Very well, Charlotte; but I think it is most unjust, most iniquitous, as Julius says”— “Now, then, don’t quote Julius to me. What right had he to be discussing my family matters, or Sandal matters either, I wonder? Eh? What?” “He is in the family.” “Is he? Very well, then, I am still the head of the family. If he has any advice to offer, he can come to me with it. Eh? What?” “Father, I am as sick as can be to-night.” “Go thy ways then. Mother and I are both poorly too. Good-night, girls, both.” And he turned away with an air of hopeless depression, that was far more pitiful than the loudest complaining. The sisters went away together, silent, and feeling quite “out” with each other. But Sophia really had a nervous attack, and was shivery and sick with it. By the lighted candle in her hand, Charlotte saw that her very lips were white, and that heavy tears were silently rolling down her wan cheeks. They washed all of Charlotte’s anger away; she forgot her resolution not to enter her sister’s room again, and at its door she said, “Let me stay with you till you can sleep, Sophia; or I will go, and ask Ann to make you a cup of strong coffee. You are suffering very much.” “Yes, I am suffering; and father knows how I do suffer with these headaches, and that any annoyance brings them on; and yet, if Harry cries out at Edinburgh, every one in Seat-Sandal must be put out of their own way to help him. And I do think it is a shame that our little fortunes are to be crumbled as a kind of spice into his big fortune. If Harry does not know the value of money I do.” “I will pay you back every pound. I really do not care a bit about money. I have all the dress I want. You buy books and music, I do not. I have no use for my money except to make happiness with it; and, after all, that is the best interest I can possibly get.” “Very well. Then, you can pay Harry’s debts if it gives you pleasure. I suppose I am a little peculiar on this subject. Last Sunday, when the rector was preaching about the prodigal son, I could not help thinking that the sympathy for the bad young man was too much. I know, if I had been the elder brother, I should have felt precisely as he did. I don’t think he ought to be blamed. And it would certainly have been more just and proper for the father to have given the feast and the gifts to the son who never at any time transgressed his commandments. You see, Charlotte, that parable is going on all over the world ever since; going on right here in Seat-Sandal; and I am on the elder brother’s side. Harry has given me a headache to-night; and I dare say he is enjoying himself precisely as the Jerusalem prodigal did before the swine husks, when it was the riotous living.” “Have a cup of coffee, Sophy. I’ll go down for it. You are just as trembly and excited as you can be.” “Very well; thank you, Charlotte. You always have such a bright, kind face. I am afraid I do not deserve such a good sister.” “Yes, you do deserve all I can help or pleasure you in.” And then, when the coffee had been taken, and Sophia lay restless and wide-eyed upon her bed, Charlotte proposed to read to her from any book she desired; an offer involving no small degree of self-denial, for Sophia’s books were very rarely interesting, or even intelligible, to her sister. But she lifted the nearest two, Barret’s “Maga,” and “The Veiled Prophet,” and rather dismally asked which it was to be? “Neither of them, Charlotte. The ‘Maga’ makes me think, and I know you detest poetry. I got a letter to-night from Agnes Bulteel, and it appears to be about Professor Sedgwick. I was so annoyed at Harry I could not feel any interest in it then; but, if you don’t object, I should like to hear you read it now.” “Object? No, indeed. I think a great deal of the old professor. What gay times father and I have had on the Screes with him, and his hammer and leather bags! And, as Agnes writes a large, round hand, and does not fresco her letters, I can read about the professor easily.” RESPECTED MISS SANDAL,—I have such a thing to tell you about Professor Sedgwick and our Joe; hoping that the squire or Miss Charlotte may see him, and let him know that Joe meant no harm at all. One hot forenoon lately, when we were through at home, an old gentlemanly make of a fellow came into our fold, and said, quite natural, that he wanted somebody to go with him on to the fells. We all stopped, and took a good look at him before anybody spoke; but at last father said, middling sharp-like,—he always speaks that way, does father, when we’re busy,— “We’ve something
