CHAPTER XIV

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THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.

Man is a triple development; call him, body, soul and spirit, or mind, matter and extension,--he is, however regarded, a trinity. A man who recognises his three natures (which fortunately all do not), and who in his wife or work gratifies two of the three, is asking much of Providence when he complains that the third is unsatisfied. Yet this was Gilchrist Harborough’s case. Mind had counselled him to seek Wilhelmina Alardy as his wife; reason pointed out her unique suitability to his requirements; common-sense told him that she was exactly and precisely the person for all practical purposes. Yet he had hesitated, perhaps because he had an intuitive, if unexpressed, idea that such excellent logic was not always the best foundation for domestic happiness. That was a month ago; but then, last night in the twilight came Matter, and, forgetting Mind’s cool selection, discovered that the girl was desirable, sought and made her captive in a somewhat savage fashion, asking no better reason than her voice, no stronger proof than her contact when his arms held her.

Yet in the morning the man was not satisfied with this double choice. To begin with, he despised himself because he had allowed Matter to get the upper hand; as a consequence he--well, no, he did not exactly despise the cause--but at least he did not altogether respect her just then. “The woman tempted me,”--it was a coward’s excuse and he would not make it. She was not to blame, at least not much; he would do her justice. And he honestly tried, though he did not altogether succeed, for he did not understand the childish folly which had prompted her to the game in the orchard. Sheer folly it had been, and nothing more; she knew nothing of his sensations and emotions, and his capture of her at the end had come like a thunderclap in its stunning suddenness and left her even now not fully aware of the true state of the case.

So Harborough in his mind did her justice so far as he could; and in his actions he determined without delay to explain his equivocal words of last night and make her a formal offer of marriage. And when he felt not altogether glad about this decision, he reminded himself how entirely reason had chosen her before impulse had dictated last night’s words. As for the ideal, the fair and stately woman, a queen with holy face and ways of gentle dignity,--there was not room at his hearth for her. She could not rise early to milk his cows; she could not toil and work and stand beside him in the dirt and drudgery of his daily round; at least his queen could not, for so she would not be queen. There is doubtless a dignity in labour, but it is not easily discernible when labour is translated into soap and water, mud and ashes, red hands and tumbled hair. He could not afford an ideal: he did not need a woman to worship, but one to live with, human, likeable, one to work with, strong, capable,--and he went to look for Bill.

But Bill was not easy to find; she should have been working in the garden at this time, but from the field-path he could not see her. He retraced his steps, and from another point sought her as unsuccessfully. He climbed a little hill and looked down upon the garden, but she was not there. Then he went back, by way of the lane, to the orchard, but she was not there either; she must have gone on some message for Theresa: he would come again in the afternoon, and find her then. But he did not find her, for then, as earlier, she saw him coming and ran away to hide. She did not exactly know why; she was afraid of what he would say, of what he had said; she did not altogether understand herself or him or anything; only she was afraid. She longed to tell someone,--Mr. Dane--her world held no one else who was likely to be of any use. She would have liked to tell him as she told him of Harborough of Gurnett, but, for some reason that she could not fathom, she was ashamed; so she only worked hard and tried not to think, and when she saw her lover coming (if lover he was) she hid herself.

But Gilchrist Harborough was not to be turned from his purpose like this, and, having sought her in vain the next day, he presented himself at the house in the evening and asked Jessie for Miss Alardy. It was raining, a fine soft rain, which rejoiced the heart and made things almost grow before the eyes. Bill would be indoors now, for the rain clouds had closed the evening in early, and in the drawing-room, where he waited, it seemed already dark.

Jessie went to find Bill. “She has just gone to the attic for a sieve,” Theresa said, and Jessie went up the attic-stairs. “Miss Bill!” she called, standing at the top and looking down the long passage from the right of which the three attics opened. The place looked ghostly in the grey twilight; there was a spot of wet on the low ceiling, the roof leaked by the chimney where the starlings had built last year, there was a great hole in the floor under the window, and there were rats in the attic. Jessie gathered her skirts about her, and, after a preliminary _sh-oo!_ to frighten any chance creatures that might be about, came into the passage. “Miss Bill,” she called again, “you’re wanted; Mr. Harborough wants to see you.”

