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diff --git a/22273-h/22273-h.htm b/22273-h/22273-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..3ef7486 --- /dev/null +++ b/22273-h/22273-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2365 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Bulldog and Butterfly, by David Christie Murray + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +Project Gutenberg's Bulldog And Butterfly, by David Christie Murray + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Bulldog And Butterfly + From "Schwartz" by David Christie Murray + +Author: David Christie Murray + +Release Date: August 8, 2007 [EBook #22273] +Last Updated: September 16, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY *** + + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY + </h1> + <h2> + By David Christie Murray + </h2> + <h4> + Author Of ‘Aunt Rachel,’ ‘The Weaker Vessel,’ Etc. + </h4> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + Contents + </h2> + <table summary="" style="margin-right: auto; margin-left: auto"> + <tr> + <td> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> I </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV </a> + </p> + </td> + </tr> + </table> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + I + </h2> + <p> + Castle Barfield, Heydon Hey, and Beacon Hargate form the three points of a + triangle. Barfield is a parish of some pretensions; Heydon Hey is a + village; Beacon Hargate is no more than a hamlet. There is not much that + is picturesque in Beacon Hargate, or its neighbourhood. The Beacon Hill + itself is as little like a hill as it well can be, and acquires what + prominence it has by virtue of the extreme flatness of the surrounding + country. A tuft of Scotch firs upon its crest is visible from a distance + of twenty miles in some directions. A clear but sluggish stream winds + among its sedges and water-lilies round the western side of the Beacon + Hill, and washes the edge of a garden which belongs to the one survival of + the picturesque old times Beacon Hargate has to show. + </p> + <p> + The Oak House was built for a mansion in the days of Queen Elizabeth, but + who built it nobody knows at this time of day, or, excepting perhaps a + hungry-minded antiquary or two, greatly cares to know. The place had been + partly pulled down, and a good deal altered here and there. Stables, + barns, cow-sheds, and such other outhouses as are needful to a farm had + been tacked on to it, or built near it; and all these appurtenances, under + the mellowing hand of time and weather, had grown congruous, insomuch that + the Oak House if stripped of them would have looked as bare even to the + unaccustomed eye as a bird plucked of its feathers. + </p> + <p> + The house faced the stream, and turned its back upon the Beacon with its + clump of fir-trees. It had chimneys enough for a village—an + extraordinary wealth of chimneys—‘twisted, fluted, castellated, + stacked together in conclave or poised singly about the gables. The front + of the house was crossed laterally and diagonally by great beams of + black-painted oak. The windows, which are full of diamonded panes, were + lowbrowed, deep-sunken, long, and shallow. The door had a porch, and this + porch was covered with creepers. In summer time climbing roses and + honeysuckle bloomed there. The garden ran right up to the house, and + touched it all round. The fragrant sweet-william, nestling against the + walls, looked as though it were a natural fringe. Without the faintest + sense of primness, or even of orderliness, everything had an air of being + precisely where it ought to be, and conveyed somehow a suggestion of + having been there always. The house looked less as if it had been built + than as if it had grown, and this feeling was heightened by the vegetable + growth about it and upon it—the clinging ivy, the green house-leek, + the purple and golden moss on the roofs and walls. In the course of its + three hundred years the Oak House had stood long enough to be altogether + reconciled to nature, and half absorbed by it. + </p> + <p> + In 1850—which, though it seem a long while ago, is well within human + memory—and for many years before, the Oak House was tenanted by a + farmer who bore the name of Fellowes, a sturdy and dogmatic personage, who + was loud at the table of the market ordinary once a week, and for the most + part silent for the rest of his life at home. The gray mare was the better + horse. Excepting within doors at the Oak House, Fellowes ruled the hamlet. + There were no resident gentry; the clergyman was an absentee; the tiny + church was used only as a chapel-of-ease; and Fellowes was the wealthiest + and most important personage for a mile or two. He was a little disposed + to be noisy, and to bluster in his show of authority, and therefore fell + all the more easily captive to his wife, who had a gift for the tranquil + saying of unpleasant things which was reckoned quite phenomenal in Beacon + Hargate. This formidable woman was ruled in turn by her daughter Bertha. + </p> + <p> + Bertha, unless looked at through the eyes of susceptible young manhood, + would by no means be pronounced formidable. She was country-bred and quite + rustic; but there are refinements of rusticity; and for Beacon Hargate, + Bertha was a lady. She would have been a lady anywhere according to her + chances; for she was naturally sensitive to refining influences, and of a + nature which, remembering how strong it was, was curiously tender. + </p> + <p> + It was May, in the year 1850—mid-May—and the weather was + precisely what mid-May weather ought to be, perfumed and softly fresh, + with opposing hints of gaiety and languor in it. The birds were singing + everywhere—a vocal storm, and the sheep—who can never express + themselves as being satisfied in any weather—bleated disconsolately + from the meadows. The clucking of fowls, the quacking of ducks, the very + occasional grunt of some contented porker in the backward regions of the + place, the stamp of a horse’s foot, and the rattle of a chain in a + manger-ring—sounds quite unmusical in themselves—blended with + the birds’ singing, and the thick humming of the bees, into an actual + music in which no note was discordant. The day was without a cloud, and + the soft light was diffused everywhere on a skyey haze of whitish blue. + </p> + <p> + In this positively delightful weather, Bertha stood with folded hands in + the porch of the Oak House (the floor and the far wall of the kitchen + behind her patched with gleams of red and brown light), like the central + figure of a picture framed in live green. She was pretty enough to be + pleasant to look at; but her charms were mainly the growth of tranquil + good temper and sound sense. Broad brow, gray eyes, resolute little chin, + the mouth the best feature of the face, her expression thoughtful, serene, + and self-possessed, the gray eyes a trifle inclined to dream wide-awake, + hair of no particular colour, but golden in the sunlight. She stood + leaning sideways, with one shoulder touching the trellis-work of the + porch, and one pretty little foot crossed over the other, her head poised + sideways and nestled into the ivy. She was looking far away, seeing + nothing, and her folded hands drooped before her. A bridge, with a + hand-rail on either side of it, crossed the stream and led from a meadow + path to the garden. This meadow path was hidden—partly by the garden + wall, and partly by the growth of alder and pollard at the side of the + stream—and a man came marching along it, unobserved. Before he + reached the bridge he brought his footsteps to a sudden halt, and sent a + glance towards the porch. Seeing the girl there, sunk in day dreams, he + slipped back into the shelter of the withies and took a good long look at + her. Twice or thrice, though his feet did not quit the ground, he made a + faint movement to go on again, and at length, after two or three minutes + of indecision, he walked briskly to the foot of the bridge, threw open the + little gate at the end of it, and, suffering it to fall with a clanking + noise behind him, tramped across the hollow-resounding boards. + </p> + <p> + At this sudden break upon the rural stillness—for, in spite of the + chorus of the birds and the farmyard noises which mingled with it, the + general effect was somehow of stillness and solitude—the girl looked + round at the new-comer, drew herself up from her lounging attitude, placed + her hands behind her and there re-folded them, and stood waiting, with an + added flush of colour on her cheek. The new-comer strode along in a kind + of awkward resoluteness, looking straight at the girl with a glance which + appeared to embarrass her a little, though she returned it frankly enough. + </p> + <p> + ‘Here I am, you see,’ said the new-comer, halting before her. + </p> + <p> + He was tallish, well-made, and of middle age. His expression was a trifle + dogged, and for a man who came love-making he looked less prepossessing + than he himself might have wished. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good afternoon, Mr. Thistlewood,’ said the girl, in a tone which a + sensitive man might have thought purposely defensive. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is it yes or no to-day, Bertha?’ asked Mr. Thistlewood. + </p> + <p> + ‘It has always been no,’ she answered, looking down. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘I’m perfectly well aware of that. It always has been + no up till now, but that’s no reason why it should be no to-day. And if + it’s no to-day that’s no reason why it should be no again this day three + months. Maids change their minds, my dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is a pity you should waste your time, Mr. Thistlewood,’ said Bertha, + still looking down. + </p> + <p> + ‘As for wasting my time,’ returned John Thistle-wood, ‘that’s a thing as + few can charge me with as a general rule. And in this particular case, you + see, I can’t help myself. The day I see you married I shall make up my + mind to leave you alone until such time as you might happen to be a widow, + and if that should come to pass I should reckon myself free to come + again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It has always been no,’ said Bertha. ‘It is no to-day. It will always be + no.’ + </p> + <p> + The words in themselves were sufficiently decisive, and the voice, though + it had something soft and regretful in it, sounded almost as final as the + words. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s look at it a bit, my dear,’ said John Thistle-wood, grasping in + both hands the thick walking-stick he carried, and pressing it firmly + against his thighs as he leaned a little forward and looked down upon her. + ‘Why is it no? And if it’s no again to-day, why is it always going to be + no?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I like you very well, Mr. Thistlewood,’ she answered, looking up at him, + ‘but I don’t like you in a marrying way, and I never shall.