else to do here than go raking over the fells on a He gave father a lile, cheerful bit of a laugh, and said he didn’t want to hinder work; but he would give anybody that knew the fells well a matter of five shillings to go with him, and carry his two little bags. And father says to our Joe, “Away with thee! It’s a crown more than ever thou was worth at home.” So the strange man gave Joe two little leather bags to carry; and Joe thought he was going to make his five shillings middling easy, for he never expected he would find any thing on the fells to put into the bags. But Joe was mistaken. The old gentleman, he said, went louping over wet spots and great stones, and scraffling over crags and screes, till you would have thought he was some kin to a Herdwick sheep. Charlotte laughed heartily at this point. “It is just the way Sedgwick goes on. He led father and me exactly such a chase one day last June.” “I dare say he did. I remember you looked like it. Go on.” After a while he began looking hard at all the stones and crags he came to; and then he took to breaking lumps off them with a queer little hammer he had with him, and stuffing the bits into the bags that Joe was carrying. He fairly capped Joe then. He couldn’t tell what to make of such a customer. At last Joe asked him why ever he came so far up the fell for little bits of stone, when he might get so many down in the dales? He laughed, and went on knapping away with his little hammer, and said he was a jolly-jist. “Geologist she means, Charlotte.” “Of course; but Agnes spells it ‘jolly-jist.’” “Agnes ought to know better. She waited table frequently, and must have heard the word pronounced. Go on, Charlotte.” He kept on at this feckless work till late in the afternoon, and by that time he had filled both bags full with odd bits of stone. Joe said he hadn’t often had a harder darrack after sheep at clipping-time than he had after that old man, carrying his leather bags. But, however, they got back to our house, and mother gave the stranger some bread and milk; and after he had taken it, and talked with father about sheep-farming and such like, he paid Joe his five shillings like a man, and told him he would give him another five shillings if he would bring his bags full of stones down to Skeàl-Hill by nine o’clock in the morning. “Are you sleepy Sophy?” “Oh, dear, no! Go on.” Next morning Joe took the bags, and started for Skeàl-Hill. It was another hot morning; and he hadn’t gone far till he began to think that he was as great a fool as the jolly-jist to carry broken stones to Skeàl-Hill, when he could find plenty on any road-side close to the place he was going to. So he shook them out of the bags, and stepped on a gay bit lighter without them. When he got near to Skeàl-Hill he found old Abraham Atchisson sitting on a stool, breaking stones to mend roads with; and Joe asked him if he could fill his leather bags from his heap. Abraham told Joe to take them that wasn’t broken if he wanted stones; so Joe told him how it was, and all about it. The old man was like to tottle off his stool with laughing, and he said, “Joe take good care of thysen’; thou art over sharp to live very long in this world; fill thy bags, and make on with thee.” “Don’t you remember old Abraham, Sophy? He built the stone dyke at the lower fold.” “No, I do not remember, I think.” “You are getting sleepy. Shall I stop?” “No, no; finish the letter.” When Joe got to Skeàl-Hill, the jolly-jist had just got his breakfast, and they took Joe into the parlor to him. He laughed all over when Joe went in with the bags, and told him to set them down in a corner, and asked him if he would have some breakfast. Joe had had his porridge, but he said he didn’t mind; so he told them to bring in some more coffee and eggs, and ham and toasted bread; and Joe got such a breakfast as isn’t common with him, while the old gentleman was getting himself ready to go off in a carriage that was waiting at the door for him. When he came down-stairs he gave Joe another five shillings, and paid for Joe’s breakfast, and for what he had eaten himself. Then he told him to put the leather bags beside the driver’s feet, and into the carriage he got, and laughed, and nodded, and away he went; and then Joe heard them say he was Professor Sedgwick, a great jolly-jist. And Joe thinks it would be a famous job if father could sell all of the stones on our fell at five shillings a bagful, and a breakfast at odd times. And would it not be so, Miss Sandal? But I’m not easy in my mind about Joe changing the stones; though, as Joe says, one make of stone is about the same as another. “Sophia, you are sleepy now.” “Yes, a little. You can finish to-morrow.” Then she laid down the simple letter, and sat very still for a little while. Her heart was busy. There is a solitary place that girdles our life into which it is good to enter at the close of every day. There we may sit still with our own soul, and commune with it; and out of its peace pass easily into the shadowy kingdom of sleep, and find a little space of rest prepared. So Charlotte sat in quiet meditation until Sophia was fathoms deep below the tide of life. Sight, speech, feeling, where were they gone? Ah! when the door is closed, and the windows darkened, who can tell what passes in the solemn temple of mortality? Are we unvisited then? Unfriended? Uncounselled? “Behold!
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