Princess Puck

Doubtless the ladies of Ashelton were right in saying that the song sung by Bill Alardy at Mrs. Dawson’s tea-party was most unsuitable and highly improper. It was not only the words, though, as was pointed out, they were reprehensible, but also the terrible earnestness with which they were sung. Ashelton was justly shocked, and Theresa, although agreeably surprised by the unexpected richness of her cousin’s voice, was overcome with shame. Even Gladys Dawson, who was naturally beyond old-fashioned prejudices, looked at Bill with something more intelligent than her previous stare. Gilchrist Harborough, sitting by Miss Dawson, remembered the words spoken by Morton that Thursday night; the “little girl” certainly could “sing a capital song” of a sort.

But he did not remark on it to Miss Dawson; indeed he seemed to have forgotten all about her, and looked across to the singer, who had twisted round on the piano-stool and now sat uneasily regarding the company with a comical mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes. She was painfully conscious of their feelings, though not entirely able to understand them. She was both surprised and angry at the unexpected storm she had raised. Her eyes met Harborough’s; he at any rate was not shocked; he understood, he was even a little amused. Bill’s face began to clear, and the tantalising chameleon eyes changed. Miss Dawson addressed a remark to the young man, and receiving no reply, glanced in the direction where his interest obviously lay. Bill saw the glance and experienced a two-fold gratification; one person in the room sided with her, and another (she who had sneered at Polly’s skirt!) was annoyed thereby. Her face cleared entirely, and her eyes absolutely shone. The mischief was done.

Somehow or other, Bill did not quite know how, she found herself soon afterwards talking to Harborough, about the song and about all manner of other things. It was quite easy to talk to him, though he seemed a grave sort of young man given to taking things seriously, so seriously that it was rather strange he should approve of the song. He asked her where she had learned to sing it, and she told him she did not quite know. “I found the verses written out,” she said, “and I think I must have heard them sung when I was young. Perhaps my father sang them; I don’t know.”

“You sang as if you meant it,” he observed.

“So they should be sung.”

“But you have not felt that; you don’t know what you were talking about.”

“Oh, no,” she agreed readily, “it is all pretending; but that does not matter; one can pretend anything. Almost it feels sometimes,” she went on thoughtfully, “as if one had felt it in another first life; don’t you think so? Or perhaps it is that those who went before—the mothers and fathers and grandfathers—felt it and passed the memory on.”

Harborough shrugged his shoulders. “That is an old problem,” he said, “which does not trouble me much. I never think about my ancestry as you seem to; I find enough to do without seeking for the grip of the dead hand.”

“Some people do not have to seek for it,” Bill answered. She was thinking of the Harboroughs of Gurnett. “Have you ever been to Wood Hall?” she asked abruptly.

“No; I have ridden past it once or twice, but I have not had occasion to go in that direction often,—why?”

“You know there are Harboroughs there,—people of your name?”

“Yes, possibly distant connections; I have heard my father say that his people came originally from this part of the country. But I am not proud of the fact, if it is one; they appear to have been a pretty bad lot.”

“Yes,” Bill admitted, “and they are poor, desperately poor for the position: at least, so it is said, and certainly the place looks like it. Still they have been there for hundreds of years.”

“What the better are they for that? Nothing, I should say, seeing that each generation seems to have been worse than the previous one, till we come to the present, last and worst, bankrupt alike in means, morals and constitution, played out, worn out, done for,—and a good thing too.”

“It is the grip of the dead hand,” Bill said with conviction, and when he looked at her, doubtful as to her meaning, she explained: “They have an awful lot against them; the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children have not much choice left them.”

“Much income, you mean.”

“No, I don’t, though they have not very much of that either. I believe the estate is mortgaged, but so are their natures and characters; they could hardly go straight if they would. Think what it must be to have all that weight of tradition and fathers’ sins pulling against you.”

Harborough was not convinced. “Most of us have as many ancestors as have the great people of Gurnett,” he said, “yet some of us seem capable of independent action.”

“We don’t know about them; that makes a difference. We have not got them, in a way, stored up as the Harboroughs have. If you had been into Wood Hall you would know what I mean.”

“Then you think the next Harborough is bound to go and do likewise?”

“I don’t know him,” Bill said; “but I think he has a bigger chance of doing likewise than you have.”

“Yes; because if I believed I was doomed to be the same kind of blackguard as my ancestors I should blow my brains out.”

