Part 2 (2/2)
”I know how you feel about that. A squire in Seat-Sandal out of the old name would have a very middling kind of time, I think. He'd have a sight of ill-will at his back.”
”Thou means with _them_!”
The squire nodded gravely; and after a minute's silence said, ”It stands to reason _they_ take an interest. I do in them. When I think of this or that Sandal, or when I look up at their faces as I sit smoking beside them, I'm sure I feel like their son; and I wouldn't grieve them any more than if they were to be seen and talked to. It's none likely, then, that _they_ forget. I know they don't.”
”I'm quite of thy way of thinking, Sandal; but Steve will be called Latrigg. He has never known any other name, thou sees.”
”To be sure. Is Ducie willing?”
”Poor la.s.s! She never names Steve's father. He'd no business in her life, and he very soon went out of it. Stray souls will get into families they have no business in, sometimes. They make a deal of unhappiness when they do.”
Sandal sat listening with a sympathetic face. He hoped Latrigg was going to tell him something definite about his daughter's trouble; but the old man puffed, puffed, in silence a few minutes, and then turned the conversation. However, Sandal had been touched on a point where he was exceedingly sensitive; and he rose with a sigh, and said, ”Well, well, Latrigg, good-by. I'll go down the fell now. Come, Charlotte.”
Unconsciously he spoke with an authority not usual to him, and the parting was a little silent and hurried; for Ducie was in the throng of her festival, and rather impatient for Stephen's help. Only Latrigg walked to the gate with them. He looked after Sandal and his daughter with a grave, but not unhappy wistfulness; and when a belt of larches hid them from his view, he turned towards the house, saying softly,--
”It is like to be my last shearing. Very soon this life will _have been_, but through Christ's mercy I have the over-hand of the future.”
It was almost as hard to go down the fell as to come up it, for the road was very steep and stony. The squire took it leisurely, carrying his straw hat in his hand, and often standing still to look around him. The day had been very warm; and limpid vapors hung over the mountains, like something far finer than mist,--like air made visible,--giving them an appearance of inconceivable remoteness, full of grandeur; for there is a sublimity of distance, as well as a sublimity of height. He made Charlotte notice them. ”Maybe, many a year after this, you'll see the hills look just that way, dearie; then think on this evening and on me.”
She did not speak, but she looked into his face, and clasped his hand tightly. She was troubled with her own mood. Try as she would, it was impossible to prevent herself drifting into most unusual silences.
Stephen's words and looks filled her heart; she had only half heard the things her father had been saying. Never before had she found an hour in her life when she wished for solitude in preference to his society,--her good, tender father. She put Stephen out of her mind, and tried again to feel all her old interest in his plans for their amus.e.m.e.nt. Alas, alas! The first secret, especially if it be a love-secret, makes a break in that sweet, confidential intercourse between a parent and child which nothing restores. The squire hardly comprehended that there might be a secret. Charlotte was unthoughtful of wrong; but still there was a repression, a something undefinable between them, impalpable, but positive as a breath of polar air. She noticed the mountains, for he made her do so; but the birds sang sleepy songs to her unheeded, and the yellow asphodels made a kind of suns.h.i.+ne at her feet that she never saw; and even her father's voice disturbed the dreamy charm of thoughts that touched a deeper, sweeter joy than moor or mountain, bird or flower, had ever given her.
Before they reached home, the squire had also become silent. He came into the hall with the face of one dissatisfied and unhappy. The feeling spread through the house, as a drop of ink spreads itself through a gla.s.s of water. It almost suited Sophia's mood, and Mrs. Sandal was not inclined to discuss it until the squire was alone with her. Then she asked the question of all questions the most irritating, ”What is the matter with you, squire?”
”What is the matter, indeed? Love-making. That is the matter, Alice.”
”Charlotte?”
”Yes.”
”And Stephen Latrigg?”
”Yes.”
”I thought as much. Opportunity is a dangerous thing.”
”My word! To hear you talk, one would think it was matterless how our girls married.”
”It is never matterless how any girl marries, squire; and our Charlotte”--
”Oh, I thought Charlotte was a child yet! How could I tell there was danger at Up-Hill? You ought to have looked better after your daughters.
See that she doesn't go near-hand Latrigg's again.”
”I wouldn't be so foolish, William. It's a deal better not to notice.
Make no words about it; and, if you don't like Stephen, send Charlotte away a bit. Half of young people's love-affairs is just because they are handy to each other.”
”'Like Stephen!' It is more than a matter of liking, as you know very well. If Harry Sandal goes on as he has been going, there will be little enough left for the girls; and they must marry where money will not be wanted. More than that, I've been thinking of brother Tom's boy for one of them. Eh? What?”
<script>