Now that was precisely the information for which Bill was waiting. She had heard the door-bell ring as she looked over some tools in the back attic, but she had not associated the sound with herself until Jessie began to ascend the stairs. Then she had guessed that the visitor was Gilchrist Harborough, and that he had come to see her. She fully intended to go down and see him; it was, of course, what she must do, and there certainly was no reason why she should not; yet when she heard Jessie’s voice an uncontrollable impulse to escape took possession of her. She looked round; there was no escape, no way out but the door by which Jessie would enter. The door of a big cupboard, however, stood ajar behind her; quick as thought she opened it, pulled it to after her and stood pressed against the wall within, holding the door close by its rough planking.

Jessie peeped into each of the attics in turn, and then muttering, “She ain’t here after all,” went down-stairs again; but Bill remained in the cupboard till she heard the front door shut after Harborough. It was some time, for they looked thoroughly for her before he went away. Her prison was cramped, dark, and very close, and there was a warm smell of old hops about it which afterwards she always associated with that evening and her folly. It was folly, and as such she regretted it when it was too late and would have gladly undone it if she could.

Later, when she came down-stairs, Theresa told her of Harborough’s visit and asked her where she was when they called her. She did not tell and her reply, guardedly given, left only a vague impression on her cousin’s mind. Theresa, believing she must have gone to the barn with her tools, thought no more about it until the next afternoon when Harborough presented himself again. This time he asked for Theresa, having learned from Robert that his wife and Polly were left guardians of their young cousin.

It was Sunday, and by Theresa’s invitation Bella and Polly had walked from Wrugglesby that morning to spend the day at Haylands; they had come early and would stay till the evening, when Robert was going to drive them home. Polly was dozing placidly on the dining-room sofa when Harborough came, and Bill was curled up in the orchard with a book, oblivious alike of impending events and the dampness of the grass. Harborough might almost have caught her now had he tried; but he did not, for he decided that his best plan would be to apply in the old-fashioned way to Mrs. Morton for permission to address her cousin.

Accordingly he did so, and he did it with some self-possession, for the whole thing was now very clear in his own mind and he wished to get it settled. It was, after all, to him a very simple and straightforward matter now.

But to Theresa it was very different, very overwhelming, it might almost be said, in its unexpectedness. She gazed at him blankly for a moment, too much astonished for speech. “Bill?” she said at last, “Bill? She is a child!”

“She is young,” Harborough admitted, “but she must be nearly eighteen; that is not so very young, you know.”

“She is not eighteen till the winter; we have always looked upon her as a child. You must forgive my astonishment, she seems such a child to us.”

Harborough said he could easily understand her feelings; indeed, he allowed, in some respects Bill seemed a child to him, though in others the very reverse.

“She is very capable,” Theresa said, “but I am afraid when you come to speak to her on this subject you will find her very childish,--I mean, she will be so unprepared for it, it will be difficult.”

Harborough smiled slightly. “I do not think it will be an entire surprise to her,” he said. “I do not mean that I know how she will receive me, but that I should come will not, I fancy, altogether astonish her.”

Theresa felt more and more bewildered. “I think you must be mistaken,” was all she could say; but he was persistent in his opinion, and certainly, whether he was right or wrong, there was no valid reason why he should not speak to Bill. Theresa, however, still believing in the girl’s complete ignorance, stipulated for one thing: Bill’s decision, whatever it was, should not be considered final. “For,” Theresa said, “I am very much afraid she will not really know her own mind.”

Harborough acquiesced to this, and also to the suggestion that Polly should be consulted. “She is here now,” Theresa told him; “perhaps it would be better if you were to see her, as Bill is really more her charge than mine.”

Harborough had no particular wish to consult the unknown Polly, but he could not do less than agree, so Theresa went to find her. She was still dozing on the sofa in the dining-room, and there was no one else there. Theresa roused her and told her the news briefly, wishing the while that Polly had not slept so soundly, and fearing lest she should not fully understand. But she need have had no fears; Polly grasped the situation completely. “Has he any money?” she asked.