Bill looked at him gravely. “You wouldn’t really,” she said; “because you would not be as you are now if you were one of them. I wonder how nearly you are related?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nothing,—unless you could claim Wood Hall.”

“I am generations away from that,” he laughed; “and I don’t want to be any nearer.”

“You are not a Catholic? No? I wonder if the owner of Wood Hall must be?”

“Certainly not; a man’s conscience is his own.”

Bill nodded. “And his family?” she said.

“Have nothing to do with it; a man has a right to his own opinion.”

Harborough spoke warmly: he almost looked as if he defied Bill to defend the position; but she only said: “A woman is better off then; she has a right to two opinions,—her own and that of the person she is with.”

“That is scarcely the point,” Harborough said; but he did not get her back to the point, for she would have no more serious discussion; either her ability or her interest was exhausted. Harborough, whose bent of mind was habitually grave, tried in vain to bring the conversation back, and was half amused, half vexed by her evasions. He was certainly wholly vexed when Miss Dawson, from the ottoman, introduced the labour-problem as a subject likely to interest him.

Bill perceived the vexation and was amused. If she had been truly feminine she would probably have been gratified; but her nature was lacking in some of these girlish characteristics, and though she was pleased by the annoyance of Gladys, her enjoyment partook more of the pleasure of vengeance than of a womanly appreciation of pre-eminence. She was glad to have avenged the insult offered to Polly’s skirt, but she had no other feeling about it. She certainly never thought of Gilchrist; by the next morning, when she set about her penance in the garden, she had forgotten all about him.

She enjoyed the penance immensely. It was hard work in the open air and there was something to show for the labour; moreover, it appealed strongly to her, for it was a clearing up and setting straight with the prospect eventually of a productive yield. She had already made plans for the improvement of other parts of the garden when the long bed should be finished. There was plenty of room for improvement, for the garden seemed to be nobody’s business; Robert was not interested in it, and Theresa,—more because she had never been used to doing so than for any other reason—never thought of working in it.

“She does not like digging and she hates worms,” Bill said. “You would not expect T. to grub out here; besides, she has work in the house.”

This was said to Gilchrist, who apparently had not entirely forgotten her existence, whatever she may have done with regard to his. At all events, when he saw her from the footpath which crossed the field beyond the garden, he came to enquire how she was and what she was doing. She told him her intentions with regard to the plot of ground on which she was engaged, but she did not cease work to do so.

He watched her half amused. “I wonder Morton did not set one of the men to dig this for you,” he said.

“Why should he? I can do it well enough.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but it is hard work for you.”

“Work,” she replied oracularly, “is an excellent thing. You yourself believe in the dignity of labour.”

“Who told you that?” he asked reddening slightly.

She had stooped down and was wrestling with a giant worm as yet but half above the soil. “Don’t you believe it?” she inquired. “Out you come—” this was addressed to the worm—“you’re not going to stop here, come along now!” It came, and she threw it over the iron fence to find a new home in the field. “This is the dignity of labour,” she said as she returned to her work.

There was very little dignity about the small, hatless figure on the deeply dug plot. Bill had a great faculty for putting trade-marks of her occupation on herself and clothes; labour she might represent, but dignity never.

Harborough laughed a little; it was impossible to know when the girl was in fun and when in earnest. “Mrs. Morton will have a lot of potatoes if your crop is a good one,” he observed.

“Yes, but they’ll keep,—besides, she can bring them to Wrugglesby for us if she likes. There is an awful lot of waste in this garden; one could grow heaps of things—it does seem a pity. While I am here I am going to try what can be done with it.”

“In the way of growing potatoes?”

“All manner of things. I don’t know much about it, but I’ll find out; there is a book about gardening here, and Mr. Dane has got another, a big one, I saw it in his bookshelf. I expect you know a good lot.”

She stopped work for a moment as the idea occurred to her, then went on again with it and her questions at the same time till Harborough soon found himself giving information on the subject of fruit and vegetable culture; flowers did not seem to enter into the girl’s consideration at all.

“Some grow themselves,” she said of them, “and there are heaps of wild ones to be got. I would see about flowers afterwards; the other things must come first.”

“But,” Harborough objected, “in such a garden as this it would be possible to grow many more eatables than Mrs. Morton could use; surely it would be better to devote the surplus time and room to flowers. Unless,” he added slily, “you think the other vegetables could be brought to Wrugglesby like the potatoes.”

