Watersprings

X

WITH MAUD ALONE

They were suddenly interrupted by the inrush of the Vicar. "Maud," he said with immense zest, "I find old Mrs. Darby very ill—she had a kind of faint while I was there. I have sent off Bob post haste for Dr. Grierson." The Vicar was evidently in the highest spirits, like a general on the eve of a great battle. "There isn't a moment to be lost," he continued, his eye blazing with energy. "Howard, my dear fellow, I fear our walk must be put off. I must go back at once. There she lies, flat on her back, just where I laid her! I believe," said the Vicar, "it's a touch of syncope. She is blue, decidedly blue! I charged them to do nothing, but if I don't get back, there's no knowing what they won't pour down her throat—decoction of pennyroyal, I dare say; and if the woman coughs, she is lost. This is the sort of thing I enjoy—of course it is very sad—but it is a tussle with death. I know a good deal about medicine, and Grierson has more than once complimented me on my diagnosis—he said it was masterly—forgive a touch of vanity! But you mustn't lose your walk. Maud, dear, you take Howard out—I am sure he won't mind for once. You could walk round the village, or you could go and find Jack. Now then, back to my post! You must forgive me, Howard, but my flock are paramount."

"But won't you want me, papa?" said Maud. "Couldn't I be of use?"

"Certainly not," said the Vicar; "there's nothing whatever to be done till Grierson arrives—just to ward off the ministrations of the relatives. There she must lie—I feel no doubt it is syncope; every symptom points to syncope—poor soul! A very interesting case."

He fled from the room like a whirlwind, and they heard him run down the garden. The two looked at each other and smiled. "Poor Mrs. Darby!" said Maud, "she is such a nice old woman; but papa will do everything that can be done for her; he really knows all about it, and he is splendid in illness—he never loses his head, and he is very gentle; he has saved several lives in the village by knowing what to do. Would you really like to go out with me? I'll be ready in a minute."

"Let us go up on the downs," said Howard, "I should like that very much. I daresay we shall hear Jack shooting somewhere."

Maud was back in a moment; in a rough cloak and cap she looked enchanting to Howard's eyes. She walked lightly and quickly beside him. "You must take your own pace," said Howard, "I'll try to keep up—one gets very lazy at Cambridge about exercise—won't you go on with what you were saying? I know your father has told you about my aunt's plan. I can't realise it yet; but I want to feel at home here now—indeed I do feel that already—and I like to know how things stand. We are all relations together, and I must try to make up for lost time. I seem to know my aunt so well already. She has a great gift for letting one see into her mind and heart—and I know your father too, and Jack, and I want to know you; we must be a family party, and talk quite simply and freely about all our concerns."

"Oh, yes, indeed I will," said Maud—"and I find myself wondering how easy it is to talk to you. You do seem like a relation; as if you had always been here, indeed; but I must not talk too much about myself—I do chatter very freely to Cousin Anne; but I don't think it is good for one to talk about oneself, do you? It makes one feel so important!"

"It depends who one talks to," said Howard, "but I don't believe in holding one's tongue too much, if one trusts people. It seems to me the simplest thing to do; I only found it out a few years ago—how much one gained by talking freely and directly. It seems to me an uncivilised, almost a savage thing to be afraid of giving oneself away. I don't mind who knows about my own concerns, if he is sufficiently interested. I will tell you anything you like about myself, because I should like you to realise how I live. In fact, I shall want you all to come and see me at Cambridge; and then you will be able to understand how we live there, while I shall know what is going on here. And I am really a very safe person to talk to. One gets to know a lot of young men, year by year—and I'm a mine of small secrets. Don't you know the title so common in the old Methodist tracts—'The life and death and Christian sufferings of the Rev. Mr. Pennefather.' That's what I want to know about people—Christian sufferings and all."