“Yes, oh yes, some, not a great deal, of course; he has a little farm. But, Polly, Bill--”

“A farm? Oh, he is the man who lives by himself and does his own work to prove something, I remember. That will just suit Bill.”

Polly got up, went to the glass above the mantelpiece and began to arrange her front hair.

“It is impossible to think of that child marrying him, of her marrying anyone yet,” Theresa protested.

Polly did not think so. “I don’t see why she should not,” she said coolly; “you may be pretty sure she has given him encouragement, or he would not come here like this.”

“That proves nothing,” said Theresa. “He does not know in the least whether she will have him or not; he spoke to me first because she is so very young.”

“Possibly, but she knows what is coming; he as good as told you so.”

“He is mistaken; I am sure he is.”

“I’ll tell you whether I think so or not after I have seen him. I don’t much expect he is; and knowing Bill as well as I do, well--” Polly broke off and with an impressive silence conveyed more than words could.

Theresa did not altogether believe her, but she felt that she herself was far from understanding Bill. “At all events,” she said, “I told him he could speak to her. There is nothing against him as far as I know, and whatever she says now is not to be considered absolutely binding.”

“What do you mean?” Polly stopped abruptly to ask the question as she was opening the door.

“I mean,” Theresa answered, “that if she accepts him she is not to be considered engaged; she shall be free to change her mind if she likes, for I am sure she cannot really know anything about it.”

“Not to be engaged?” Polly repeated. “Is it to be kept private? No one is to be told, we are to have no hold over him?”

“I will not have her bound; it is not right,--you can’t think it right.”

Theresa was surprised at Polly’s manner, and still more surprised when she turned upon her in low-voiced wrath,--“You idiot!” she said.

“Polly!” Theresa exclaimed reddening, and then added: “I will not have it; mind, I will not have her bound!”

And then the two passed into the drawing-room. Polly was affability itself; she spoke of “dear little Wilhelmina’s” youth, and of her own surprise, but held out some hopes of success to Harborough, who did not altogether trust her, though owing to her skill he did not distrust her as much as might have been expected. Nothing was said about Theresa’s condition, except that as Harborough was leaving she repeated it, and Polly, unable to do anything else, seconded her.

“I expect he wanted to see Bill this afternoon,” Theresa said when he had gone.

“I expect he did,” Polly replied; “but I want to see her first. I mean to know what she has been doing.”

“What she intends to do,” was also part of Polly’s meaning, and she set off at once to the orchard, feeling the remainder of the afternoon was all too short for her investigations.

“Bill,” she said, sitting down beside her cousin on a cushion she had brought for the purpose, “Bill, what about Mr. Harborough?” Polly wasted no time over preliminaries. “The Mr. Harborough who lives here, I mean.”

“What about him?” Bill inquired, looking up from her book.

Polly closed the book for her. “Yes, what?” she said. “When and where have you seen him?”

“Oh in lots of places,--why? He does not belong to Wood Hall.”

“I know that. Bill,” she added suddenly, “has he been making love to you?”

Then the time had come; Bill felt it intuitively and braced herself to meet it. But for the life of her she would have found it hard to say whether he had or had not committed the offence in question. She would not permit herself to do more than ask cautiously, “Why?”

“He has!” Polly exclaimed.

“Well, I’m not sure;” and Bill so evidently meant what she said that Polly for a moment was nonplussed. “He has been here this afternoon,” she said.

“To see me?” Bill asked, and Polly felt that was something of an admission. “No,” she answered, “to see Theresa and me about you.”

“Whatever for?”

“To ask our permission--”

“To make love to me?” At first the idea struck Bill as comical, but its gravity soon came home to her.

“I suppose you think that absurd,” Polly said, “since he has already done it without our permission; and he has done it, Bill, or something very like it. It is no use denying it; something must have happened, something fairly pronounced, before a man of his stamp would come to Theresa and me as he came this afternoon. You must have given him very direct encouragement.”

Polly paused for Bill to deny the charge, but the denial did not come; the girl sat silently considering the matter, tearing a leaf to pieces as she did so.

“Well?” Polly said at last interrogatively.