“Well, yes,” Bill admitted, “some could, and the rest could be sold.”

“To whom? Believe me there is no profit attached to market-gardening on a small scale; your profits would not pay your freight to London.”

“I should not send them to London.” Bill was at the end of the row now, and Harborough had moved farther along the fence to keep even with her. “I should take some in the light cart to Wrugglesby and sell to people who had no gardens, and some I should take to Darvel. It is rather a long distance off, but it is quite a big town with barracks and lots of houses without gardens. People with things to sell come to our house in Wrugglesby like that; at first we did not buy much, but now we have a good deal from them—that is how it would be with me. I should sell rabbits too, I think, and fowls and eggs; Theresa does not half make them pay.”

“I fancy she would raise objections to your making them pay in that way.”

Bill was forced to admit that such a thing was probable. “Still,” she said, “if it was really right I might do it all the same if I lived here; I could easily get round Robert. But I don’t live here, so I am afraid there is an end of the matter.”

Harborough watched her curiously for a moment. “You don’t appear to suffer from any class-prejudices,” he observed.

“What are they? Do you mean I don’t mind what I do? If that is it, I don’t; why should I? Do you?”

“No.”

The question was superfluous, he thought, for did not his manner of living demonstrate his theory to Bill as to everyone else?

“You work your own farm,” she said, so she evidently knew, “and I should work my own cabbage garden. We should not make big profits, but we should make enough to live on with what we grew for ourselves, and we should enjoy ourselves at the same time.”

“You would like it.”

“Yes, very much. I do not mean I should do it if I were rich. I should find some other work then; there is sure to be some belonging to being rich; but if I were not rich, only rich enough to have a farm or a cabbage garden, I should work them like that.”

“I wonder if you know what real work is?”

The remark was more speculation than question, and seemed to emanate from a different and much older being. Bill was not piqued, for indeed she regarded him in the light of a different and older being.

“I have not done much,” she said, “but I mean to get this garden a little straight before I go back to Wrugglesby.”

“If you don’t get tired of it first.”

“I sha’n’t do that; you can come every morning if you like, to see if I am at work or not.”

This was something of a challenge. Harborough at first had not intended accepting it, yet, since on the next day circumstances caused him to come home at mid-day by the field-path, he thought he might as well see if the girl was really at work. The day was moist and close, and a warm fine rain, which fell at intervals, might have offered some excuse for remaining indoors. But she had not availed herself of the excuse; very likely, he thought, because she expected he would come, thinking which he wished he had not done so, and even for a moment meditated going away without betraying his presence. But it was too late for that; she had seen him and glanced up from her work to ask, “Are you going to market this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you can’t see Robert off in good time? Theresa will be waiting for him.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Thank you.” She resumed her work, and he went on his way determined to keep his promise.

And either he did keep it, or else some other circumstance brought about the desired results, for Robert came home early that night; and Bill, who was sitting with Theresa, was satisfied, trying to persuade herself that Harborough was right in saying that the one escapade was an accident not likely to be repeated.

She did not see Harborough for the next few days, and so could not thank him for his good offices. She did not altogether expect to see him; indeed, to tell the truth, she had forgotten about him in the engrossing interest of her work. But after nearly a week he passed that way again and found her still very busy, though now at a spot some little way from the railing. She did not cease work to come to him, and as he did not jump the rail to come to her, they carried on their conversation in tones suitable to the distance that separated them,—an arrangement which struck Harborough as more practical than pleasant, though he would not take the initiative in improving upon it. The conversation itself was practical, strictly horticultural, and mostly concerned with the growing of lettuces, which, though it showed a laudable attention to business on Bill’s part, was uninteresting. She was attending very much to business and not very much to Harborough; she even once went unceremoniously away to fetch some water-cans, singing as she went.

Harborough turned to go; the water-cans, it is true, were not far away, but she had gone for them without a word of apology. He was an extremely practical young man, believing in utility, in the importance of work above all things; but he did not quite appreciate seeing manners (and himself) sacrificed to some one else’s notion of work.

“‘There’s work for all the day-time,’” Bill sang, repeating to herself fragments of the song she had sung to the other Harborough, and quite unconscious of having offended this one. “The rose of this can has rather big holes in it; I believe it will wash the seeds out of the ground—‘the victor’s crown of glory,—of glory, glory’—now, then, I have filled my shoes with water. ‘But after life’s long story there’s the devil’s bill to meet.’”

