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Chapter 8, Part 5 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
Following this informative encounter, Mr Blevins passed the next half-day gleaning still more information about Willoughby and his position in the neighbourhood, and about the family Dashwood, with whom the man already seemed so intimate, even as a new acquaintance. John was bent on arming himself as best possible, so as to be best prepared for whatever meetings were to be allowed him in these awkward circumstances. As he sat over his pint of cider in a dark corner of a public house that evening, he organized all he had heard into a more useful form than that in which it had been poured, from various sources, into his ears: this new family settled here, the Dashwoods, a recently widowed mother and her three daughters - the eldest a young lady of nineteen, pretty, quiet and full of good sense, the next a most beautiful, accomplished young lady, though only sixteen years old, the third not much more than a child, being only thirteen; Colonel Brandon, a frequent visitor to Barton Park, more recently arrived and come straight from Whitwell not twelve miles away, where he had looked after matters of business while his sister and her family were abroad; Mr Willoughby's irregular appearances, visiting with an infirm old lady, the distant relative from whom he had such great financial expectations: Mrs Smith.
This Mrs Smith had long been residing at Allenham Court, an old mansion of as respectable an aspect as the lady herself. She was said to be a woman of unexceptional character and formal notions, living a confined existence for some years now, owing to the frail state of her health - was said to be ignorant of the world, of the times in which she lived, with an innocence of soul evident in the purity of her life. It was whispered, though not very loudly, that she disapproved of her young relative's conduct, in general, but had yet to make that disapproval known to him.
As recently as all the new arrivals had come, there had yet been enough time passed for romantic intrigues to have fired and fueled the imaginations of local tale-bearers - of whom Sir John Middleton must surely be the chief! In his words, Col Brandon was 'smitten' with Marianne Dashwood. This notion John Blevins found difficult to credit, having last seen the colonel falling ill under the burden of grief over his missing niece. Yet... perhaps... a heart capable of profound feelings, though normally hidden and well-governed... Perhaps the colonel's heart had enlarged to allow two emotions of such depth to co-exist - the newer admitted not to replace the old but to dwell with it side-by-side - mutually exclusive as the two might seem, sudden and improbable though a second attachment might appear, especially while the very embodiment from the first was in possible mortal danger. (According to more local speculation, Eliza Williams was an embodiment of a closer kind than that admitted to by the colonel himself.) Brandon's was not a nature to be attached often and indiscriminately, but any true attachment would undoubtedly be the more durable - and all the more painful should it not be equally met and returned.
Marianne Dashwood, on the other hand, was reputed to have formed an attachment for John Willoughby - almost literally at the feet of the man, if reports were to be believed - and he for her. They had already been noticed, absorbed in one another even when in a larger company. If Willoughby were the sort of man John Blevins believed him to be, it would be a most unwise and unfortunate attachment for the girl. It did not show her in the best of lights, either, on the part of her discernment or her discretion. Perhaps the infatuation - for on such short acquaintance, how else could it be called? - would not last. Unless the girl had some fortune about her - and it did not sound the case from Sir John Middleton's talk - Willoughby would soon lose interest. It seemed improbable that his heart were, or would be, truly attached.
Although Mr Blevins had thought to meet with Willoughby directly, he had no wish, at this time, to meet with Col Brandon. Though not particular friends, Brandon and Willoughby were apparently known to one another. Surely the colonel had not the least suspicion of a possible acquaintance between his niece and Willoughby or he would have spoken of it to Mr Blevins, knowing, as he must, of the other man's character. How terrible - if the gossip were true, and if John Blevin's suspicions should be true as well. How tragic - if Brandon should finally have found another woman to love, who in turn loved a man capable and culpable of running away with Brandon's own niece and ward. This Marianne Dashwood was much the same age as Eliza Williams, and sounded to be possessed of qualities similar to the first Eliza, whom Brandon had so loved and cherished to her very deathbed. Remembering the colonel's voice as he told the story of his Eliza, his distress at the disappearance of the daughter who had been left to his care, his agony at the news of the younger Eliza in danger of the gallows, Mr Blevins could only hope that his conjectures and deductions would prove in error.
Over the course of the next day, Mr Blevins learned, among other things, that, during waking hours, Willoughby was rarely to be found away from Barton Cottage - his frequent absences from Allenham and his neglect of Mrs Smith during this visit being additional items of displeasure to the old lady. The colonel was also often at the Cottage, keeping company with the mother and older sister when the attentions of Miss Marianne were otherwise engaged. John's intended interview with Willoughby would require painstaking plans, of some devious design, so as not to take place in the presence of Sir John, a person difficult to elude in this neighbourhood, and certainly not in the presence of Col Brandon or the ladies.
On his third morning in Devonshire, studying over the situation while taking some air - ever on the alert for the baying of dogs, a reliable harbinger of Sir John's approach, for he seemed not to stir without at least a half-dozen pups - John Blevins looked up at the crackling of dry leaves beneath a leather-booted foot. Mr Willoughby had been pointed out to him several times by now, so Mr Blevins was in no doubt at all that he was nearing the one person in Devonshire with whom he most desired to speak. As the two men came face-to-face, Willoughby looked up suddenly, as if brought out of deep thought and surprised to find another person so near. He nodded politely and moved aside to allow this stranger to pass. Mr Blevins, thinking this the best opportunity likely to be afforded him, plunged into speech.
"Mr Willoughby? Mr John Willoughby?"
"Yes, but I do not believe I have had the pleasure--"
"No, sir, but a few minutes, only, of your time, if I may. We have not met, but I believe that we have a mutual acquaintance. Or, rather, that an acquaintance of mine is rather well known to you, sir."
"Oh? Who might this acquaintance be?"
"Miss Eliza Williams."
A puzzled look passed over Mr Willoughby's face - and quite genuine it seemed to be. "I know no one by that name. You must have me confused with some other person."
John, realizing that an alias, which he so often used himself, might have been chosen by the young lady in question, changed his tack by a degree. "Miss Williams, sir, is from Dorsetshire, but she visited Bath in February of this year, traveled on to Bristol, and was in London by the nineteenth of that month." Mr Blevins almost added that she had been seen traveling in the company of a man fitting Willoughby's description, with 'John' as his Christian name, but decided, at the last moment, that vague hints might produce a more gratifying reaction. His instinct was amply justified and rewarded. Eyes fixed on the other man's face, he caught the flash of recognition - and guilt - in the man's eyes at the mention of dates and places. The flash was enough to convince him that this John Willoughby was indeed the handsome man from Eliza's planned adventures, as told to Cecily Robertson.