“Did he tell you I had encouraged him? I mean, did he absolutely say so? I shall ask him myself if I think you are deceiving me.”

Polly thought it very likely that she would do so, and accordingly made answer: “No, of course he did not say so in so many words, but his coming to us showed it; besides he told Theresa, when she said you would be astonished, that he did not think you would be, that he had reason to believe you expected him.” _Not be surprised to see him_ and _expected him_ were convertible, if not synonymous, terms.

“Oh!” was Bill’s only answer.

“Did you expect him?” Polly demanded.

“I suppose I did; I don’t know.”

“You must know what you expect if you are not absolutely stupid, and you might as well be honest about it; some people would have a good deal to say about your underhand dealings.”

Bill suggested that her cousin should say all she wished on the subject, but Polly, regarding it as a waste of time, went on to observe with dignity: “I don’t want to inquire into your actions nor yet your intentions, but all I can say is that you have made an honourable man,--a good man, Bill--believe you care for him; and if you do not, if you mean nothing, you must settle the matter with him.”

“I don’t believe you!” Bill exclaimed. “I ran away from him, though I did tell him to come--I was only in fun--he hardly held--”

She broke off, feeling that she could not lay the matter bare to her cousin. Polly was disappointed at the confession ending so abruptly, but she only said: “Tell him you were only in fun. If he knew you as well as I do he might not be surprised at such a questionable proceeding; but as he loves you, I am afraid it will be rather a shock to him.”

“Loves me!--he loves me!” Bill repeated the words gently, her whole face softening. She had not thought of this before. She had such high, idyllic notions of love, hardly definite notions at all, only a feeling that it was very great and supreme and far removed from her own life.

“Of course he does,” Polly said, surprised at having touched an answering chord here, “else why should he want to marry you? You have nothing to recommend you.”

“No,” Bill admitted, “no, I have not. How strange that he should want to marry me,--how strange and wonderful!”

She sat looking across the orchard, her eyes filled with a great shining, her heart thrilled with gratitude to one who could love her. For herself, she did not know; his emotion would arouse an answering emotion in her; if he loved her she could not choose but love him, just as when he held her she could not choose but stay for just a moment. She was very humble and submissive in heart just then.

On the whole Polly was well satisfied with her talk. Bill would accept Harborough. Two things were in his favour, the girl’s joy and pride in this, the first love offered to her, her innocence of life and all it held, and also her curious, one-sided sense of honour. The first, aided by her oddly sympathetic, almost reflective, nature, would make her wish to accept the lover; the second, aided by Polly’s statement of the case, would make it impossible for her to refuse the man. So Polly was satisfied that Bill would marry Harborough; probably next summer, as Theresa would not allow it before then, and Polly herself did not wish it. She wanted to begin her lodging-venture in the winter, and, though she would take Bella into partnership when Bill was married, she would prefer to have the younger cousin at the beginning of the enterprise. She considered that Bill was now settled for life, her future assured in a most unexpected fashion. Harborough, she judged, was the sort of man she could depend upon to do his duty by his wife, and in spite of Theresa’s words, she would take care that at least a little of the arrangement was known to a few mutual friends. In this laudable intention, however, she was eventually frustrated by Bill. She had reckoned that Bill would see no reason for secrecy; being sure of herself, whatever motives ruled her decision now would rule it in a year’s time, and so she would oppose Theresa. But she did no such thing, not because she objected to publicity or saw any reason against it, but because Polly was in favour of it and Theresa against it.

“It may be wise,” she said to Polly, “if you urge it, but if Theresa does it is right; in this I would rather do what is right than wise.”

In vain Polly pointed out the wisdom, and explained that publicity was the only hold they had. Bill retorted haughtily that she wished for no hold, and went on to add that, if any rumour of her affairs should get about, she should consider Polly the culprit, and behave accordingly. And Polly, having an inward conviction that she would keep her word in some unpleasant way, was obliged to remain silent.

On that same Sunday evening, when Harborough spoke to the cousins, came Theresa to Bill’s room after she had gone to bed, and kissed her and cried over her and asked her if she really loved him. And Bill flung her arms round the young wife’s neck, almost suffocating her in the wealth of her hair, and said she did not know, feeling vaguely sorry for Theresa, and wondering if loving and being loved always brought tears.