“What are you singing?” Harborough stopped to ask.

“Nothing,” and Bill stood on one foot while she emptied the water out of her shoe.

“Yes, but what was it?”

Bill recited the verse to him and began to water her seed-patch.

“Why don’t you come nearer?” Harborough asked. “All the men in the yard will hear what you are saying.”

“There are none there now, they are all eating their lunch in the barn; besides what does it matter if they do? It will do no harm.”

“Oh, no; it might even do some good; it is almost a pity they should not be edified by your—hymn is it?”

Bill looked up arrested by his tone. “It isn’t a hymn,” she said, “but it is true all the same, every bit of it, the laughter and the work and the bill, only I don’t think you always have to wait till the end of life’s long story for that. After all it is only fair; you must expect to pay a good price for a good thing,—and it is good!”

“Which? The broken cucumber-frame or your own work? You are admiring both.”

“Everything,—just being alive.”

“Do you consider one is in the devil’s debt for life? It is a new idea.”

“No, not exactly that. The debt you owe is the wrong you do. You have not half lived if you have done no wrong; you miss an awful lot if you never do any wrong,—don’t you think so?”

She looked up as she spoke. Wrong so prefigured appeared wonderfully alluring, for there was an indescribable provocation in her face and figure, a fascination, nay, a temptation personified, which roused the youth in him, stirring the pulses usually so cool. Theory and reason are all very well, admirable in fact for ordinary use, but young blood will course in spite of them; the world’s spring will not always take no for answer.

Harborough went home that day vibrating with an emotion which was strange to him. Afterwards, when he was cool again, he was ashamed of it, for it did not seem exactly a good thing, and he vowed he would not go near the garden again. Yet how could he help himself? In a rash moment he had offered to mend the broken cucumber-frame for the girl, and she, serenely unconscious of his emotions, had accepted the offer. There had not been time then: Theresa wanted her in the house in five minutes; but he would come some other time. She had suggested to-morrow, or any day he liked. It did not matter when it was done, but it had to be done; he had left himself no choice.

That same evening he met Theresa in the lane, and, acting on impulse, he told her of his offer to mend the frame. On the whole, he thought it better, even if she put a false construction on his actions, than jumping the fence some morning when Bill was alone in the garden. But Theresa did not put any construction whatever on his actions; she looked upon her young cousin as more of a child than she really was, and much more of one than Harborough thought her. “She told me you offered to do it,” Theresa said; “it is very kind of you, I’m sure. She has taken a great fancy to gardening, and I am glad of it, though I cannot give her much help myself, for I know so little about it, and am so busy besides.”

Harborough assured her he was pleased to give any assistance he could, and Theresa thanked him again for sparing his valuable time, and invited him to do so to-morrow afternoon, and to have tea afterwards.

This he did, he and Bill spending an hour in the garden before tea. That afternoon Bill did not arouse any sentiments, unholy or otherwise, in his breast, neither did she sing or whistle; she devoted herself to business, and Harborough, having of late worked with farm-labourers, found it a refreshing change to work with a person who understood what was wanted and did as she was told. “She has more common-sense than most of the men I know,” was the opinion he formed that day, both when they were at work before tea, and when they were at the table later on. Her intercourse with Robert Morton impressed him very much; she had gauged the man’s character to a nicety, and Harborough could not but see that she understood him better, blamed him less, and could do infinitely more with him than could his stately young wife. He was not sure that he liked her the better for that. “An odd girl,” was his opinion, when at last he had convinced himself that she was not really conscious of the part she was playing; “she simply reflects her surroundings, but—” His ideal of womanhood was not a changing elf, a will-o’-the-wisp, a creature who could in mind enter into all things, reflect all things, good, bad, and indifferent, without judging or condemning. Woman should be above man; she should not understand evil except when he taught her; she should be merciful, of course, with the mercy of love, the pity of superiority, but not tolerant with the liberality of good fellowship; she should have nothing in common with a man like Robert Morton; she should be something fairer, better—unconsciously he looked at Theresa.

Yet Bill fascinated him. She was not fair, above, apart; she was of the earth earthy, a brownie by the hearth, not a goddess for a shrine. And yet the last thing in his waking thoughts that night was the dark glowing face watching him from the gate, the first thing that haunted his dreams was the small figure gliding into the green twilight of the nut-bushes.