The reaction was short lived. Had Mr Blevins looked away at the crucial moment, he would have missed it altogether. Unaware of his momentary self-betrayal, Mr Willoughby showed not the slightest remembrance, remorse or regret. He looked over his inquisitor, noting the impeccable grooming, the gentlemanlike bearing, the clear, intelligent eyes on a level with his own - and the determined set of the countenance. Marking the man's youth, however, and seeing that he was completely unknown to him, Willoughby spoke coolly.
"You are mistaken, sir. I know no one of that name from the places you speak of. As I said, you - and the lady - must have someone else in mind. Perhaps a similar name - John is, of course, common enough, and Willoughby is not an uncommon surname, either. Now, if you will excuse me, sir..."
The intent was clear. Mr Willoughby would not admit to anything that could not be proved, and he seemed sure enough that there was nothing could be proved concerning the young lady. His words were circumspect - perhaps too much so - avoiding any detail, any mention of name or circumstance in which he could later be caught out. Perhaps another subject would loosen his tongue, or touch his conscience, although from the tales Mr Blevins had already heard, the man's conscience was unlikely to be touched, or even discovered. John moved to block the narrow path as Willoughby sought to pass him.
"So you are not the Mr Willoughby with a membership at Watier's? I am told you are a man of great interest and talent at cards, and that you enjoyed a good deal of success February last."
An angry widening of the eyes confirmed that a goad, at least, had been found. "My membership or attendance at whatever clubs I choose, and my interest - not to say the outcome - in whatever diversions I may fancy is no concern whatever of yours, sir."
"Perhaps you were not aware, then, that from January to May of this year, winnings from the many diversions at your club were often settled with forged banknotes? Miss Williams received a gift from this other John Willoughby you say may exist - a gift of notes for which she might have been hanged, for which a John Willoughby, equally well, might still be hanged."
Panic lit Willoughby's eyes, and his face blanched (he, at least, is in complete ignorance of the forgeries, thought John) but still he attempted denial, more blustery than bold. "I repeat, sir, that I have no notion of what you are talking. I know no such lady, have known no such lady, have never given any such lady a gift, much less a gift - as you say - of f-forged notes. And since I do not know you, I am certainly not obliged to account to you as to where and how I spend my time and my money, or where I pay my attentions. The ladies of my acquaintance," he added more calmly, dismissing the subject with an elegant shrug of his shoulders, "are well able to attend to their own affairs and are not likely to desire or appreciate your interference, sir."
The man's patronizing tone coupled with his indifferent air infuriated John Thomas Barrow, who well knew of his own mother's suffering at the hands of just such an attitude blended of arrogance and negligence, from another well-born man. Even Samuel T. Pickens, an unschooled, low-born lad with no connection to Miss Eliza, had shown more compassionate feeling for her plight than did this man. "You may be right, sir. It may be no concern of mine, if you do not know this lady, if you have not endangered her very life. This young lady, for she is only sixteen years of age - of course, it is nothing to you if you do not know her - has now been missing from her home, from an uncle who loves her, for almost nine months. I wonder if the stationmaster in Bristol would not still remember the young lady's companion, sir - the description given me would fit you rather well. Would a description of you from Watier's, and the documents proving you in possession of forged notes, fit you for a noose before a London judge, I wonder? If you are not the man who led Miss Williams - or whatever she may have called herself - astray and then abandoned her in circumstances of mortal danger, then I beg your pardon. But - if you are the man, then God help you if I can prove it! And, if it is true, be assured I will prove it!"
A reply was swift in coming, and equally heated. "If you - whoever it is you are - have some proof, then produce it at once. If not, and if I hear you have been repeating the smallest part of these accusations - anywhere at all - I will have you up before the local magistrate, or in a London court, on charges of slander!"
The threat delivered, Mr Willoughby turned on his heel and strode quickly down the path, returning the way he had come, throwing only one uneasy glance behind him before walking out of sight.
John Blevins stood a few moments, looking after him. As always, he soon regretted losing his temper - so very unprofessional of him! - and profiting nothing. Yet, he was now very sure of his own conclusions - he felt it with every instinct honed over years of observation of others. Always the outsider, his observations had thus been all the more thorough - and usually correct. His time with Sir John Murdock had only intensified instinct to make of it a vocation.
Retracing his own way with measured steps, attempting to rein in his still simmering anger, he was soon met and passed by a tall young lady hurrying along the path. Wisps of shining hair, escaping their pins, framed her face in delicate curls; her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes were eager. Only a few steps past Mr Blevins, she wheeled abruptly. "Have you seen a young man, sir, walking along this path? Much the same height and figure as yourself, and as well-dressed, but quite good looking? Oh, I do hope I am not late! I was sure we had agreed to meet here." Scarcely waiting for a nod from John, she hurried on again, going only a few steps before breaking into a most unladylike run.
Could this have been Miss Marianne? Nothing seemed more likely. The man she had been asking after was undoubtedly John Willoughby - undeniably a better-looking man than John Thomas Barrow, the latter thought wryly, just as the young lady had noted. The lady herself was all that gossip had told, and not at all exaggerated as so often was the case - clearly a beauty, with beauty made more so by vivacity and spirit. It was also clear that she had eyes and thoughts for no one but he whom she was to meet. The fresh, ardent innocence of her caught at John Barrow's heart as he stood and looked after her for as long as she remained in view. How dreadful for this young lady to come to harm by any means, and how much more so if the harm came by the likes of John Willoughby!
By the time Mr Blevins returned to his room - his temper cooled by a stiff breeze and several miles' brisk walk - his thoughts had turned to Col Brandon. If there should be a meeting between them, what to tell him? That his niece may have been taken advantage of and left, deceived, by a man of his own acquaintance? But there was no legal proof. That this man had now turned his attentions on the very young lady for whom Brandon apparently cared? But that was as yet only gossip, and unmentionable. That the man was winning - nay, had won - the affections of this lady while in the presence of the colonel? That the colonel no doubt saw with his own eyes; the young lady's feelings were as transparent as clear, fresh-running water. Knowingly or not, purposely or not, Willoughby seemed destined to cause the colonel ever more anguish. Anything Mr Blevins could tell would only make matters worse - and it would not restore Miss Williams to her uncle.