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘As for never shall,’ said he, ‘that remains to be seen.’ + </p> + <p> + He straightened himself as he spoke, and releasing the walking-stick with + his left hand put the point of it softly, slowly, and strongly down upon + the gravel, dinting the ground pretty deeply with the pressure. + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s look at it a little further,’ he added. + </p> + <p> + ‘It is of no use,’ the girl answered pleadingly. ‘It hurts us both, and it + can do no good at all.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s look at it a bit further,’ he said again. ‘This day month you said + there was nobody you’d seen you liked better than me. Is that true still?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It is quite true,’ she answered, ‘but it makes no difference.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That remains to be seen,’ said John Thistlewood again. ‘And as for not + liking me in a marrying way, that’s a thing a maid can’t be supposed to + know much of.’ He waited doggedly as if to hear her deny this, but she + made no answer. ‘You’ve known me all your life, Bertha, and you never knew + anything again me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Never,’ she said, almost eagerly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m well-to-do,’ he went on stolidly, but with all his force, as if he + were pushing against a wall too heavy to be moved by any pressure he could + bring to bear against it, and yet was resolute to have it down. ‘I’m not + too old to be a reasonable match for a maid of your years. You’ve had my + heart this five years I waited two afore I spoke at all There’s a many—not + that I speak it in a bragging way—as would be willing enough to have + me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s a pity you can’t take a fancy to one of them,’ she said, with + perfect simplicity and good faith. + </p> + <p> + ‘Perhaps it is,’ answered Thistlewood, with a dogged sigh; ‘but be that as + it may, I can’t and shan’t. Where my fancy lies it stays. I didn’t give my + heart away to take it back again. You’ll wed me yet, Bertha, and when you + do you’ll be surprised to think you didn’t do it long before.’ + </p> + <p> + At this point the voice of a third person broke in upon the colloquy. + </p> + <p> + ‘That caps all!’ said the voice. ‘There’s Mr. Forbes, the Scotch gardener + at my Lord Barfield’s, tells me of a lad in his parts as prayed the Lord + for a good consate of himself. That’s a prayer as you’ll never find + occasion t’offer, John Thistlewood.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Maybe not, Mrs. Fellowes,’ answered Thistlewood, addressing the owner of + the voice, who remained invisible; ‘but I wasn’t speaking in a braggart + way.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No—no,’ returned the still invisible intruder. ‘Wast humble enough + about it, doubtless. You’m bound to tek a man’s own word about his own + feelings. Who is to know ‘em if he doesn’t?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Just so,’ said Thistlewood, with great dryness. He appeared to be little + if at all disturbed by the interruption, but Bertha was blushing like a + peony. + </p> + <p> + ‘I sat quiet,’ said the girl’s mother, leisurely walking round the door + with a half-finished gray worsted stocking depending from the + knitting-needles she carried in both hands,—’ I sat quiet so as not + to be a disturbance. It’s you for making love to a maid, I must allow, + John.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl ran into the house and disappeared from view. + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s me for speaking my mind, at least, ma’am,’ returned John, with + unaltered tranquil doggedness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ah!’ responded the farmer’s wife; ‘you’re like a good many more of ‘em; + you’d sooner not have what you want than go the right way to get it.’ + </p> + <p> + Thistlewood digested this in silence, and Mrs. Fellowes set the + knitting-needles flashing. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve always fancied,’ he said in a little while, ‘as I had your goodwill + in the matter.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve got my goodwill, in a way to be sure,’ said the old woman. ‘You’d + mek the gell a goodish husband if her could find a fancy for you—but + the fancy’s everything—don’t you see, John?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m not above taking advice, Mrs. Fellowes,’ said Thistlewood, digging at + the gravel with his walking-stick. ‘Will you be so good as to tell me + where I’m wrong?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s one particular as you’re wrong in,’ returned Mrs. Fellowes, + knitting away with a determinedly uninteresting air, ‘and, I misdoubt me, + you can’t alter it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘What’s that?’ asked Thistlewood, looking up at her suddenly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re the wrong man, John.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That remains to be seen,’ he answered, with the same dogged patience as + before. + </p> + <p> + ‘You can’t win a maid’s heart by going at her as solemn as a funeral,’ + pursued the old woman. ‘If you’d ha’ begun sprightly with the gell, you + might ha’ had a chance with her. “La!” says you, “what a pretty frock + you’re a-wearing to-day;” or “How nice you do do up your hair for a + certainty.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t look on marriage as a thing to be approached i’ that fashion,’ + said Thistlewood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ returned the old woman, clicking her needles with added rapidity, + ‘I’ve always said there’s no end to the folly o’ men. D’ye hear that there + cuckoo? Go and catch him wi’ shoutin’ at him. An’ when next you’re in want + of toast at tay-time, soak your bread in a pan o’ cold water.’ + </p> + <p> + Thistlewood stood for a time in a rather dogged-looking silence, sometimes + glancing at the notable woman and glancing away again. Her eye expressed a + triumph which, though purely dialectic, was hard for a disappointed lover + to endure, even whilst he refused to recognise his disappointment. + </p> + <p> + ‘I should regard any such means of gettin’ into a maid’s good graces as + being despisable,’ he said, after a while. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, my Christian friend,’ the farmer’s wife retorted, with a + laugh. ‘Them as mek bread without barm must look to spoil the batch.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was niver of a flatterin’ turn of mind,’ said Thistlewood. + </p> + <p> + ‘You niver was, John,’ responded Mrs. Fellowes, with an accent which + implied something beyond assent. + </p> + <p> + He flushed a little, and began to tap at his corduroyed leg with the stick + he carried, at first with a look of shamefaced discomfiture, and then with + resolution. He finished with a resounding slap, and looked up with a light + in his eyes. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m pretty hard to beat, ma’am,’ he said, ‘though I say it as should not. + I’m not going to be conquered here if I can help it. And I look to have + you and Mr. Fellowes on my side, as far as may be asked in reason. Her’ll + find no better husband than I should be to her, I <i>am</i> sure. There’s + more than a wheedlin’ tongue required to mek a married woman happy. I’ve + pretty well proved as I’m not changeable. There’s a strong arm to tek care + of her. There’s a homely house with plenty in it. There’s a goodish lump + at the bank, and there’s nothing heart can desire as her might not have by + asking for it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, John,’ said the farmer’s wife, clicking her needles cheerfully, + ‘I’ve not a word to say again the match. Win the wench and welcome. My + dancin’ days is pretty nigh over, but I’ll tek the floor once more with + pleasure, if you won’t be too long in mekin’ ready for me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s nothing more to be done at present, I suppose,’ the lover said + presently, ‘and so I’ll say good-bye for this afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes.’ + </p> + <p> + With this he turned upon his heel, and marching sturdily down the path and + across the little bridge, disappeared behind the withies and pollards. + </p> + <p> + The farmer’s wife waited a while until he was out of hearing, and then, + without turning her head, shrilled out ‘Bertha!’ The girl came silently + downstairs and joined her in the doorway. The mother pursued her knitting + in silence, a faint flicker of a humorous smile touching her face and eyes + now and again. At length she spoke, looking straight before her. + </p> + <p> + ‘Why woot’ent marry the man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr. Thistlewood?’ asked Bertha, making the feeblest possible defence + against this direct attack. + </p> + <p> + ‘Ay,’ said her mother, ‘Mr. Thistlewood to be sure. Why woot’ent marry + him?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I like him well enough in a way,’ the girl answered ‘But I don’t like him + that way! + </p> + <p> + ‘What way?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why—in a marrying way,’ said Bertha. + </p> + <p> + ‘Pooh!’ answered the notable woman. ‘What’s a maid know how she’d like a + man?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should have the greatest respect for him,’ Bertha answered, wisely + avoiding the discussion of this question, ‘if he wouldn’t come bothering + me to marry him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Ay! ‘said her mother, assenting with a philosophic air. ‘That’s a wench’s + way. When a man wants nothing her’ll give him as much as her can spare. + But look hither, my gell! You listen to the words of a old experienced + woman. There’s a better love comes after the weddin’, if a gell marries a + worthy solid man, than ever her knows before it. If a gell averts from a + man that’s another matter. But if her can abide him to begin with, and if + he’s a good man, her’ll be fond of him before her knows it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I should never be fond of Mr. Thistlewood, mother,’ the girl answered, + flushing hotly. ‘It’s of no use to speak about him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Did the man ever mek love to you at all,’ the mother asked, ‘beyond + comin’ here and barkin’, “Wool’t marry me?”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I wish you wouldn’t talk of him, mother,’ Bertha answered in a troubled + voice. ‘I respect him very highly, but as for marrying him, it’s out of + the question. I can’t do it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well, well,’ returned her mother, ‘nobody’s askin’ you to do anything o’ + the sort. I’m trying to find your mind about him. It’s high time ‘twas + made up one way or other. You’ve come to a marriageable age.