Maud smiled at him and said, "I am afraid there are not many Christian sufferings in my life; but I shall be glad to talk about many things here. You know my mother died more than ten years ago—when I was quite a little girl—and I don't remember her very well; I have always said just what I thought to Jack, and he to me—till quite lately; and that is what troubles me a little. Jack seems to be rather drifting away from me. He gets to know so many new people, and he doesn't like explaining; and then his mind seems full of new ideas. I suppose it is bound to happen; and of course I have very little to do here; papa likes doing everything, and doing it in his own way. He can't bear to let anything out of his hands; so I just go about and talk to the people. But I am not a very contented person. I want something, I think, and I don't know what it is. It is difficult to take up anything serious, when one is all alone. I should like to go to Newnham, but I can't leave father by himself; books don't seem much use, though I read a great deal. I want something real to do, like Jack! Papa is so energetic; he manages the house and pays all the bills; and there doesn't seem any use for me—though if I were of use, I should find plenty of things to do, I believe."

"Yes," said Howard, "I quite understand, and I am glad you have told me. You know I am a sort of doctor in these matters, and I have often heard undergraduates say the same sort of thing. They are restless, they want to go out into life, they want to work; and when they begin to work all that disquiet disappears. It's a great mercy to have things to do, whether one likes it or not. Work is an odd thing! There is hardly a morning at Cambridge when, if someone came to me and offered me the choice of doing my ordinary work or doing nothing for a day, I shouldn't choose to do nothing. And yet I enjoy my work, and wouldn't give it up for anything. It is odd that it takes one so long to learn to like work, and longer still to learn that one doesn't like idleness. And yet it is to win the power of being idle that makes most people work. Idleness seems so much grander and more dignified."

"It IS curious," said Maud, "but I seem to have inherited papa's taste for occupation, without his energy. I wish you would advise me what to do. Can't one find something?"

"What does my aunt say?" said Howard.

"Oh, she smiles in that mysterious way she has," said Maud, "and says we have to learn to take things as they come. She knows somehow how to do without things, how to wait; but I can't do that without getting dreary."

"Do you ever try to write?" said Howard.

"Yes," said Maud, laughing, "I have tried to write a story—how did you guess that? I showed it to Cousin Anne, and she said it was very nice; and when I showed it to Jack, and told him what she had said, he read a little, and said that that was exactly what it was."

"Yes," said Howard, smiling, "I admit that it was not very encouraging! But I wish you would try something more simple. You say you know the people here and talk to them. Can't you write down the sort of things they say, the talks you have with them, the way they look at things? I read a book once like that, called Country Conversations, and I wondered that so few people ever tried it. Why should one try to write improbable stories, even NICE stories, when the thing itself is so interesting? One doesn't understand these country people. They have an idea of life as definite as a dog or a cat, and it is not in the least like ours. Why not take a family here; describe their house and possessions, what they look like, what they do, what their history has been, and then describe some talks with them? I can't imagine anything more interesting. Perhaps you could not publish them at present; but they wouldn't be quite wasted, because you might show them to me, and I want to know all about the people here. You mustn't pass over things because they seem homely and familiar—those are just the interesting things—what they eat and drink and wear, and all that. How does that strike you?"

"I like the idea very much indeed," said Maud. "I will try—I will begin at once. And even if nothing comes of it, it will be nice to think it may be of use to you, to know about the people."

"Very well," said Howard, "that is a bargain. It is exactly what I want. Do begin at once, and let me have the first instalment of the Chronicles of Windlow."

They had arrived by this time at a point high on the downs. The rough white road, full of flints, had taken them up by deep-hedged cuttings, through coverts where the spring flowers were just beginning to show in the undergrowth, and out on to the smooth turf of the downs. They were near the top now, and they could see right down into Windlow Malzoy, lying like a map beneath them; the top of the Church tower, its leaden roof, the roofs of the Vicarage, the little straggling street among its orchards and gardens; farther off, up the valley, they could see the Manor in its gardens; beyond the opposite ridge, a far-off view of great richness spread itself in a belt of dark-blue colour. It was a still day; on the left hand there was a great smooth valley-head, with a wood of beeches, and ploughed fields in the bottom. They directed their steps to an old turfed barrow, with a few gnarled thorn trees, wind-swept and stunted round it.