What to do was the next subject consuming John Blevins' thoughts. He had confirmed, to his own satisfaction, that, though innocent of complicity in forgery or in distribution of forged notes (the man's horror at the mention of it had been all too real), Mr Willoughby was the man who had accompanied Miss Williams from Bath - his reaction was proof enough for John, but not proof enough for any other purpose. Unless the girl had come to bodily harm, there was little would be considered in a court of law. By losing his temper, Mr Blevins had lost the opportunity for another conversation with Mr Willoughby, the opportunity, perhaps, to learn where Miss Eliza might have gone, where she might be sought, and - devoutly to be hoped! - where she might be found. Once again in this seemingly endless search, he had met with defeat - the unraveling thread having once again led only so far - and Mr Willoughby would go free, to continue his ungentlemanlike ways with the Miss Elizas and Miss Mariannes of the world: trusting and innocent. It was unjust! He should, by all rights, be stopped and brought to account - somehow. From musings on roads not taken in the past to choices, decisions and plans to be made in the future - what if...
Chapter 8, Part 6 ~ A Time to Rend and a Time to Sew
While John Blevins considered the future, other persons were considering the past - with diverse 'what ifs' and 'if onlys'. The good people of Auldbridge would be judged unusual, indeed, were they never to indulge themselves in this exercise in company with the rest of humankind. As much blessed with cleverness and good sense as many of them were, even the most clever and those with the most sense were not at all immune (although succumbing only occasionally) to the allure of futile regrets and idle speculations.
Facing the view framed by his study windows, a view of autumn-reddened ivy twining its way over a weathered wooden trellis, Lord Auldbury stood and waited for a response from his valet, whom he had apparently struck dumb with a certain proposal. As the Earl waited, his mind returned to times long past. What if...
What if an epidemic from the squalor of London's docks had not spread - farther into town, and then out of town and into this very garden county of England? What if the illness had not wrought such devastation in the parish twenty years ago? If only his Anne had lived! If only Matthew and Katherine had lived! I might have been a grandfather, by Matthew, at least. And poor Katie! Perhaps it was a mercy...
Similar meditations on an unalterable past had distracted Mr Burke in the months since his return to Auldbridge, rendering him less capable in his duties than was his wont, of which fact he was only too mindful - thus his astonishment at the offer now before him when he had steeled himself for a rebuke.
Since Mr Burke had first come to Auldbury Hall, his life and that of his master had proved unlikely reflections of one another. Though unequal in station, each man had seemed well on the way to having his greatest hopes and desires fulfilled. Instead, both had been forced to endure deep grief and private loneliness - their dreams dashed by happenings beyond their ability to prevent. Leaving the village to roam about much of the roam-able earth, Lord Auldbury had lived restlessly, leaving threads hanging at every edge of his life (when they proved tiresome or failed to distract any longer) rather than finishing them off or weaving them into a useful design. Mr Burke had thrown himself into the unusual work that accompanying his master entailed, never knowing from one day to the next what would be demanded of him, or where he might find himself - his life seeming a random tangle, with no discernible design at all. The two men - depending on one another in foreign lands, in wild and strange places, their disappointments binding them together - had come to talk candidly of many things, of even their most intimate thoughts.
As much as each man was in the other's confidence, however, Lord Auldbury was, on occasion, still able to confound Mr Burke. With his own interest in life recently revived and his restless roaming at an end - a challenge having been put before him that he could neither ignore nor refuse to accept - and with the ball and its purposes having come to a most satisfactory finale, Lord Auldbury had thought it an auspicious time to speak seriously with this faithful traveling companion of the past twenty years. After a silence fully five minutes in length, he turned from the view outside his window as Mr Burke regained his voice.
"I am overwhelmed, my lord. It is the very last thing I would have expected."
"I hope it is not unwelcome."
"Not at all unwelcome, my lord!"
"It would allow you greater freedom than trailing about after me - and surely be less vexatious."
"It has been a privilege to serve you, my lord. I could never complain of being treated as my station would have demanded, and I can say - without fear of contradiction - that I have never been plagued with boredom. But--"
Lord Auldbury interrupted him without ceremony, a smile playing about his lips. "It would have other advantages as well, you know, enabling you to realize any plans of a personal nature that you may have been contemplating."
The younger man reddened, but he met his master's kind gaze steadily. "Indeed. It is very kind of you to have thought of it, my lord. Perhaps now... though I had not thought... not yet..."
The Earl's smile widened to a grin, making him appear younger even than the man he faced, and as mischievous as a child. "I am, of course, sorry if this is an inconvenient time." His countenance was more sober as he continued. "My best wishes go with you on any affair of yours, Burke, as they always have. I think you would do well to risk it."
"Thank you, my lord. I value your counsel, as I do the confidence and trust you have placed in me. But..."
"Yes?"
"Are you certain you would not prefer someone with more experience in such matters, my lord?"
"Your experience and your experiences are precisely what recommend you, Burke. Having observed you in various, difficult circumstances over these many years, I can not think of another man I would rather have. Your presence of mind, your courage and your common sense, your temperament, your kindness to all persons and your great patience - all these make you well-suited to the task. Furthermore, your willingness to work heartily at anything put before you will serve you well. You will have need of all your experience, I promise you. I would not have you think this will be easily accomplished."
"I do not think it at all likely to be easy, my lord, but it will surely be worth the while. If you are truly certain - then, yes, I would be very happy, and honoured, to accept."
At the other end of the village, while Mr Burns dozed more often than he woke, joining in conversations but briefly before dozing off once more, the ladies sat and sewed. After Beth's first dress had been completed - and as her drawings and sketches began to bring in a growing number of pence, and pence had piled to form shillings - two more dresses were begun with the continued help of Mrs Taylor, Mrs Hobart and Miss Rose, each giving what time she could spare from her own daily duties. Since Beth passed the greater part of every day with Mr Burns, his parlour had taken on the air of a ladies' workroom, with his blessing. It was Mrs Hobart who had gently pointed out to the girl that her child would need a few things as well, so that pieces now being sewn varied in size and purpose.