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m very well as I am,’ said Bertha, rather hastily. ‘I’m not in a hurry + to be married.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You’ve never been much like other gells,’ said her mother, with a dry + humorous twinkle which looked more masculine than feminine. ‘But I reckon + you’ll be in about as much of a hurry as the rest on ‘em be when the right + man comes.’ + </p> + <p> + At this moment a whistle of peculiar volume, mellowness, and flexibility + was heard. The whistler was trilling ‘Come lasses and lads’ in tones as + delightful as a blackbird’s. + </p> + <p> + ‘Is this him?’ said the old woman, turning upon her daughter. + </p> + <p> + Bertha blushed, and turned away. The mother laughed. A light footstep + sounded on the echoing boards of the little bridge, and the human + blackbird, marching gaily in time to his tune, flourished a walking-stick + in salutation as he approached. + </p> + <p> + ‘Good-afternoon, Mrs. Fellowes,’ cried the newcomer. ‘Good-afternoon, <i>Miss</i> + Fellowes.’ + </p> + <p> + They both returned his salutation, and he stood before them smilingly, + holding his stick lightly by the middle, and swinging it hither and + thither, as if keeping time to an inward silent tune. His feet were + planted a little apart, he carried his head well back, and his figure was + very alert and lithe. He made great use of his lips in talking, and + whatever he said seemed a little overdone in emphasis. His expression was + eager, amiable, and sensitive, and it changed like the complexion of water + in variable weather. He was a bit of a dandy in his way, too. His clothes + showed his slim and elastic figure to the best advantage, and a + bright-coloured neckerchief with loose flying ends helped out a certain + air of festal rural opera which belonged to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I passed Thistlewood on my way here,’ he said, laughing brightly. ‘He + looked as cheerful as a frog. Did y’ ever notice what a cheerful-looking + thing a frog is?’ + </p> + <p> + He made a face ludicrously like the creature he mentioned. The old woman + laughed outright, and Bertha smiled, though somewhat unwillingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t like to hear Mr. Thistlewood made game of, Mr. Protheroe,’ she + said a moment later. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t you, Miss Fellowes?’ asked Mr. Protheroe. ‘Then it shan’t be done + in your presence again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That means it may be done out of my presence, I suppose,’ the girl said + coldly. + </p> + <p> + ‘No, nor out of it,’ said the young fellow, bowing with something of a + flourish, ‘if it displeases you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Come in, Lane, my lad,’ said the mother, genially. ‘I’ve got the poultry + to look after at this hour. Bertha ‘ll tek care of you till I come back + again.’ + </p> + <p> + Lane Protheroe bowed again with the same gay flourish, and recovering + himself from the bow with an upward swing of the head, followed the + women-folk into the wide kitchen as if he had been crossing the floor in a + minuet. If these airs of his had been assumed they would have touched the + ridiculous, but they were altogether natural to him; and what with them + and his smiling, changeful, sympathetic ways, he was a prime favourite, + and seemed to carry sunshine into all sorts of company. + </p> + <p> + When the mother had left the kitchen the girl seated herself considerably + apart from the visitor, and taking up a book from a dresser beside her, + began to turn over its pages, stopping now and again to read a line or + two, and rather ostentatiously disregarding her companion. He sat in + silence, regarding her with a grave face for a minute or thereabouts, and + then, rising, crossed the room and placed himself beside her, bending over + her, with one hand resting on the dresser. She did not look up in answer + to this movement, but bent her head even a little more than before above + the book. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m glad to be left alone with you for a minute, Miss Fellowes,’ he began + gently, and with a faint tremor and hesitation in his voice, ‘because I’ve + something very special and particular to say to you.’ + </p> + <p> + There he paused, and Bertha with a slight cough, which was a trifle too + casual and unembarrassed to be real, said, ‘Indeed, Mr. Protheroe?’ and + kept her eyes upon the book. + </p> + <p> + ‘They say a girl always knows,’ he went on, ‘and if that’s true you know + already what I want to say.’ + </p> + <p> + He paused, but if he expected any help from her in the way either of + assent or denial, he was disappointed. He stooped a little lower and + touched her hand with a gentle timidity, but she at once withdrew it. + </p> + <p> + ‘You know I love you, Bertha? You know you’re dearer to me than all the + whole wide world beside?’ + </p> + <p> + Still Bertha said nothing, but the hand that turned the leaves of the book + trembled perceptibly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve come to ask you if you’ll be my wife, dear! if you’ll let me make + you my lifelong care and joy, my darling! You don’t guess how much I love + you. You don’t know how much your answer means to me.’ + </p> + <p> + The girl rose, and, carrying the book with her, walked to the kitchen + window and looked out upon the garden, the river, and the fields, without + seeing anything. She was evidently agitated, and did not find an answer + easily. Lane followed her, and when for a moment she dared to look up at + him she encountered a look so tender, anxious, and ardent that she lowered + her eyes in quick confusion. He seized her hand, and for a brief instant + she let it rest in his. + </p> + <p> + ‘Speak to me,’ he murmured, caressingly and pleadingly. ‘Tell me.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t understand you, Mr. Protheroe,’ the girl said pantingly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Not understand me, dear? ‘he whispered; ‘I am asking you to be my wife.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I understand that,’ she answered, drawing herself away from him, and + speaking with difficulty. ‘It is <i>you</i> I don’t understand. You—yourself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me how, darling,’ he said softly. + </p> + <p> + ‘You tell me,’ she said, lifting a pale and agitated face, ‘that I can’t + guess how much my answer means to you. But you come here whistling and + dancing, as you always come, as if you hadn’t a care upon your mind.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t make that a reproach against me, dear,’ said he. ‘Why it was just + the thought of you made me so happy.’ + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with an expression of doubt and pain, and as their + eyes met he caught one of her hands in both his, and held it. + </p> + <p> + ‘Dear Bertha!’ he said, with a sudden moisture in his eyes. ‘There is + nobody so good. There is nobody so lovely.’ + </p> + <p> + She drew away from him again, though some sort of electric influence + seemed to come out of him, and draw her strongly to him. + </p> + <p> + ‘I must wait,’ she said. ‘I—I don’t know you well enough. I don’t + understand you. You are too light. You are too careless. I don’t know how + far I can believe you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ he cried, ‘believe me altogether, dear. I love you with all my heart + and soul!’ + </p> + <p> + She moved to the middle of the room, and sheltered herself behind a table + which stood there. + </p> + <p> + ‘I hardly know whether you have a heart,’ she answered then. ‘You fancy + you feel all you say,’ she added quickly. ‘You feel it for the minute.’ + </p> + <p> + He stood at the other side of the table with brows suddenly grown gloomy. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall feel it all my life,’ he said. ‘It’s the one thing I’ve ever been + in earnest about. I never thought I should feel as I do. If you like to + wait, dear, before answering me, I’ll wait just as long as ever you + please.’ His gloom was gone, and he was all eagerness and vivacity again. + ‘There’s nothing I won’t do for your asking. I’ll cure every fault I’ve + got. I’ll be everything you’d like to have me. Try me, darling. Wait and + see. But give me only just a little bit of hope. Don’t send me away quite + hungry. Tell me you care for me just a little—not as I care for you—I + don’t expect that. It doesn’t stand to reason yet awhile you should.’ + </p> + <p> + There she shot one swift glance at him, averting her gaze at once. + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t say I don’t like you,’ she answered with a candour half rustic, + half characteristic of herself ‘But I won’t answer yes or no just yet.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well, dear,’ he answered tenderly. ‘You shall have time to know if + I’m in earnest, or if I’ve taken nothing more than a passing fancy. Shall + I ask you again this day six months?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I won’t promise you an answer then,’ she said. ‘I will answer you when I + am certain.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You could care for me, then,’ he urged her, ‘if you were only quite sure + I loved you, and always would love you? Why, Bertha, I’d put my hand in + that fire to save you from a finger-ache. I’d jump into the Weale there if + I thought I could make you happy by doing it. I’d live my whole life your + servant for a smile a year.’ + </p> + <p> + His eyes flashed or moistened with every phrase, his gestures were + superabundant and intense, and his voice was genuinely tender and + impassioned. + </p> + <p> + His ardent eyes and voice thrilled the girl, and yet she doubted him. + There was a fear in her mind which she could not shake away. + </p> + <p> + People in Beacon Hargate were not rich in opportunities for the study of + the acted drama, but Bertha had seen a play or two in the great town hard + by, and Lane looked and talked rather too much like a stage lover to her + mind. In the unreal life behind the footlights lovers talked with just + such a fluency, just such a tender fiery emphasis. In real life John + Thistlewood came doggedly a-wooing with a shoulder propped against a + doorpost, and had hard work to find a word for himself. If only that one + absent element of faith could be imported into the business, Lane + Protheroe’s fashion of courting was certain to be infinitely more + delightful than John Thistlewood’s, but then the absent element was almost + everything. And for poor Bertha the worst part of it seemed that she loved + the man she doubted, and could not love the man in whose affection she + held the profoundest faith. That the rough, clumsy, and persistent + courtier loved her was one of the indisputable facts of life to her. She + knew it just as surely as she knew that she was alive. She knew it, and + the knowledge hurt her, for she could fancy nothing less hopeful than + Thistle-wood’s wooing, and she was without a spark of mere vanity. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it is because you say so much that I don’t feel quite able to + believe it all,’ she said. ‘You feel it when you talk about it, but it + seems to me as if you <i>had</i> to talk before you get to feel it.’ + </p> + <p> + His brows bent down over gloomy eyes again, and he folded his arms as he + looked at her. Once more poor Bertha thought of the stage lover she had + seen, and a long-drawn sigh escaped her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can’t think it’s all quite real,’ she said, almost desperately. + </p> + <p> + ‘You think I say too much?’ he retorted. ‘It seems to me as if I said too + little. It seems to me as if there weren’t any words to speak such + thoughts and feelings.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Is that because you don’t value the words? ‘she .’ asked him. ‘Don’t you + think that if you felt what the words do mean that they’d seem enough for + you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I know I’m a good-for-nothing beggar,’ he answered, with a sudden air of + weary self-loathing and disdain. ‘I know. I’ve got a way of taking + everything in deadly earnest for an hour or two. But,’ with a sudden + swerve into the track of self-justification, ‘if that makes you think I’m + fickle and weak-willed, you’re all wrong, darling. There are some fellows—I + know plenty—who go through life like a lot of oysters. They don’t + feel anything—they don’t care about anything, or anybody. But, bless + your heart, my dear, they never get doubted.’ + </p> + <p> + Bertha took this for a satiric dig at the absent Thistlewood, and spoke up + for him, needlessly, as it happened. + </p> + <p> + ‘Still waters run deep, Mr. Protheroe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Some of ‘em do,’ responded Mr. Protheroe, with profoundest gloom, which + lightened suddenly into a smile as bright as sunshine. ‘But some of ‘em + don’t run at all. And some of ‘em are as shallow as any puddle you’ll find + along the road, only they’re so bemuddled you can’t see to the bottom of + ‘em. You can plumb ‘em with your little finger, though, if you don’t mind + soiling it.’ + </p> + <p> + Now this innocent generalisation seemed gratuitously offensive to the + absent Thistlewood, and chilled Bertha greatly. + </p> + <p> + ‘That may be very true of some people,’ she responded; ‘but it isn’t true + of all the quiet people in the world.. And I don’t think, Mr. Protheroe, + that the people who make the greatest parade of their feelings are the + people who really have the most to speak of.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, that’s true, too, of some people,’ returned Protheroe; ‘but there + are all sorts in the world, dear. Some say a lot and feel a lot Some feel + a lot and say nothing. Some say nothing and feel nothing. It may be a + fault with me—I don’t know—but when I start to say a thing I + want to say all of it. But surely a feeling isn’t less real because you + don’t seem able to express it whatever words you choose.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where the feeling’s sacred the words are sacred,’ Bertha objected. + </p> + <p> + ‘Tell me what it is you fear about me,’ he besought her, leaning across + the table, and searching her face with his eyes. ‘You don’t believe I + should have a wandering mind if you said yes, and we should once be + married?’ + </p> + <p> + She had laid the book upon the table, and now betook herself to fingering + the leaves again. + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve no right to pick faults in you, or give you lessons, Mr. Protheroe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh yes, you have,’ he answered. ‘All the right in the world. If you’ll + take in hand to show me my faults, I’ll take in hand to cure ‘em so far as + a man may.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think you’re fickle,’ said the girl hesitatingly; ‘but I do think + you’re shallow, Mr. Protheroe.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not a bit of it, dear,’ he protested. ‘I’m as deep as Gamck. As for your + still waters running deep, it’d be a better proverb to my mind to say deep + waters run still—at times. Niagara’s deepish, folks say that have + seen it. That’s not to say that I even myself with Niagara, you’ll + understand, though ‘tis in my nature to splash about a good deal. But all + that apart, Bertha dear, try to make up your mind to take me as I am, and + help me to make a man o’ myself.’ + </p> + <p> + At this point back came the farmer’s wife with a clatter of pails in the + back kitchen to indicate her arrival in advance. Lane took his leave with + a reluctant air, going away much more gravely than he had arrived. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Mrs. Fellowes, drawing her knitting from a capacious pocket + and falling to work upon it at once, ‘hast sent Number Two about his + business?’ + </p> + <p> + Bertha cast an embarrassed look at her and blushed. + </p> + <p> + ‘Mother,’ she said, ‘you seem to find out everything.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Can find my way to the parish church by daylight,’ the elder woman + answered with complacency. ‘But you tek care, my wench, whilst thee beest + throwin’ all the straight sticks aside, as thee doesn’t pick up a crooked + ‘un at the last. Thee hast a fancy for the lad, too, that’s as plain to be + seen as the Beacon.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh!’ cried Bertha, reddening again. ‘I hope not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘For me, my gell,’ said her mother. ‘For me. And it’s outside my thinkin’ + why a maid shouldn’t tek a fancy to him. A lad as is stiddy an’ handsome, + and as blithe as sunshine! He’s as fond as a calf into the bargain.’ + </p> + <p> + She liked to hear him praised, and, woman-like, began to depreciate him + faintly. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t think he’s very solid, mother,’ she said. + </p> + <p> + The elder woman smiled at the transparent artifice, and refused to be + entrapped by it. + </p> + <p> + ‘No,’ she answered. ‘Lane’s a bit of a butterfly, I will say. And Jack + Thistlewood’s a bulldog. Mek your ch’ice betwixt ‘em while they’m there to + be chose from. Which is it to be? Butterfly or bulldog?’ + </p> + <p> + But Bertha answered nothing. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + II + </h2> + <p> + Things may have changed of late years, but in those days the parish + churchyard was the great meeting-place for lovers who as yet were + undeclared or unaccepted. The youth and the maid were both there for a + purpose altogether removed from love-making—the meeting had the + advantage of being accidental and certain. It was a tacit assignation + which was almost certain to be kept, and even the shyest of sweethearts + would dare to walk homewards together a little of the way even in the + lightest of summer evenings. + </p> + <p> + When Sunday morning came, and the one musical bell began to tinkle, Bertha + stood before her open bedroom window, tying her bonnet-ribbons at the + glass, in the embarrassing certainty that both her lovers would be waiting + outside the church to meet her. This certainty was the less to be endured, + because Bertha had the sincerest desire to close with heavenly rather than + with earthly meditations on a Sunday, but she could no more help being + flustered by the thought of Lane Protheroe, and being chilled by the + anticipation of Thistlewood’s look of bulldog fidelity, than she could + help breathing. The girl’s trouble was that she could not give her heart + to the man who commanded her respect, whilst it was drawn fluttering with + all manner of electric palpitations towards another whom she thought + infinitely less worthy. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing in the world against Lane Protheroe in any serious + sense. Nobody spoke or thought ill of him, or had ground for ill speaking + or thinking. But it was generally conceded that he <i>was</i> a butterfly + kind of young fellow, and there was a general opinion that he wanted + ballast. Rural human nature is full of candour of a sort, and Lane was + accustomed to criticism. He took it with a bright carelessness, and in + respect to the charge of wanting ballast was apt to answer that ballast + was a necessary thing for boats that carried no cargo. Thistlewood was + generally admitted to be a well-ballasted personage—a man steady, + resolved, serious, entirely trustworthy. + </p> + <p> + ‘John Thistlewood’s word is as good as his bond,’ said one of his admirers + one day in his presence. + </p> + <p> + ‘John Thistlewood’s word <i>is</i> his bond,’ said John Thistlewood, ‘as + any man’s ought to be.’ + </p> + <p> + People remembered the saying, and quoted it as being characteristic of the + man,—a man cut roughly out of the very granite of fidelity. + </p> + <p> + Surely, thought Bertha, a girl ought to esteem herself happy in being + singled out by such a man. The cold surface covered so steady, so lasting + a glow. And as for Lane—well, Lane’s heats seemed the merest + flashes, intense enough to heat what was near them, but by no means + enduring. There was danger that anything which was of a nature to keep on + burning might catch fire at him, and when well lit might find that the + creating heat had gone out, or had withdrawn itself. She knew herself, by + instinct, faithful to the core, and if once she consented to love the man, + she would have to go on doing it. That looked likely to be terrible, and + she fought against herself continually. And she not only tried not to love + the butterfly, but had tried her loyal hardest to love the bulldog. The + last chance of success in the second enterprise went out finally when + Thistlewood had once so far conquered his clumsy reticence of manner as + actually to put his arm about her waist. Then every fibre of her body + cried out against him, and she escaped him, shivering and thrilling with a + repulsion so strong that it seemed like a crime to her. How dared she feel + the touch of so estimable a man to be so hateful? But from that moment the + thing was settled beyond a doubt. She could respect John Thistlewood, she + could admire the solidity and faithfulness of his character—but, + marry him? That was asking for more than nature could agree to. + </p> + <p> + If Lane had only resembled John a little—ah! there was a glow of + certainty called up by that fancy which might have been altogether + delicious had the fancy been well grounded. If John had only been a little + more like Lane? She was hardly so sure. Obviously, John was not the man + for this girl to warm her heart at. + </p> + <p> + The worst of it was that he would never find or look for another girl, and + his long