"I love this place," said Maud; "it has a nice name, the 'Isle of Thorns.' I suppose it is a burial-place—some old chief, papa says—and he is always threatening to have him dug up; but I don't want to disturb him! He must have had a reason for being buried here, and I suppose there were people who missed him, and were sorry to lay him here, and wondered where he had gone. I am sure there is a sad old story about it; and yet it makes one happy in a curious way to think about it all."

"Yes," said Howard, "'the old, unhappy, far-off things,' that turn themselves into songs and stories! That is another puzzle; one's own sorrows and tragedies, would one like to think of them as being made into songs for other people to enjoy? I suppose we ought to be glad of it; but there does not seem anything poetical about them at the time; and yet they end by being sweeter than the old happy things. The 'Isle of Thorns'! Yes, that IS a beautiful name."

Suddenly there came a faint musical sound on the air, as sweet as honey. Howard held up his hand. "What on earth or in heaven is that?" he said.

"Those are the chimes of Sherborne!" said Maud. "One hears them like that when the wind is in this quarter. I like to hear them—they have always been to me a sort of omen of something pleasant about to happen. Perhaps it is in your honour to-day, to welcome you!"

"Well," said Howard, "they are beautiful enough by themselves; and if they will bring me greater happiness than I have, I shall not object to that!"

They smiled at each other, and stood in silence for a little, and then Maud pointed out some neighbouring villages. "All this," she said, "is Cousin Anne's—and yours. I think the Isle of Thorns is yours."

"Then the old chief shall not be disturbed," said Howard.

"How curious it is," said Maud, "to see a place of which one knows every inch laid out like a map beneath one. It seems quite a different place! As if something beautiful and strange must be happening there, if only one could see it!"

"Yes," said Howard, "it is odd how we lose the feeling that a place is romantic when we come to know it. When I first went up to Cambridge, there were many places there that seemed to me to be so interesting: walls which seemed to hide gardens full of thickets, strange doorways by which no one ever passed out or in, barred windows giving upon dark courts, out of which no one ever seemed to look. But now that I know them all from the inside, they seem commonplace enough. The hidden garden is a place where Dons smoke and play bowls; the barred window is an undergraduate's gyp-room; there's no mystery left about them now. This place as I see it to-day—well, it seems the most romantic place in the world, full of unutterable secrets of life and death; but I suppose it may all come to wear a perfectly natural air to me some day."

"That is what I like so much about Cousin Anne," said Maud; "nothing seems to be commonplace to her, and she puts back the mystery and wonder into it all. One must learn to do that for oneself somehow."

"Yes, she's a great woman!" said Howard; "but what shall we do now?"

"Oh, I am sorry," said Maud, "I have been keeping you all this time—wouldn't you like to go and look for Jack? I think I heard a shot just now up the valley."

"No," said Howard, looking at her and smiling, "we won't go and look for Jack to-day; he has quite enough of my company. I want your company to-day, and only yours. I want to get used to my new-found cousin."

"And to get rid of the sense of romance about her?" said Maud with a smile; "you will soon come to the end of me."

"I will take my chance of that," said Howard. "At present I feel on the other side of the wall."

"But I don't," said Maud, laughing; "I can't think how you slip in and fit in as you do, and disentangle all our little puzzles as you have done. I thought I should be terrified of you—and now I feel as if I had known you ever so long. You are like Cousin Anne, you know."

"Perhaps I am, a little," said Howard, "but you are not very much like Jack! Show me Mrs. Darby's house, by the way. I wonder how things are going."

"There it is," said Maud, pointing to a house not far from the Vicarage, "and there is Dr. Grierson's dogcart. I am afraid I had not been thinking about her; but I do hope it's all right. I think she will get over this. Don't you always have an idea, when people are ill, whether they will get well or not?"

"Yes," said Howard, "I do; but it doesn't always come right!"

They lingered long on the hill, and at last Maud said that she must return for tea. "Papa will be sure to bring Dr. Grierson in."