Though the ladies usually found an ample number of subjects to canvass while they worked, there was a pensive silence today as the three women present meditated on the past. To two of them, both troubled in spirit, questions came to mind - and were met with questions in turn.
What if circumstances had been altered?
What if Beth's mother had not fallen ill and died? What if her mother and father had not parted? What if she had had a father and a mother, and sisters and brothers, too, perhaps - a regular family - instead of only a guardian who was also her uncle? What if she had not been sent to live in Dorsetshire, with Mrs Howell and the other girls? There was little required of them there but to amuse themselves as best they could - they finding relief from boredom by feeding one another with romantic fancies and nonsense as fast as they could imagine, read or hear tell of. Under other circumstances, would she have been so ready to fall in with the wishes of a handsome young man in the rain? Oh, if only there had been no handsome young man at all!
What if Miss Rose had not come to Auldbury Hall as governess? What if she and Mr Burke had never formed an attachment? What if illness had not swept through the village only weeks before their betrothal was to be announced? If only she had not fallen ill and lost her eyesight; if only she had regained it after some period of time!
With mixed feelings, each woman wondered too: what if she had chosen differently, had acted differently, in those unalterable circumstances that an inscrutable, unsearchable Providence had seen fit to provide?
Beth's musings were filled with regret and anger - directed only at herself. If only she had acted on the prickings of her conscience, ignoring the insistence of her desires, her vanity! If only she had questioned John's too obvious flattery! What if she had refused his invitations? What if she had halted his most improper actions? Would he have abandoned her sooner, or later, or perhaps - as unlikely as it might seem - not at all? Would he have returned her to her friend in Bath? If only she had returned to her uncle at once and thrown herself on his mercy!
Sincere regret formed a portion of Miss Rose's thoughts, though scholarly habits led to more dispassionate speculations as well. What if she had swallowed her pride and had accepted help from one of her sisters after the effects of the illness became evident, moving to London or Cambridge or Oxford, to live with one of them, with their families, instead of remaining here in Auldbridge, with Miss Ross? Would she have received any other offer of marriage? Could she have accepted a humiliating dependence on her husband - any husband? If only she had not stiffened her resolve and had accepted Mr Burke!
That circumstances could have been anything other than what they had been did not enter Mrs Hobart's thoughts. Being less clever and less sensible, perhaps, than the other two ladies, she spent little time in speculation. She did not wonder what might have been had she never served at the Hall as parlour maid, or never been chosen to serve at the ball two and twenty years ago, or never met the handsome Baronet. She could not imagine not having kept the boy born to her, any more than she could imagine not having married Sidney Hobart.
The material in Mrs Hobart's lap was dark, with gay bunches of flowers scattered against deep blue. She sat quietly and sewed the delicate tucks and shirrings of a dress meant as a surprise for Beth, though being worked under the unsuspecting - and of recent days incurious - girl's eyes. Beth had eyed this material on several occasions in the draper's shop, but had put it away, sighing that it was too dear for the contents of her purse. Mr Burns, hearing of this from Hannah, had insisted on purchasing the material as a gift for the young girl who had been lending him companionship and aid for some months now. He had begged the favor of the working of it into a suitable dress from a willing Mrs Hobart. While her needle flashed with neat and even stitches, Martha Hobart reflected that the material through which it passed was a little like her life, the foundation of which was undeniably dark in places, but dark threads - even those of her own making - had provided a setting against which subsequent joys shone all the brighter.
Even after the grim events of two and twenty years ago, there had yet come bright, ridiculously coloured threads into the weaving that was her life, threads woven into riotous patterns of comedy: the begrimed, pleading face of a cherubic four-year old with pockets full of newborn rabbits, saved from the sharp talons of an owl; the six-year old with a lamed lamb slung over his muddy shoulder; an ever-changing menagerie of stray animals - in kitchen, garden, bedroom and drawing room - all found and nursed by her young son. These same riotous patterns had of late been echoed in the boyish antics of Phoebe - and to a lesser extent Julia, and even before the advent of Puck - of which antics more were sure to come. Other designs were woven with more dignified strands: of pride and joy in the lad of eight who had trudged to Auldbury stables to beg for work in exchange for the privilege of riding atop the plowhorses coming home from the fields; in the boy of ten who had caught the eye of Lord Auldbury on one of his brief visits. His lordship had encouraged the boy to work as diligently at his schoolwork as he did with his beloved animals and had given Stephen leave to come to the stables - whenever he had finished helping his parents in house and shop - to learn to ride and care for the great animals he so admired. Sweeter shades of pleasure and amusement had come more recently: Mrs Hobart joining with her husband to encourage the tall, shy, suddenly tongue-tied son in his attentions to Hannah, followed by the delightful prospect of adding Hannah as another daughter to their family.
Entwined with the dark threads from her girlhood were richly hued threads - strong yet supple - found in the steadfast love offered by Sydney Hobart. Had she not accepted his forgiveness, and his love, she would not have known the sweet trust of a good marriage, of a companionship made gay with laughter; nor would she have gained his sturdy encouragement and strength during shadowed times - mercifully few - of illness among the children and of the sometime uncertainty of their livelihood; nor would she have been blessed with two daughters. Providence had been most generous: her drab guilt and fear exchanged for bright joy, the dark threads remaining, but only as memories and as settings for a glorious riot of colour. Mrs Hobart guessed, and worried sometimes, at what the future would hold - what patterns and shadings might yet decorate this weaving: anticipating the rosy romances of Julia's dreams, the vivid comedy sure to follow Phoebe (whatever her path), and the softest shades, the most delicate designs made by the coming of grandchildren.
As her thoughts dwelt on joys past and joys to come, Mrs Hobart glanced discreetly at Miss Rose and Beth from time to time, praying silently that both would be offered the same grace that she herself had been given, and that both would choose to embrace it - that black threads of despair would not overwhelm Beth, that the mauve of endless mourning would soon be cast off by Miss Rose.
After one such hope-filled glance at Beth, she looked more closely at the work in the girl's hands.