courtship, though it could never endear him, or even make him + tolerable as a lover, served at least to have established a sort of claim + upon her. The great faithful heart might break if she should throw herself + away. The depth of his affection, as she realised it for herself, could + only be understood by one capable of an equal passion. She never guessed, + or came near to guessing, that her conception of him was the realisation + of herself; but it is only great hearts which truly know what great hearts + can be, and her profound conception of Thistle-wood’s fidelity was her own + best certificate to faithfulness. + </p> + <p> + The little musical bell went on tinkling as she walked across the fields. + It had various rates of movement to indicate to distant worshippers the + progress of the time, and she gave a careful ear to its warnings, so + regulating her steps as only to enter the churchyard at the last minute. + </p> + <p> + There sure enough were both John and Lane waiting to pay their morning + salutation. Happily, to her own mind, there was time for no more than a + mere hand-shaking and a good-morning, and she walked into the church, + beautifully tranquil to look at, though she could hardly believe that all + the congregation could not guess with what a startled feeling her heart + had begun to beat. By and by the influences of the place and the service + began to soothe her, though she only succeeded in excluding her lovers by + a conscious process of forgetfulness which was not so far removed from + memory as it might have been. + </p> + <p> + The Thistlewood pew was a little to the front on her right, and the + Protheroe pew a little to her front on the left, but she kept her eyes so + studiously downcast that she got no glimpse of either, until a strange and + altogether remarkable feeling of something missing surprised her into + looking up. Her eyes went first to the Protheroe pew, and Lane was not + there. Then in spite of herself she listened for Thistlewood’s voice in + the Responses, and not detecting it, was impelled to look for him. He also + was absent, and she began to quake a little. Was it possible they had + stayed outside to quarrel? This fear would have been sufficiently serious + at any time, but on a Sunday, during church hours, it magnified itself, + which fact is in itself enough to prove that though the idea perturbed her + she foresaw no very terrible consequences. It would be hateful to be + quarrelled over, but both the combatants—if combatants they were to + be—would respect her too much to proceed to extremities, and thereby + make the quarrel public, and her a target for all tongues. + </p> + <p> + John and Lane had met in the churchyard pretty early, and whilst there + were friends to greet, and to pass the time of day with, things went + smoothly enough. But as the churchgoers filed by ones and twos into the + building, each began to be aware of a solitude which was peopled only by + the disagreeable presence of the other. John, ostentatiously disregardful + of his adversary, planted himself at the gate, so as to be before him in + his greeting. Lane, rather unusually erect and martial in his walk, + marched past him into the village roadway, and there loitered for the same + intent. Thistlewood, recognising the meaning of this manouvre, strolled + into the roadway, and doggedly planted himself a yard or two beyond the + spot where his rival had halted. Lane, with an air to the full as + ostentatiously and offensively dis-regardful as the other’s, marched past + Thistlewood with half a dozen soldierly-looking strides, and bringing + himself to an abrupt halt made a disdainful back at him. Again Thistlewood + advanced, but this time he drew himself up a trifle behind his rival, and + laid a finger on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well?’ said Protheroe, without turning his head. + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall want a word with thee by and by, my lad,’ Thistlewood said + quietly. + </p> + <p> + ‘Have it now,’ replied Lane, settling his shoulders jauntily. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s time in plenty afore us,’ Thistlewood answered, regarding him + with supreme disfavour. + </p> + <p> + The younger man looked straight before him with an exasperating aspect of + indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘When you like,’ he said. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ replied Thistlewood. ‘In five minutes’ time from now.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Church time,’ said Lane smilingly, surveying the landscape. + </p> + <p> + ‘Beest that keen set on the sermon?’ John inquired. + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t know that I am,’ replied the enemy, rising a little on his toes, + and then settling his shoulders anew. + </p> + <p> + ‘Five minutes’ time from now.’ + </p> + <p> + The jaunty airs and scornful disregard began to warm Thistlewood’s blood a + little. + </p> + <p> + ‘Canst look a man i’ the face when thee talk’st to him? ‘he asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘Yes, bless your heart and soul alive!’ cried Lane, swaggering round and + beaming on him. + </p> + <p> + For half a minute they looked at each other, the one angry, resolute, and + lowering, with head bent a little forward, his glance directed upward past + his down-drawn brows, the other smiling with seeming sweetness and gaiety. + </p> + <p> + Thistlewood seemed to restrain himself with something of an effort. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll talk together by and by,’ he said, and turning, deliberately walked + back into the churchyard. + </p> + <p> + For a few seconds Lane stood glorying, but on a sudden it occurred to him + that his rival was behaving in a more dignified manner than himself, and + this was a reflection not to be endured without instant action. So he + marched back into the churchyard also, and left John in the foreground. + When Bertha appeared her elder lover paid his respects first, and Lane + came up afterwards, looking, as she remembered later on, prodigiously + gloomy and resolved. + </p> + <p> + The bell had been silent for a minute, and the curate’s voice had begun to + drone within the building. The rivals were alone, and nobody was within + sight or earshot. + </p> + <p> + ‘Shall we walk a pace or two, Mr. Protheroe?’ asked John. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Protheroe, without speaking, sauntered out at the gate, vaulted a + stile opposite, and paused in a field pathway. Thistlewood followed, + throwing first one leg and then the other over the rail with a sort of + laboured deliberation. + </p> + <p> + ‘Now,’ said Lane. + </p> + <p> + ‘We’ll walk on a little bit,’ answered Thistlewood, and there was silence + for a minute or two as they strode along the grass. Then when they had + reached the shelter of a little copse which hid them from the whole + landscape on the church side, John said, ‘Now,’ in turn, and the two + halted. Each was paler than common by this time, and Lane’s eyes sparkled, + whilst the other’s burned steady with resentment. + </p> + <p> + ‘’Twixt man and man as is willing to come to understand one another, Mr. + Protheroe,’ said Thistlewood, ‘a very few words suffices. I’ll have thee + nor no man else poaching on my manor.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ Lane answered, ‘if ever I should arrive at owning a manor, I’d say + the same. But I’d be sure of my title-deeds afore I took to warning other + men off the ground.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Let’s talk plain English,’ said John, apparently quite untouched by this + rejoinder. + </p> + <p> + ‘With all my heart,’ said his rival, ‘the plainer the better.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I find you very much i’ my way,’ Thistlewood began ponderously. + </p> + <p> + ‘I don’t find you a little bit in mine,’ Lane answered. + </p> + <p> + ‘You talk to sting,’ said Thistlewood, with dull dignity. ‘I want to talk + so as to be understood. I find you very much i’ my way, as I was saying, + and I won’t have you theer.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘No!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And how do you mean to set about getting rid of me?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’ve set about harder jobs than that i’ <i>my</i> time, lad.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Like enough. But how do you mean to set about this one?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘All in good time,’ said Thistlewood. ‘Sha’st find out speedily.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Show me now,’ said Lane. + </p> + <p> + A breach of the peace seemed imminent, but, ‘Afore thee and me comes to + that,’ the elder answered, ‘I want thee to have fair warnin’. It’s + unbecomin’ in a man to brawl over the maid he wants to marry—— + I’m a man as never changed nor halted nor turned aside from anything he + set his mind upon. I’ve been courtin’ Miss Fellowes now this three year. + It stands to reason as a frivolish young chap like you can mek no count of + how a man feels, or of what a man ‘ud do in a like case.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That stands to reason, does it?’ ‘It stands to reason,’ answered + Thistlewood. ‘I suppose it stands to reason likewise that I am to stand to + one side, and leave the road clear after this?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’d be the wisest thing you ever did.’ ‘Well, now, Thistlewood, you’ll + please understand that, for all so frivolous as I may be, I’m hardly that + easy to be swayed. As for who has a right on the ground, it’s a mere piece + of impudence to talk about it. That’s neither for me nor you to choose. If + ever I get straight “No” I’ll go, but I’ll have it before I go, for that’s + a man’s bounden duty to himself.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Understand thyself as bein’ warned away,’ said Thistlewood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Understand thy warning as being laughed at,’ answered Lane. ‘You talk + plain English? So will I. You’ve got the wrong pig by the ear. You’re no + better than a dog in the manger. You’ve always been spoken of up till now + as a man to play fair, but now it strikes me you play very far from fair, + and cut a poor figure. As for threats—a man who won’t take a hiding + when it’s offered to him—what’s <i>he</i> good for, I should like to + know?’ + </p> + <p> + Here, as elsewhere, Mr. Protheroe was true to nature, and spoke with + striking emphasis. He was quite red-hot with scorn at the imaginary fellow + who would not take the proffered hiding, though a minute earlier, when he + had told Thistlewood that he had the wrong pig by the ear, his manner had + been marked by a cold and lofty superiority. + </p> + <p> + ‘Beest warned! ‘said Thistlewood, ‘that’s enough.