Part 15 (1/2)
”I'll drive, la.s.s,” said Barjona, holding out his hand.
”I'll keep 'em mysen, lad,” replied his wife; ”I've 'eld 'em all this time while t' mare was still: I'll 'old 'em now when she's on t' move.
Come up, la.s.s!”
She threw me another portentous wink, and the mare moved slowly down the lane.
”Poor Barjona!” murmured Mother Hubbard, as we sauntered back to the cottage.
”I wonder if you are right,” I remarked rather viciously. ”I certainly hope you are. At present my sympathies lie in the other direction, and I am disposed to say 'Poor Maria!'”
”Yes, love,” said Mother Hubbard, ”perhaps she has the worse of the bargain; but I think the old fox has got into a trap that is going to hold him very tight this time, and it will nip hard.”
”I hope it nips until he squeals,” I said impenitently.
This was on the Monday following Whitweek. The next day brought me a long, chatty letter from the squire, who feels wonderfully better and talks of coming home again soon. He cannot understand why the doctors always say ”not just yet.” He is at Sorrento now, and chaffingly condoles with me on the remote prospects of a continental trip, at any rate on his account. I wonder if he guesses how relieved I am, and how eagerly I antic.i.p.ate his home-coming.
In him I seem to have a friend who understands, and I am beginning to think that is the only real kind of friend. I have said all along that I do not understand myself. I am always coming across odd little tracts of territory in my nature which surprise me and make me feel something of an explorer, whereas I cannot help feeling, somehow or other, that the squire knows all about me, and could make a map of my character if he chose, with all my moods and whims and angularities accurately indicated, like so many rivers and mountains. And so far from resenting this I am glad of it, because he is so kind and fatherly with it all, and not a bit superior. Now the Cynic, although he is no doubt a mighty clever man, makes you so frightfully conscious of his cleverness.
By the way, I have made a discovery about him. He is a barrister, and quite an eminent one in his way. I suppose I might have found this out long ago by asking any of the Windyridge men, but for some occult reason I have never cared to inquire. The discovery came about in this way.
When I had finished reading the squire's letter, and before proceeding to my work, I took up the _Airlee Despatch_ which Farmer Goodenough had left with us, solely because it contained a short paragraph on the ”Wedding of a well-known Windyridge character”--no other, in fact, than our friend Barjona.
As my eyes travelled cursorily over the columns they were arrested by the following:
”Mr. Philip Derwent, whose brilliant advocacy admittedly secured a verdict for the plaintiff in the recently concluded case of Lessingham v. Mainwaring, which has occupied so much s.p.a.ce in all the newspapers recently, is, as most of our readers will know, a native of Broadbeck.
His father, Mr. Stephen Derwent, was engaged in the staple trade of that town, but was better known for the interest he took in many religious and philanthropic movements, and in those circles his death five years ago occasioned a considerable gap. If report may be relied upon Mr. Philip Derwent's decision to read for the bar was a disappointment to his father, but the striking success which has attended him all through his legal career has sufficiently justified his choice. It was a matter of general comment in legal circles during the recent proceedings that Mr. Derwent more than held his own against such eminent luminaries as Sir George Ritson and Mr. Montgomery Friend, who were the King's Counsel opposed to him. He showed remarkable versatility in the conduct of his case, and his cross-examinations and repartees were brilliant in the extreme. Whether his law is as reliable as his rhetoric may be open to question, but one looks forward to his future career with special interest, as he is still on the sunny side of forty, and is therefore young enough to win many laurels. His mother died when he was quite young, and he is himself unmarried.”
Why I should have felt low-spirited when I put the paper down I do not know. It is just these unexplained ”moodinesses” which make me feel so cross with myself. The squire's letter had been bright, and the paragraph about Barjona amusing, and certainly the reference to Mr.
Derwent was ordinary enough. Still I stared at nothing quite intently for a few minutes after reading it. Then I shook myself.
”Grace Holden!” I said, ”plunge your face into cold water, and go straight to your work in the studio. You have negatives to retouch, and prints to tone and develop, and nearly a dozen miniatures to paint, all of which are shamefully overdue; and no amount of wool-gathering will bring you in the thirty s.h.i.+llings which you have fixed as your weekly minimum. Now be a sensible woman, and 'frame,' as your neighbours say.”
So I ”framed,” thinking the while how contemptuously the Cynic would smile at my thirty s.h.i.+llings.
CHAPTER XV
ROSE ARRIVES
The surprises of life are sometimes to be counted amongst its blessings. I daresay Reuben Goodenough, who is one of the most religious men I have met--though I am puzzled to know where his religion comes from, seeing that he rarely visits church or chapel--would affirm that all life's incidents are to be regarded as blessings. ”All things work together for good,” as ”t' Owd Book” says.
He argued this point with me at considerable length one day, and though he did not convince my head he secured the approval of my heart. He is distinctly a philosopher after his kind, with the important advantage that his philosophy is not too ethereal and transcendent, but designed for everyday use. He professes to believe that there are no such things as ”misfortunes,” and so takes each day's events calmly. For the life of me I cannot see it, but I rather cling to the thought when the untoward happens.
Be that as it may, the surprise which ”struck me all of a heap,” to use a common expression of my neighbours, in the last week of June was a blessing that one could count at the time.
It was evening, and I was standing in the garden among the roses and pinks, engaged in removing the few weeds which had escaped Mother Hubbard's observant eye, and pausing occasionally to wonder which I admired the more--the stately irises in their magnificent and varied robes, or the great crimson peonies which made a glorious show in one corner--when the gate was pushed open, and an elegant young lady, in a smart, tailor-made costume and a becoming toque, glided towards me. I took another look and gasped for breath.
”Well, Grace,” said the apparition, holding out a neatly gloved hand, ”one would say that you were astonished to see me.”
”Rose, you darling!” I e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, ”come and kiss me this minute, and show me which particular cloud has dropped you at my feet! My dear girl, you have stunned me, and I feel that I must pinch you to see if you are really flesh and blood.”
”If there is to be any pinching, my dear Grace, _I_ prefer to do it.