Musings and meditations were interrupted by a loud gasp, though the gasp was swiftly smothered. While Miss Rose listened for clues to explain this unexpected outburst, Beth looked up with concern to see Mrs Hobart struggling, apparently, with some strong emotion.
"My dear," Mrs Hobart began tentatively when she was able to speak again. "You-- you might consider-- Have you-- I would-- oh, dear! That is..." As her neighbour's voice trailed off, Miss Rose leaned forward to take the material from Beth's hands, as she had many times in recent weeks to add buttonholes or to finish a hem. She felt carefully around the garment, then smiled gently. She turned it inside out and held it outstretched for Beth to see.
"Oh!" Beth sank back in her seat. After a few moments she burst into laughter, tears soon streaming down her cheeks. Seeing that no feelings would be hurt, as Beth herself found the mistake comical, Mrs Hobart and Miss Rose joined in the merriment. Mr Burns woke with a start, asking what the ladies found so amusing, and Beth explained the curious creation she had made, wiping her eyes of the tears she had shed, while Miss Rose held it for the carpenter to see.
"Well, Miss Beth, 'tis certain it's no worse than I would ha' done!"
The old man joined in with his own weak laughter, and Miss Rose returned the garment to Beth. "This would be an unusual babe indeed, to need three sleeves, my dear. I would suggest reducing the number to the usual two. It is a pity to take these stitches out - you have improved greatly, they are very well made - but it had better be done all the same."
Mrs Hobart, looking at the clock and gasping at the time, gathered her things and hurriedly took her leave; Miss Rose returned to her own piece of work; Beth, still red-faced and gasping from laughter, groped beneath a pile of material for their smallest scissors, and began to slit the stitches she had so neatly sewn to add a sleeve to the very center of the tiny shirt.
Author's Note: Mrs Hobart's reflections were inspired by the poem "The Weaving" (attribution: anonymous). These are the last two lines:
The dark threads are as needful in the skillful Weaver's hand,
As the threads of gold and silver in the pattern He has planned.
Chapter 9, Part 1 ~ A Time to Break Down and a Time to Build Up
Soon after Mrs Hobart had gone, sheep-shaped clouds, which had earlier floated innocent as snow-white lambs in the sky, now gathered and darkened outside the windows, and thunder growled overhead. In the parlour where the two ladies continued to sew and keep watch over Mr Burns, it was still warm and cheery, the hush broken only by the giggles that erupted now and then from Beth as she carefully dismembered the shirt on which she had worked with such care. Miss Rose was occupied with hemming a similar small article of clothing. The teacher's former introspections had fled, replaced by plans for the next week's lessons. As a giggle turned into a sob, followed by many more, barely stifled in the material Beth held, Miss Rose started in surprise and dismay - her plans of spelling and sums, of readings and recitations flown away.
"Beth, what is it? Are you unwell?"
"No, it's-- it's--"
Miss Rose, hearing nothing from the direction of Mr Burns' chair, laid a finger to her lips. "Hush, then. Come, child, so that we do not disturb Mr Burns." Laying her work and Beth's on the table, she took Beth by the hand and led the way through the room, moving carefully from one chair and table to the next, making her way to the far corner, where an old sofa stood. Seating herself, she pulled the girl down beside her. Tears were now streaming down Beth's face, though her sobs had ceased.
"Are you certain you are well? Are you in pain? Shall we send for Miss Ross?"
"No, oh, no! - I am well - only..."
"Only what, Beth?"
"If only I had not acted so stupidly! I have ruined everything! What a wretch I am - I can not do anything properly! Oh, what is the use of going on?"
"Nonsense, child! If you are referring to your circumstances, it is true you have made a poor choice, but it will not ruin your life; that will depend on what you choose to do now - in the days and months to come. If, on the other hand, you are referring to your sewing - well," the older woman smiled, "one misshapen shirt is not the measure of a life, I assure you. Your work has been far better than my own early attempts, which were neither artistically pleasing nor especially useful. My sisters used always to tease and laugh at me, and even my mother despaired of teaching me anything. It was only when I came to know Miss Hetty, here in Auldbridge, who was able to show me-- But that is nothing to do with you. You have learned very much in the last weeks, Beth, and will soon be proficient to make the things you will always have need of. If, by some chance, you never have cause to sew again, you will still have learned something useful, which you will not forget. As to not doing anything properly - well, you can certainly draw well. Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross tell me how highly they think of your work, and Mrs Hobart is enchanted with the drawings you made of Phoebe and Julia. You have given her something she will treasure for a long time, Beth. She has told me more than once that she will be glad to look at them in years to come, when the girls are grown and perhaps gone away."
"Mrs Hobart never says anything that is not nice," sniffed Beth, more composed but still teary-eyed.
"Well, perhaps you are right about that, but both Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross are honest to a fault. If they could not say something complimentary in truth, they would say nothing at all; they are no idle flatterers, no matter how desperate the situation. Mrs Taylor would never have suggested the scheme of your drawing likenesses to earn some money if she had not thought them worthwhile. She would no sooner see her friends cheated than she would lie or steal, and she would not do so even as an act of charity. I only wish I could see your drawings myself. I was very fond of taking likenesses and of drawing whatever I saw around me, but that was long ago."
Silence fell between them, into which fell the soft chime of the clock on the mantel nearby. In the wake of ever-louder thunderclaps, raindrops spat at the windows. As she dried her eyes for the second time today, though now from tears of despair, Beth thought of the watercolours she had seen when visiting the teacher at her cottage - and of one in particular.
"Miss Rose," she began tentatively, "are all the drawings hanging in your parlour those that you made yourself? They are of a great many scenes, but I think they are all from here in Auldbridge, are they not?"
"What?" the teacher was startled out of her reverie by the question. "Oh - yes, they are. I had a great passion for drawing when I first came here, and as I had never lived in the country before, I found scenes that struck my fancy almost everywhere I went. People used to wink and laugh as they saw me trudge along roads and paths with a great pad of paper under my arm. Many of my attempts were not worth keeping; those in the parlour were my favorites."
Thinking the time an auspicious one, and glad to be distracted from her own gloomy thoughts, Beth ventured another question. "There is one in particular - the one with the two horses and the man, by the fork in the road and the stone cross - is the man not Mr Burke?"
"I-- I did not think that I had made his features so clear. Yes, it is he."