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Not half enough, nor yet a quarter,’ cried Lane, with a bellicose air, + not unmixed with swagger. ‘I’ve taught my hands to take care of my head, + sir, and they’ll be ready to do it whenever the time occurs. But it always + seemed a bit ridiculous to me to talk about fighting beforehand When the + fight’s over there <i>is</i> something to talk about.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You seem to be in a hurry for that there hiding,’ said Thistlewood. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hurry’s no word for it,’ the younger man responded, with cheerful + alacrity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Very well,’ said the elder, taking off his hat and bestowing it carefully + upon the grass, ‘sha’st have it.’ + </p> + <p> + Lane, for his part, threw down his hat, flourished his coat off, dropped + it behind him, rolled up his sleeves, and waited whilst Thistlewood made + his preparations more slowly. Protheroe set that mellow whistle of his to + work on ‘The British Grenadiers,’ and his enemy smiled grimly to think how + soon he would silence the music. + </p> + <p> + Half a minute later they were standing foot to foot and eye to eye, the + music already silenced. It would have been difficult from the mere aspect + of the men to say on which side the advantage lay. In height and reach + they were nearly equal, and, if Thistlewood’s weight and muscle were in + his favour, Protheroe was as active as a cat. + </p> + <p> + And here might have been recorded a bit of history to warm the blood of + such as love and remember the old-fashioned manhood of England. We are + grown too refined and civilised nowadays for the old rude arbitrament, and + so fair play has ceased to be the Englishman’s motto in fighting, and the + English rustic shoots and stabs like the rustic of other lands. All + fighting is foolish, more or less, but we had the manliest, friendliest, + most honourable, and least harmful way of doing it amongst all the sons of + men, and so our Legislature killed out the ‘noble art’ from amongst us, + and brought us to the general ugly level. + </p> + <p> + It was in the reign of the Tipton Slasher—which, as people learned + in the history of manners will remember, was a longish time ago—when + these two Britons stood up to arrange their differences after the fashion + then in vogue. There was nobody to see fair play, and so they saw it for + themselves, as all fighting Englishmen did when there was a code of honour + to go by. It was not a mere affair of hammer and tongs, but very fair + scientific fighting, the science vivified by enjoyment, and full of + energy, but never forgotten for a second. The pleasure was keen on both + sides, for from the beginning of their knowledge of each other these two + had been in antagonism, and at the last it was a real treat to let all go + and have at it. + </p> + <p> + ‘I was always a bit frivolous, as you said just now, Mr. Thistlewood,’ + Lane remarked in the first enforced pause of the combat, ‘but I’d like you + to bear me witness that I stick to what I’m at while I’m at it.’ + </p> + <p> + This address was delivered pantingly, whilst the speaker lay flat upon his + back on the grass, with his arms thrown out crosswise. Thistlewood + disdained response, and sat with one great shoulder propped against a + dwarf oak, breathing fast and hard. When this sign of distress had a + little abated, he arose, and said ‘Time’ as if he had been a mere + cornerman in the affair, and rather bored by it than otherwise. Lane + rolled over on to his face, rose to his hands and knees, smiled at his + adversary for a little while, as if to give him an appetite for the + business in hand, and then got to his feet and made ready. + </p> + <p> + Now for a man to hold his own at this particular form of fighting against + an equal adversary for a bare five minutes argues five grand things for + him, and these are chastity, temperance, hardihood, strength, and courage. + It speaks well for these admirable qualities in both of them that Messrs. + Thistlewood and Protheroe made a good hour of it. The advantages and + disadvantages had been so equally distributed that by this time they were + pretty nearly harmless to each other, but each was sustained by the hope + of victory, and each would have died, and, for the matter of that, would + have gone on dying, rather than yield the precious palm to the other. + </p> + <p> + Now the clergyman who ministered to the spiritual wants of Beacon Hargate + was never disposed to gorge his flock with too much doctrine at a time, + and on this Sabbath had an invitation to luncheon at a great house some + four or five miles away, and so treated his parishioners—to the + scandal of some and the joy of others—to the shortest discourse they + had ever heard from the pulpit. By this mischance it happened that the + combatants were discovered by a silent male advance-guard of the + home-returning congregation, who ran back—his footsteps soundless on + the grass—to spread the splendid news. Sunday or week-day there was + no more welcome break in the monotony of life in Beacon Hargate than that + afforded by a fight. The time being church-time, and the combatants men of + respectable position, lent piquancy to the event, of course, as who shall + say me nay? The churchgoers, two or three farmers, Mr. Drake, the manager + of Lord Barfield’s estates at Heydon Hey, and a handful of labourers came + up, at first stealthily, and then more boldly, and looked on at the + finish. + </p> + <p> + It was plain that the fight had been severe, but it was equally plain that + the best of it was over; and when Farmer Fellowes interposed as <i>amicus + curio</i>, nobody but the two most concerned had any especial resentment + against him. + </p> + <p> + Even for them Farmer Fellowes had a crumb of comfort. + </p> + <p> + ‘Finish it another time, lads,’ he said. ‘Where’s the good o’ goin’ on wi’ + it i’ this manner? Why a child might homber the pair on you. Get fresh an’ + have another turn to-morrow, if the ‘casion’s worth it.’ + </p> + <p> + So the fight was left undecided after all, and the adversaries were led + off to the neighbouring brook, where they made themselves as respectable + to look at as they could before they took their several ways. They were + unsightly for a week or two, and were close watched by their women folk + lest they should renew the strife. + </p> + <p> + Beacon Hargate knew perfectly well the reason of the battle, and Bertha + was mightily disdainful and indignant over both her lovers, who, to her + fancy, had disgraced themselves and her. Six days after the fight John + Thistlewood’s business for once in a way, as well as his inclination, took + him to Fellowes’s farm, and there Bertha (who for very shame had not + quitted the house since Sunday) first saw the result of the fray. The + stalwart farmer’s face was discoloured, and, in places, still swollen. She + saw the wicked handiwork of Lane Protheroe, and vowed within herself that + she would see that dreadful young man no more. She could have cried for + pity of poor Mr. Thistlewood, who had been thus shamefully treated for the + crime of being faithful in love. + </p> + <p> + If John had known it, he had at this instant the best chance of being + taken as Bertha’s husband he had ever had, or was like to find. But he was + shamefaced about the matter, as heroes not uncommonly are with regard to + their achievements, and was disposed to think himself at an even unusual + disadvantage. + </p> + <p> + Bertha stifled in her heart whatever tender sentiments Protheroe had + inspired, and was prepared to pass him whenever she might meet him with + such a manner as should indicate her new opinion of him beyond chance of + mistake. Thistlewood had appeared on the Saturday, and on the Monday the + fates threw her younger lover in her way. She discerned him from a + distance, herself unseen. His figure dipped down into the hollow, and she + could not see him again until they met at some turning or other of the + tortuous lane. If pride had not forbidden it she could have turned to fly + homewards, but she hardened her heart and went on until his footsteps + sounded clearly on the stony road. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned the corner, and she lifted one glance of superb disdain + which melted suddenly under a terror-stricken pity. For this hero was + worse battered than Number One had been, and one of those eyes, which had + used to be so expressive and eloquent, was decorated by a shade. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, Lane!’ cried the girl, clasping her hands, and turning white with + pity. + </p> + <p> + ‘Did I frighten you, my dear?’ said Lane. ‘It’s nothing. It’ll all be + right in a day or two.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I hope so,’ she answered, recovering herself, and seizing on principle + before it made away for ever. ‘I wish you to know that I think you have + behaved very disgracefully, and I hope you will never speak to me again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why,’ said Lane, ‘that’s hard measure, Bertha; and as for behaving + disgracefully—if a man threatens to punch your head you must give + him the chance to punch it. That’s man’s law, anyhow, whether it’s woman’s + or not.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I am sure Mr. Thistlewood is no quarreller,’ said Bertha, with great + dignity and severity of demeanour. ‘It takes no great penetration to guess + who began it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s one thing I will say for him,’ returned Lane; ‘he’s a + truth-telling fellow, to the best of my belief. Ask him who began it. + He’ll tell you. Not that I should take any particular blame or shame for + having begun it myself, but since that’s how you look at it, dear—why, + I should like you to be satisfied.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Do you think, Mr. Protheroe,’ demanded Bertha, ‘that it’s the way to win + a girl’s esteem to brawl about her in public on a Sunday?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s what Thistlewood said,’ Lane answered, with cunning simplicity. + ‘“It’s unbecoming,” said he, “in a man to brawl over the maid he wants to + marry.”’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I was certain he would say so, and think so,’ returned Bertha, with a + sinking of the heart. She wanted grounds for pardoning Lane. + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Lane, with a retrospective air, ‘we talked for a while, and + he was good enough to promise me a hiding if I didn’t keep out of his way—meaning, + of course, at your father’s house. I didn’t seem to take it quite so + meekly as he thought I ought to, and by and by says he, “You seem to be in + a hurry for that hiding.” So I just made answer that hurry was no word for + it, and then, the pair of us being keen set, we got to it. The day was an + accident, and I daresay a piece of forgetfulness on both our sides. But + you see, my dear, a man’s just as bound to guard his self-respect on a + Sunday as on a week-day.