They went down the hill, talking lightly and easily; and to Howard it was more delightful than anything he had known to have a peep into the girl's frank and ingenuous mind. She was full of talk—spontaneous, inconsequent talk—like Jack; and yet with a vast difference. Hers was not a wholly happy temperament, Howard thought; she seemed oppressed by a sense of duty, and he could not help feeling that she needed some sort of outlet. Neither the Vicar nor Jack were people who stood in need of sympathy or affection. He felt that they did not quite understand the drift of the girl's mind, which seemed clear enough to him. And yet there fell on him, for all his happiness, a certain dissatisfaction. He would have liked to feel less elderly, less paternal; and the girl's frank confidence in him, treating him as she might have treated an uncle or an elder brother, was at once delightful and disconcerting. The day began to decline as they walked, and the light faded to a sombre bleakness. Howard went back to the Vicarage with her, and, at her urgent request, went in to tea. They found the Vicar and Dr. Grierson already established. Mrs. Darby was quite comfortable, and no danger was apprehended. The Vicar's diagnosis had been right, and his precautions perfect. "I could not have done better myself!" said Dr. Grierson, a kindly, bluff Scotchman. Howard became aware that the Vicar must have told the Doctor the news about his inheritance, and was subtly flattered at being treated by him with the empressement reserved for squires. Jack came in—he had been shooting all afternoon—and told Howard he was improving. "I shall catch you up," he said. He seemed frankly amused at the idea of Howard having spent the afternoon with Maud. "You have got the whole family on your back, it seems," he said. Maud was silent, but in her heightened colour and sparkling eye Howard discerned a touch of happiness, and he enjoyed the quiet attention she gave to his needs. The Vicar seemed sorry that they had not made a closer inspection of the village. "But you were right to begin with a general coup d'oeil," he said; "the whole before the parts! First the conspectus, then the details," he added delightedly. "So you have been to the Isle of Thorns?" he went on. "I want to rake out the old fellow up there some day—but Cousin Anne won't allow it—you must persuade her; and we will have a splendid field-day there, unearthing all the old boy's arrangements; I am sure he has never been disturbed."

"I am afraid I agree with my aunt," said Howard, shaking his head.

"Ah, Maud has been getting at you, I perceive," said the Vicar. "A very feminine view! Now in the interests of ethnology we ought to go forward—dear me, how full the world is of interesting things!"

They parted in great good-humour. The whole party were to dine at the Manor next day; and Howard, as he said good-bye to Maud, contrived to add, "Now you must tell me to-morrow that you have made a beginning." She gave him a little nod, and a clasp of the hand that made him feel that he had a new friend.

That evening he talked to his aunt about Maud. He told her all about their walk and talk. "I am very glad you gave her something to do," she said—"that is so like a man! That is just where I fail. She is a very interesting and delightful girl, Howard; and she is not quite happy at home. Living with Cousin Frank is like living under a waterfall; and Jack is beginning to have his own plans, and doesn't want anyone to share them. Well, you amaze me! I suppose you get a good deal of practice in these things, and become a kind of amateur father-confessor. I think of you at Cambridge as setting the lives of young men spinning like little tops—small human teetotums. It's very useful, but it is a little dangerous! I don't think you have suffered as yet. That's what I like in you, Howard, the mixture of practical and unpractical. You seem to me to be very busy, and yet to know where to stop. Of course we can't make other people a present of experience; they have to spin their own webs; but I think one can do a certain amount in seeing that they have experience. It would not suit me; my strength is to sit still, as the Bible says. But in a place like this with Frank whipping his tops—he whips them, while you just twirl them—someone is wanted who will listen to people, and see that they are left alone. To leave people alone at the right minute is a very great necessity. Don't you know those gardens that look as if they were always being fussed and slashed and cut about? There's no sense of life in them. One has to slash sometimes, and then leave it. I believe in growth even more than in organisation. Still, I don't doubt that you have helped Maud, and I am very glad of it. I wanted you to make friends with her. I think the lack in your life is that you have known so few women; men and women can never understand each other, of course; but they have got to live together and work together; and one ought to live with people whom one does not understand. You and your undergraduates don't yield any mysteries. You, no doubt, know exactly what they are thinking, and they know what you are thinking. It's all very pleasant and wholesome, but one can't get on very far that way. You mustn't think Maud is a sort of undergraduate. Probably you think you know a great deal about her already—but she isn't the least what you imagine, any more than I am. Nor are you what I imagine; but I am quite content with my mistaken idea of you."