"His features are not so very clear. It is more a matter of how he is sitting, his figure, how he is holding his hands, the shape and attitude of his head, even his ears and his hair. I can not explain it exactly."
"Then Mrs Taylor is quite right, Beth; you have a rare gift. That you are able to discern so much is proof of it."
Beth hesitated but briefly before asking what she had been longing for months to ask. In this private, comfortable tête-à-tête, she was emboldened to put the query before she lost her courage. "Miss Rose, were you-- were you attached to Mr Burke?"
The older woman drew back and stiffened, affronted by the impertinence of the question, angry at the old village gossip (which she assumed responsible for the girl's curiosity) - gossip that refused to die - and angry with herself that she still cared what was said.
At Miss Rose's withdrawal and the displeasure plain on her face, Beth shrank back. "Oh - please forgive me, Miss Rose! Please forget that I ever asked such a question! I have no right, no right at all--"
Remembering the girl's plight, and well imagining the despair she was facing, the difficulties she had yet to face, Miss Rose relented. "It is perhaps only natural you should be curious, Beth." Her features softened as she went on to admit, "Yes," speaking softly, "I was - very much so."
"Was-- was he attached to you as well? Did he pay you his attentions?"
"Yes. We had talked of marriage."
"What happened, Miss Rose? Why did you not marry?"
"I fell ill and lost the use of my eyes not long before we were to have been betrothed. I was frightened and angry; I could not bear to be so helpless, so humiliatingly dependent on my husband for the most trifling of things, and I did not think Mr Burke equal to the circumstances that had befallen me."
"Oh, Miss Rose!"
"I was mistaken, very much mistaken - I know that now, Beth. Although I had thought to have known his character twenty years ago, I now realize that I knew him but little. At the time of our all-but-engagement, I deemed him inferior to me, in education and in cleverness. When we first met, I did not bother to ask much about him. I enjoyed his company and his attentions, he was fine to look at and courteous, and I thought we would suit well enough in marriage. I had not thought much on how we might live as man and wife - how we might help one another by our strengths and in our weaknesses, how we would face plenty and want, blessing and adversity, sickness and health. I am ashamed of how little I thought about those things; I am also ashamed of how I misjudged him. Perhaps he might be said to have learned much in twenty years, but in essentials, he has not changed. All I have heard of him since, and the trust and reliance placed in him by Lord Auldbury, bear this out. He is not only my equal, but much my superior, and ever was so. Although I had thought mine the stronger character, his would not have been as easily swayed as I thought. Beneath his quiet, polite manner - appropriate and necessary in his position - I now see qualities I had not noticed before. I mistook reserve for a want of cleverness, and courtesy for a want of strength. The more I have learned, the more I find to regret in my decision to refuse him. I lost the opportunity to be given a husband most suited to my character, and one more than equal to the adversities in which we so shortly found ourselves - a husband from whom I might have received much, one to whom I hope I might have given at least a little. I think now that I would likely have found him unexpectedly wise, unfailingly gentle, and unyieldingly firm..."
Beth dared not say a word, for Miss Rose had spoken as though to herself, as though she had forgotten Beth's presence, or as though speaking to an intimate friend. After several long minutes during which the two women neither moved nor seemed to breathe, Miss Rose sighed, and the spell was broken.
"I have lost something very precious, Beth. Although my feelings for him were not great enough to stand the test that befell me, his were unchanged - he was still willing to marry me; he told me so again and again, until I rebuffed him once too often. I have made a great mistake, just as you have, Beth, a mistake born of the sins of vanity and conceit, of a lack of trust and of great fear."
"Oh, but you have not done anything so bad as I, Miss Rose! You are so good! Though you have endured sadness because of it, your mistake was small. How can you compare it to what I have done?"
"All mistakes, all sins, are in the end equal, Beth. Pride, vanity, prejudice, unregulated temper or self-indulgence, intemperance in any behavior, dishonesty from small things to great - they are all wrong; the degree of them is not important."
"Oh, no, Miss Rose! What I have done will always be judged as much, much worse than anything you may have done. Everyone speaks and thinks highly of you; I am certain they speak and think of me only to criticize and judge, if they pay me any attention at all. The way they look at me is not at all how they look at you."
"I can well imagine how they look at me, Beth - with pity. I like that no more than I would condemnation. But if they think or speak well of me, it is only because they could not bring themselves to criticize someone who is blind. They would no more speak judgement on me than they would on Jenny, or on Mr Grahame, even were he not the vicar. But it is not how others judge that is the true measure of wrongdoing, Beth. What does your conscience tell you, when you have lied or spoken rudely to someone, or when you have done anything wrong? We each have a conscience, and on that conscience are written rules common to us all - whether we like to admit it or not. If we lie, our conscience will tell us it is wrong, if we steal, our conscience will rebuke us, and if we murder, it will not leave us in peace. The standard we all measure ourselves against is that of perfection, and against that, we all fall short."
"But a small, harmless lie or a single word of rudeness and-- and a murder are so different - how can you compare such things?"
"They do seem very different, do they not? Well then, let us look at it another way. Imagine that you and I are trying to reach the moon. I am standing on the highest mountain on earth, and you are standing in the deepest part of the sea. Which one of us will reach the moon first?"
"Neither of us - no one can reach the moon, Miss Rose!"
"Precisely, Beth. Though it may appear that I stand much higher than you, I have no more chance of succeeding than you have. Even those who stand the highest, the best persons in the world - of whom I most certainly am not one - have things for which they need forgiveness, as have the worst persons, and even a murderer can be forgiven if he is truly penitent."
Beth sat for a time, digesting this analogy. "So, you don't think me so bad that I can not be forgiven, that I can not have some happiness in life, even though I did such a terrible thing?"
"Beth - you did wrong, as did I. Whether or not you can be forgiven depends on whether you are sorry for what you have done. What the rest of your life will be will depend on you - not entirely on you, but to a great extent on how you choose to act in circumstances yet to come."
Another brief silence ensued while the girl contemplated the hands folded on her growing expanse of lap. "What about you, Miss Rose? Are you still attached to Mr Burke? Do you think it is too late for you to be happy with him? He has remained unmarried - surely that must mean something. He seems still to hold you in great regard. He certainly looks at you a great deal, and in a way... Well, I would be pleased if someday a fine man would look at me in that manner, but I am sure no decent man ever will again," she added bitterly.