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have been very deeply wounded,’ said Bertha. ‘I wished to respect you + both, and now I can respect neither of you. Good-morning, Mr. Protheroe.’ + </p> + <p> + Mr. Protheroe stood discomfited, and looked mournfully after her as she + walked away. When she had disappeared round the bend of the road he sat + down upon the bank and plucked grasses with mechanical fingers, turning + the thing up and down in his mind for an hour or thereabouts. Suddenly he + jumped to his feet and resumed his walk, smiling with head erect, and that + mellow whistle of his rose on the air with jollity in every note of it, + for it had broken upon his mind like sunshine to remember her first + exclamation on seeing him. He was a young man who was in the habit of + making sure of things, and he had never in his life been surer of anything + than he felt about this. The name, the tone, the look, meant more than a + common interest in him. She had called him ‘Lane’ for the first time in + his life. She had clasped her hands, and turned pale at the sight of him. + All this meant victory for his dearest hopes, and so he leapt to his feet, + and marched off whistling like the throstle. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + III + </h2> + <p> + Bertha pursued her way along the tortuous bridlepath with thoughts which + resembled the way she travelled. Like the road, her fancy seemed to turn + back upon itself pretty often and yet in the main it held in the same + direction. Of course, fighting was a brutal business to a girl’s way of + thinking, but then, when she came really to think of it; men were strange + creatures altogether, half terribly glorious and half contemptible. Lane + had endured all these injuries simply and merely because he loved her! She + could have no conception of the possibilities of masculine joy in a fight + for its own sake, or of the masculine sense of honour which compelled the + meeting of a challenge half-way. Of course it was mightily unpleasant to + be talked about, as the heroine of such a business. The village tongues + had been busy, and would never altogether stop wagging for the remainder + of her lifetime. + </p> + <p> + The influence of long years of respect for Thistle-wood seemed to turn her + mental steps backward now and then. That so quiet and retired a man, and + so little given to proclaiming himself should have made the most sacred + wishes of his heart a matter of common gossip was understandable only on + one hypothesis. His love and his despair carried him out of himself. That, + of course, was a daring thing for any girl to think, but then Bertha was + bound to find reasons. + </p> + <p> + Mainly, her mind was occupied in the reconstruction of her previous belief + about Lane Protheroe. He also, it would seem, had manly qualities in him—could + stand up to be beaten in the cause of the woman he loved. The blows hurt + her so, in the mere fancy of them, that she more than once put up her + hands to her face to guard it. By the time she had accomplished her + errand, and was on the way back to her father’s farmhouse, she was all + tenderness and forgiveness and admiration for the newly-revealed Lane, but + then, as the fates would have it, just as she began to think of her + cruelty to him, and of the terribly low spirits into which she must have + thrown him, the familiar jocund whistle broke upon her ears, and when she + stood still in a dreary amaze at this, she could hear the steps of the + lover, who ought to have been altogether love-lorn, marching along in + something very like a dance in time to his own music. What was one to + think of such a man? She was back in a moment to her old opinion of him. + No rooted feeling in him—no solidity—nothing to be sure of! + </p> + <p> + She made haste home, and there shut herself in her own room and cried. Her + mother walked upstairs, and finding the girl thus mournfully engaged, sat + down tranquilly beside her and produced her knitting. The click of the + needles had an effect of commonplace which helped to restore Bertha to her + self-possession, and in a little time her tears ceased, and moving to the + window she stood there looking out upon the landscape. The monotonous + click of the needles ceased, and she knew that her mother had laid down + her work in her lap and was regarding her. She turned, with a ghost of a + smile. + </p> + <p> + ‘You’re thinkin’, no doubt, as you’re full o’ trouble, my wench,’ began + the mother, ‘and it’s no manner o’ use in talkin’ to young folks to try + an’ mek out as a thing as pains don’t hurt. But if you can only bring ‘em + t’ understand as it won’t hurt much by and by, you’ve done summat for ‘em, + may be. What’s the trouble, wench? Come an’ tell thy mother.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It’s all over now, mother,’ said Bertha + </p> + <p> + ‘Not it,’ returned Mrs. Fellowes, ‘nor won’t be yet a while. Beesn’t one + as cries for nothing, like most gells. I was niver o’ that kind myself.’ + </p> + <p> + Bertha would not, perhaps could not, make a confidante even of her mother + in this matter, but Mrs. Fellowes had a remarkable faculty for striking + human averages, and she got near the truth in her guesses. + </p> + <p> + ‘There’s one thing fixed and sure, my dear,’ she said, ‘and that is as + follows: ayther you must find a mind to wed one of ‘em, or you must pluck + up a spirit and tell ‘em you’ll wed nayther.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I have told Mr. Thistlewood that I can never marry him,’ said Bertha. + </p> + <p> + ‘And what about Lane?’ her mother asked her. + </p> + <p> + ‘I can never marry him either,’ the girl answered steadily. She had her + voice under perfect control, but her averted face and the very lines of + her figure enlightened the shrewd old mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘Hast told him so?’ she asked. + </p> + <p> + ‘I have told him,’ Bertha answered, ‘never to speak to me again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hoity, toity, deary me!’ cried the old woman. ‘And what says he to that?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He didn’t greatly seem to care,’ said Bertha, with a beautifully assumed + air of indifference. + </p> + <p> + ‘Maybe he didn’t set such store by what you told him as to tek it in + earnest?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh,’ said the girl, languidly and indifferently, ‘he knew I meant it.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘And didn’t seem to care? My dear, you’re talkin’ of Lane Protheroe!’ + </p> + <p> + ‘He cared for a minute, perhaps,’ Bertha said, her assumed indifference + and languor tinctured with bitterness by this time. ‘He cared for a + minute, perhaps; just as he does about everything. I heard him whistling + an hour afterwards.’ + </p> + <p> + The disguise was excellent, and might have deceived a woman who had known + her less intimately and watched her less closely, but it was transparent + to the mother. + </p> + <p> + ‘That’s the trouble, is it?’ said Mrs. Fellowes, gravely betaking herself + once more to her knitting. Bertha had been crying already, and had hard + work to restrain herself. ‘Look here, my darlin’,’ the mother said, with + unwonted tenderness of tone and manner, ‘if you can’t read your own mind, + you must let a old experienced woman read it for you. The lad’s as the + Lord made him. What we see in any o’ the men to mek a fuss about, the Lord + in His mercy only knows; but, to my mind, Lane’s ‘the pick o’ ten + thousand. He’s alive, and that’s more than <i>can</i> be said of many on + ‘em. He’s a clever lad, he’s well to look at, and he’s well-to-do.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mother,’ cried the girl, almost passionately, her own pain wrung her so, + ‘he has no heart. He cares for a thing one minute, and doesn’t care for it + the next. He pretends—no, he doesn’t pretend—but he thinks he + cares, and while he thinks it I suppose he does care. But out of sight is + out of mind with him.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Makest most o’ thine own troubles, like the rest on us,’ said Mrs. + Fellowes philosophically. But, in a moment, philosophy made way for + motherly kindness, and, rising from her seat, she bestowed her knitting in + a roomy pocket and put her arms about her daughter’s waist. ‘Art fond of + the lad all the same,’ she said. ‘Ah, my dear, there’s nothin’ likely to + be sorer than the natur as picks flies in the things it’s fond on. There’s + a deal o’ laughin’ at them as thinks all their geese is swans, but they’re + better off in the long run than them as teks all their swans to be geese.’ + </p> + <p> + Bertha said nothing, but she trembled a little under the caress, and her + mother, observing this, released her, went back to her chair, and once + more drew forth her knitting. + </p> + <p> + ‘I reckon,’ she said, after a pause, ‘as John Thistlewood’s had the + spoiling of thee. Thee’st got to think so much o’ them bulldog ways of + his’n, that nothin’ less ‘ll be of use to any man as comes a-courtin’.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Don’t talk about it any more, mother,’ said Bertha, with an air of weary + want of interest. ‘I have said good-bye to both of them.’ + </p> + <p> + And there the interview ended. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + IV + </h2> + <p> + It became evident that Bertha was likely to have a troublesome time before + her. First of all came John Thistlewood, dogged and resolute as ever, + propping himself against the chimney-piece, flogging his gaitered legs + with the switch he carried, and demanding Ay or No before his time. Bertha + determined to treat him with some spirit. + </p> + <p> + ‘You don’t need me to tell you that I respect you very highly, Mr. + Thistlewood. But you oughtn’t to need me to answer your question any more. + I shall be obliged if you will be so good as not to ask it again.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I shall ask it,’ said the dogged John, ‘till it comes to be answered one + way or another.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘It has been answered almost often enough to my way of thinking,’ said + Bertha. + </p> + <p> + She had never been tart with Thistlewood until that moment, but he + manifested no surprise or emotion of any kind. + </p> + <p> + ‘It never has been answered, an’ never will be till I see thee married, + whether to me or another. When that day come to pass you’ve heard the last + of my question.’ + </p> + <p> + Thus the dogged John; and he being disposed of for a while, came Lane. To + him the persecuted maid was a little less severe than she had been, but + she was inexorable. + </p> + <p> + ‘If you like to come here as a friend, Mr. Protheroe, in a few months’ + time, I daresay we shall all be very glad to see you.