All the next day she was quiet and subdued, and in the evening the time came. She went into the orchard, thinking it likely that he would come down the lane to her. He did come; he saw her, and jumped the gate and came to her as she stood in the soft grass, her heart beating, a shy fearing happiness in her half-awakened soul. He came to her striding over the grass in the twilight of the apple-trees; but he did not know the tumult in her breast, did not recognise the half-awakened womanhood. He was not to-night, as once before, the strong man wooing the maid, nor was he the lover come to claim a girl’s heart. He came to ask her to be his wife because he believed it right to do so, because he believed it wise, because he thought for all practical purposes she was the woman best suited to his needs. He had desired her, it is true, but to-night it was not desire, not impulse; it was a deliberate plan, the wise performance of a wise act. But it lacked fire, lacked it woefully. And she, who shyly lifted shining eyes to those of the sober lover, could not kindle it; nay, she herself was not the same as the alluring shadow of the other night. He did not love the woman; the elf-child fascinated him, the housewife pleased him, but the woman he did not recognise. The best of his nature was untouched by her; he knew that he did not in the highest sense love her, and he did not pretend that he did. But, the pity was she thought he did; they had told her so, and, after all, as _to love_ is often translated into daily life, perhaps they were right, though in her idyllic, almost childish rendering of the word, they were entirely and hopelessly wrong.

So the question was asked and answered under the lichen-covered branches; coolly, dispassionately, yet withal gently he asked; shyly she answered, not yet aware of the lack in it all. She was so ignorant, what should she know of love’s ways? So awed, she could not criticise his words, so subdued and humble she could not doubt him. Thus she gave her word not knowing, stood awhile under the trees a little disappointed but not yet aware, and bade him good-bye with only a half-wakened doubt.

He left her, thinking perhaps she would prefer to see her cousin alone first, refusing her invitation to come to the house from a sense of delicacy. She did not know his reason, but she was vaguely glad he refused. They walked together to the gate, talking ordinarily, rationally, his manner as usual, hers as calm as it was reflective of his. There was no passion, no shyness; it would not have been embarrassing to meet Theresa, though she was glad they were not going to meet her. Glad, too, she was, consciously glad that he was going; she wanted him to go,--she hated to have him there--she was beginning to realise the lack in it all.

They parted at the orchard-gate; the first wild roses were opening, their fragrance filled the air, a spray showed faintly pink against the girl’s hair as she leaned over the gate. Something in the scent and the face, half seen in the twilight, stirred Harborough; he made an impulsive movement, but he had himself well in hand that night, and the impulse ended in nothing more than stooping to kiss her without any demonstration of emotion. So he bade her good-bye and went, she standing to watch him till he was lost in the dusk of the summer night, standing to watch him quite calmly though her breast heaved, until he was out of sight; then with a movement of passionate rage she wiped the kiss from her face and flung the handkerchief into the hedge.

“He did not make love to me a little bit!” she wailed. “‘Will you marry me?’ ‘Will you scrub the floor?’ It might as well have been one as the other. ‘Can you make butter?’ ‘Can you love me?’ Can I? I could hate you! How I shall hate you, if you don’t take care!”

There was someone talking in the garden, Theresa and Robert perhaps; she almost thought it was, and fearful of discovery crept into the deep dry ditch and lay hid among the tall stalks of the cow-parsley. In that green darkness she sobbed out her grief for the loss of her dream, the dream of loving and being loved which comes to all women at some time. It had come to her only yesterday; it had died unborn to-day,--unborn, for she did not love the man; had he loved her, or had he wooed her with the passion of the other night, her responsive nature might have replied, or at least she would have thought it did. But he had not done so, and the thing was only a dream; loving and being loved,--both must be mourned as never known, both buried together in the twilight of the white-flowered weeds. Nevertheless she was in honour bound to the man, that curious, distorted, inviolable law of honour which she had from some ancestry and could not break. The spoken word must be fulfilled, the unspoken pledge redeemed, the unconscious encouragement, of which Polly had made so much, justified. Polly had done well to trust to this other bond.

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