"You can not be sure about that, Beth." Then, realizing the girl's question went deeper than idle curiosity, the older woman thought carefully before she spoke again. "For myself, I do not know. Only one year ago I would have answered, yes, it is too late, and that I had given over any such hope, that I had laid aside such feelings. However, since Lord Auldbury has come home to stay - or so I have been told - and with him Mr Burke, I have thought of the possibility - it has been difficult not to do so, knowing he was so near - but I doubt very much that it will ever be."
"Whyever not, Miss Rose?"
The teacher bowed her head; her next words were low, her voice trembled. "I do not know if he would be able to forgive me. I was unbearably rude to him, unforgivably hurtful."
"Of course he would forgive you! He must! I am sure he will - if you ask him. You have said that I could be forgiven - surely you can! I am sure he has already forgiven you - he still pays you his attentions. He chose you especially to dance with, and took such good care of you, and you have been riding with him now every day, have you not?"
Miss Rose lifted her head and laughed ruefully. "Is it from the tale-bearing patterers of the parish that you have learned this, or have you seen us yourself? I should have known that everyone would know of it by now."
"Well, you have ridden past this house quite often, so..." Beth grinned in turn, her tears forgotten, her heart yearning for good news for Miss Rose, for if this good lady could enjoy the prospect of happiness, counting herself as no better than a murderer, then perhaps there was hope for Beth as well - who counted her own sins as being greater than pride but falling short of murder. "Have you not had any conversation? Surely you can not have ridden in silence these many days!"
The older woman coloured at the thought of how she had forced herself to ask questions, to fill uneasy times of quiet. "No, we have not ridden in silence. I have asked him of his travels with Lord Auldbury, and he has told me much, speaking in great detail, bringing their adventures alive for me in vivid colour and sound and feel. I have come to envy him his experiences - and to envy anyone who has been in his company. I-- I must say I have enjoyed each hour in his company; I wish that we could continue so, even if nothing more should ever come of it. But even so-- He-- I--" She stopped for so long that Beth held her breath, fearing she would not continue. "I have not told anyone of this, Beth, but I would so like to hope--"
"Oh! Has he spoken? Has he said anything?"
"No, not in so many words, and so I am afraid - afraid to hope too much. I hurt him deeply - it pains me to know how deeply. Beneath his reserve, he is a very sensible man, though he shows it little. I am so grateful for, and surprised at, the common kindness he still shows me, and that he treats me as a friend. Though I should not hope for more than that, I cannot help doing so. As you say, he has not married anyone else..." She smiled shyly in Beth's direction. The girl replied to the trust she had just been given by reaching out to squeeze the teacher's hand.
"Perhaps he is waiting for you to speak - oh, do! Do speak and ask his forgiveness! I am sure that his kindness is not so common, but very particular - for you. Oh, I hope he will speak soon. I will hope all the best for you, Miss Rose. And - I will not say a word to anyone, I promise!"
Hannah finished her duties at the Swallow's Nest Inn and returned home during a lull in the rain, though the dull skies above promised more showers to come. As Beth was no longer needed, she and Miss Rose made ready to leave the Burns' home, Beth taking her place to lead Miss Rose to her cottage before continuing to the old gamekeeper's cottage. As they quitted the house, Miss Rose hesitated on the doorstep, and Beth waited, expecting that the teacher had forgotten something.
"Beth, do you have time to see me to the baker's shop before we go to my cottage? I had almost forgotten that Miss Ross will not have time to go, as she is at the far end of the village today."
"Of course, Miss Rose. It does not look as if it would rain again right away, and I am early today, anyway."
They soon arrived at and entered Mr Brown's establishment, both of them enjoying the welcoming warmth of the shop, after the chill damp outside, and the alluring smells of the baker's goods, with fresh loaves and pastries from the afternoon ovens having replaced those bought in the morning.
"Good afternoon, ladies. What may I offer you?"
After hearing what Mr Brown had prepared, Miss Rose made her selections. While the baker made a neat parcel of them she and Beth waited near the counter, with their backs to the door. Two women came in, deep in conversation, unmindful of anything else.
"I declare I do not know what his lordship will do without him - and after five and twenty years of service!"
"Well, his lordship has never, at the best of times, been a fashion plate - he has not made full use of the man's talents in that regard, though he has certainly used him for everything else imaginable. I could not abide traipsing 'round the world as he has been asked to do, enduring heaven only knows what dangers and discomforts! I wonder if he had any idea that his service would entail the like when he first arrived! Now that he is settled here once again, perhaps Lord Auldbury prefers someone less fastidious, or perhaps someone younger and more biddable."
"And where is Mr Burke to go, what is he to do - have you heard?"
"Not a word! But only three days ago I saw him about the village, showing a lady around - a stranger - or, at least, no one that I could recognize. A very pretty lady she was - from Kent, I believe - well dressed and very polite, I was told."
"I was told she is a young widow, a Mrs Wellborough, from Oxford."
"Indeed! I doubt that, for she appeared far too young to have ever been married. Perhaps what you heard was not quite right, but no matter!" rushing on before her companion could attempt to dispute this. "They inspected several of the empty cottages; he showed her all the shops; they passed by the Inn several times, though they did not stop. After she had seen the rest of the village, Mr Burke took her into the church, and I hear they met with Mr Grahame."
"My! Wouldn't it be something if he should marry after all these years! If there is anyone who would make a good husband, 'tis certainly Mr Burke. Why, there's nothing the man can not turn his hand to, so I've been told, what with all his experiences. Do you suppose - that woman--"
"Well, he certainly deserves some happiness after so long. I have always had the greatest sympathy for him - she was surely not in her right mind - and he such a handsome, capable, polite gentleman! He was treated most shamefully, in my opinion! And tisn't natural for men to be alone at all - they end by looking so pitiful. Why, just look at his lordship himself, living in that great Hall all alone, with nothing to do, no one to look after him. Every man, even one with no fortune at all, has need of a good wife. Perhaps Mr Burke has finally found someone who recognizes his worth, who will settle with him and give him a family. I can only wish him all the happiness in the world. Then, perhaps, Miss-- Oh!"