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Well,’ said Lane, with fine irrelevance, ‘as an enemy this is a house I + shall never make a call at. But look at the matter for a minute, my + darling——’ + </p> + <p> + ‘You must not talk to me like that, Mr. Protheroe,’ Bertha said, with + great coldness. + </p> + <p> + ‘Like what, my dear?’ asked the ingenious Lane. + </p> + <p> + ‘Like that, Mr. Protheroe,’ replied Bertha. + </p> + <p> + ‘I think it so often, that I’m afraid I’m bound to say it sometimes; but, + if it offends, I hope you’ll forgive me. You know you <i>are</i> my + darling, don’t you? You know there isn’t a queen in the world I’d even + with you if every hair of her head was hung with Koh-i-noors. “Out of the + fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh,” the Wise Man says. So, if I do + let slip “my dear” or “my darling” now and then, you’ll know it’s + accident, and you won’t take offence at it—will you?’ + </p> + <p> + This was agile but unsatisfactory. + </p> + <p> + ‘Please understand me, Mr. Protheroe,’ said Bertha, with rural dignity; + ‘you must not come here again until you can come merely as a friend.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Bertha! You can’t mean it! What have I done? What has changed you?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Mr Protheroe!’—the rural dignity made an insulted goddess of her to + Lane’s fancy—‘what right have you to say that I have changed?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Why, Bertha,’ he said, meekly and strickenly, ‘wasn’t I to come in six + months’ time and get an answer?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Will you oblige me by coming for your answer in six months’ time,’ + answered Bertha. ‘Good-afternoon, Mr. Protheroe.’ + </p> + <p> + Bertha thought herself more cruel to herself than to him. She knew how + infinitely more cruel she was to Thistlewood, but that was not a thing to + be avoided. She and he alike must suffer—she in giving pain and he + in bearing it. Bertha’s heart ached over Lane, and the bitterness of it + was to know that in a week or two the butterfly nature would have ceased + to care. He was hotly in love to-day, no doubt, but he would be out of + love to-morrow, may be, and in a month or two hotly in love again + elsewhere. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday following these interviews dogged John was at church, and + the butterfly Protheroe also. Thistlewood looked as he always looked, + rudely healthy, and a masterpiece of masterfulness and sullen perseverance + and resolve. Lane was pallid and miserable, and Bertha remarking him was + compelled to fall back on the bitter consolation of her former thoughts. + He would take it heavily for a day or two, and would then forget all about + it. He cast a glance or two in Bertha’s direction, and his eyes were full + of melancholy appeal. But for her certainty he would have moved her, for + she was predisposed to be moved, and she had hardly expected to have had + so much effect upon him. He walked dejectedly out of church at the close + of the service, and Thistlewood half by accident shouldered him. He took + it meekly, and made no sign. + </p> + <p> + Two or three days later came a piece of news of the sort Bertha had + expected. Mr. Protheroe was heard of as having made one of a picnic party + in the neighbourhood of Heydon Hey, and of this party he was said to have + been the life and soul. He was reported to have paid marked attentions to + Miss Badger, daughter of a wealthy cheesemonger in Castle Barfield High + Street. The young lady was rumoured to be possessed of great personal + attractions, and a pretty penny, present and prospective. + </p> + <p> + Foreseen as it was, the news stung a little when it came. Even the most + butterfly-like of lovers might have waited a little longer! + </p> + <p> + And yet next Sunday, when Bertha went to church, quite resolved not to + waste so much as a glance upon him, he looked paler and more dejected than + he had done a week ago. She looked in spite of herself—she must + needs look at him,—and it was evident that as yet the cheesemonger’s + daughter had found no way to cheer him. Thistlewood never altered. Those + strong self-contained natures have a power upon themselves as they have on + other people. He could last for years in solid and complete devotion—he + could apparently wait for ever—and could yet hide from the eyes of + the outer world the steady fires which burned within him. That butterfly + nature of poor Lane’s forced Thistlewood’s virtues into prominence by + contrast, and the girl had them almost constantly in her thoughts. There + was nothing—she told herself remorsefully—that this typical + piece of solidity and devotion would not do for her. Her faith in his + attachment transcended bounds, and she felt it to be a thousand pities + that she could not love him. + </p> + <p> + It does not happen in every life-history that this sort of profound + feeling finds an opportunity of proof, but in the story of the lives of + John Thistlewood and Lane Protheroe this thing came to pass in such wise + that he who ran might read the natures of the men, and know them once for + all. + </p> + <p> + Bulldog John had gone on doggedly courting, and butterfly Lane had taken + to seeing too much convivial company in Heydon Hey and Castle Barfield, + and there was a fear in Bertha’s mind that if her influence had not been + permanent, it had at least started the young man on a track likely to + prove disastrous. These emotional people, quick to feel and quick to + forget, are hardly to be dealt with without danger. + </p> + <p> + Lane’s dissipations must have been graver than even rumour gave them + discredit for being. His midnight junketings had made a ghost of him, and + to see him at any moment when he thought himself unobserved was to wonder + how long such a mournful and broken young gentleman could possibly rouse + himself to fill the part of King even in a rustic Bohemia. + </p> + <p> + Autumn was on the land. The corn-shocks were standing in the stubbled + fields, and the night air was full of gossamer, which twined itself about + the faces of all wayfarers. Rural work had gone on merrily all day, and + when the sun set silence fell, and darkness like a warm shroud. Lights + flickered a while in the village and the farmhouse, and then went out one + by one. The moon stole over the Beacon Hill, and looked mildly across the + valley. + </p> + <p> + There was not a breath of air stirring, and not a sound upon the night + except for the placid and continual gurgle of the stream which had no + voice at all by day. Yes. One other sound there was, a sound as of some + one moving uneasily in a creaking chair. Creak, creak, creak It grew + momently. Crackle, crackle, crackle. Still it grew. A tongue like the + tongue of a snake—so light and fine and swift was it—flashed + out of a crevice, and flew back again, flashed out again, and again + withdrew. Then the snake’s body flashed out after it, and melted on the + moonlit air. Another, and another, and another. Then a low roaring noise, + and all the windows of the basement shone out ruby-coloured, and the moon + looked bleared by contrast. + </p> + <p> + A distant voice from the village called out ‘Fire!’ There was a crash of + opening windows, a tumult of clapping doors, a storm of barking dogs, + excited voices, hurrying feet. + </p> + <p> + Old and young, male and female, robed anyhow, ran hard towards the + farmhouse, and poured in a thunderous stream across the echoing wooden + bridge which spanned the river. The farmhouse was a tower of flame, + fantastic turrets springing here and there. The dry timbers, centuries + old, made the best of food for fire, and the place flamed like a + tar-barrel. The screams of doomed horses came with hideous uproar from the + stables in the rear. + </p> + <p> + The farmer and his wife, the men servants and the maid servants, were in + the garden, all pale with fear and helpless; but the mother tore the night + with calling on her daughter’s name. + </p> + <p> + Bulldog John and his rival came last of all, though they ran like hounds, + and they crossed the bridge and dashed through the crowd together. + </p> + <p> + ‘Oh, John,’ cried the agonised mother, clutching at him as though he were + an ark of safety. ‘You’ll save her—won’t you? God help her! You’ll + save her—won’t you, John?’ + </p> + <p> + One figure, black as night against the fierce glow of the flame, dashed + across the space between the crowd and the farmhouse. It was hardly seen, + and scarce believed in by those who thought they saw. + </p> + <p> + ‘John,’ cried the wretched mother, ‘you’ll save her! You as loved her so! + You’ll save her!’ + </p> + <p> + There is no manhood in the world that needs to be ashamed to hang back + from an enterprise so hopeless and so terrible. The woman shrieked and + prayed—the man stood motionless with white face and staring eyes. + </p> + <p> + Then came one wild cry from half a dozen throats at once, and next upleapt + a roar that struck the noise of the fire out of being for an instant. For + the figure, black against the fiery glow, was back again, by some such + stupendous chance, or heaven-wrought miracle, as only desperate valour + ever wins. A figure huddled in a blanket lay in his arms, and as he came + racing towards the crowd they fell together. They were lifted and borne + out of the circle of fierce heat and flying sparks. + </p> + <p> + The house was left to burn, and every thought was centred on the rescuer + and the rescued. The fresh air roused Bertha from her swoon, and at the + first opening of her eyes and the first words she spoke the mother went as + mad with joy as she had been with terror. + </p> + <p> + ‘Alive!—alive! Safe!—safe! And oh, my God! my Christian + friends, it was the Butterfly as did it!’ + </p> + <p> + But it was a full month later when Lane Protheroe asked his first + question, + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s Bertha?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Hush! my dear, dear darlin’,’ said Mrs. Fellowes, her eyes brimful of + tears. ‘Lie quiet, there’s a dear.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s Bertha?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Safe and well, love; safe and well.’ + </p> + <p> + ‘I’m thirsty,’ said the Butterfly. + </p> + <p> + He was supplied with a cooling drink, and fell to sleep smiling, with + unchanged posture. In half a dozen hours he woke again. + </p> + <p> + ‘Where’s Bertha?’ + </p> + <p> + ‘Here, dearest.’ + </p> + <p> + And we leave them hand in hand, yearning on each other through their + blissful tears. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg’s Bulldog And Butterfly, by David Christie Murray + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BULLDOG AND BUTTERFLY *** + +***** This file should be named 22273-h.htm or 22273-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/2/2/2/7/22273/ + +Produced by David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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