Mrs Gilbert and Miss Goldsmith stopped short as they recognized Miss Rose and Beth standing before them. The teacher had not moved, standing as if turned to stone, while Beth turned to glare at the gossiping intruders. The innkeeper's wife flushed a deep crimson, and the seamstress gave in to a fit of coughing. As they met a frown on the face of the baker as well, they turned as one and quitted the shop.
A flash of lightning followed their departure, and a rumble of thunder echoed in the silence.
Chapter 9, Part 2
Poor Miss Rose! After the mortifying end to their visit at the baker's shop, Beth had accompanied Miss Rose to her cottage, but there had been no more conversation between them. At the stricken look in the teacher's eyes, Beth had longed to speak some consolation - dismissing the gossip they had overheard as arrant nonsense - or to offer the comfort of a warm touch; she had dared do neither. The confiding mood had been banished. Miss Rose had walked with shoulders back and head held high, though the hand that had lain on Beth's arm trembled so that Beth had offered to carry the older woman's parcels for her. Where was Mr Burke going? Why was he leaving Lord Auldbury? Was he leaving the village? Why had he not spoken of it to Miss Rose? Who was the woman he had been in company with? What-- Beth was distracted from her thoughts by insistent speech from Jenny Taylor.
"What will you name your baby, Beth? Will you call it Beth? or maybe Joanna Taylor, or Tabitha Ross?"
"If it is a boy, you could call him Stephen, or Ralph, or Lucas Johnson,"
"or Sydney Hobart, or Denis Gilbert,"
"or Josiah Carter."
"or Michael Grahame,"
"You could call a girl Betsey or Hannah, or Martha Hobart, or Rose Black,
"or Phoebe or Julia."
"Oliver Fairfield is a nice name."
"Jonathan Brownleigh is also a nice name."
"If you have twins, they could be Jacob and Joel."
"or boys could be David, Simon, Thomas, Andrew, Mark or Phillip."
"Perhaps a girl could be called Amelia Gilbert or Hester Goldsmith."
Beth and Jenny were together in the kitchen, washing and drying the supper dishes. As she spoke each name, Jenny stopped what she was doing; between her offerings she returned to her work - giving the dish she was holding another careful rub with the drying cloth. Beth was amused by, and deeply grateful for, the older woman's simple, open manner. While others in the village had received the news of Beth's condition with shock - reacting with condemnation and scorn, ignoring her out of hand, or treating her with pitying condescension or pitying kindness - Jenny had shown nothing but calm acceptance, and her manner had changed not at all. Beth was not certain how this childlike woman had learned the truth, whether from her mother or from simple observation - knowing that women who grew stout appeared after a time with babies, babies to be admired, held, inquired after, and named. Her former disturbed thoughts flown, Beth smiled at each suggestion, though her smile faded at the last two. Jenny had begun by listing her particular friends in the village, continuing with those others whom she knew best. If she continued so, the entire population of the parish would end by being put forward with possible names for the child. That Lord Auldbury's nephew had made a good impression was evidenced by his inclusion in the list. Though Jenny had surely not met some of them for many years, all eight of Mr Burns' sons had been named. Beth did not recognize a 'Betsey' from the village, so Betsey must be the woman who had first befriended Jenny in London so long ago. Jenny's loyalty to friends recognized nothing of time or distance.
"I have not yet thought of a name, Jenny." Beth stopped short, realizing the truth of her own words - and the implications of Jenny's first simple question. This talk of names made her realize that the child to be born would be a person, with a separate body and soul, not simply a doll to be dressed in small clothes. The enormity of it dawned on her and grew; she stood stock-still as it overwhelmed her.
Jenny tried vainly to gain Beth's attention and finally called to her mother to come, for there was surely something wrong with their friend, who stood staring at one wall with a piece of dripping crockery clenched in her hands.
Mrs Taylor came into the kitchen and drew the unresisting girl to a chair, taking a large bowl from her and placing it on the table. "My dear, what is it?" Then, "What were the two of you speaking of, Jenny?"
"We were talking of names for Beth's baby, Mama. I thought that Stephen or Ralph would be good names, or Hannah or Tabitha Ross or Martha Hobart, if it is a girl. What do you think, Mama? What name should Beth give the baby? Don't you think Rose Black would be a nice name? or Sydney Hobart? or Oliver Fairfield?"
Mrs Taylor looked at Beth, who, with all colour drained from her cheeks, seemed to hear nothing that was being said. "Beth?" She spoke more loudly, shaking the girl's arm gently. "Beth! Are you unwell? Would you like to lie down?"
Beth looked at Mrs Taylor finally, as if for the first time seeing and hearing her. "Oh, Mrs Taylor! I had not realized-- I had not thought..."
"Thought what, Beth?"
"It will be a small child! It will have a name; it will grow older and play games and grow older still and be a young man or woman someday - and I will be its mother! Whatever shall I do?"
Mrs Taylor strove to keep a slight smile hidden as she listened to the girl, to whom these were clearly revelations of great moment, completely un-thought of before this day. Sending Jenny to her room on an errand that would take her some time to complete, the older woman prepared tea and joined Beth at the kitchen table, urging a cup of strong tea on the girl before speaking again. "Why, yes, Beth - a small child who will need all your love and your care."
"But I know nothing of children, of babies! I shall not know what to do, not the very least thing! What if it should be a boy? I know nothing at all of boys! What if there should be twins? Whatever shall I do?"
"Beth, no new mother knows everything; you need not do everything all at once or know everything at once, and you need not be alone during this time, or in the years to come. There will be those to help you and teach you. You will learn more each day and each year. That is the way with all mothers, Beth."
"But what if I can not care for it? What if I should become ill? What if the baby should become ill? What if it is born maimed? Where is the money to come from? Oh, what shall I do, where shall I go, what will become of me?"
Question followed upon question, each more distraught than the one before. Mrs Taylor sought to sooth and calm with whatever comfort she could think of. After a time the girl quieted, though she continued pale. Mrs Taylor left her chair to add more tea to the pot. She returned and poured out, adding sugar to her own cup and stirring it absentmindedly. "There is another possibility, my dear. If you feel you can not care for the child, you could give it up to someone who would love and care for it. A husband and wife could take and raise the child as their own. There are many fine persons who would welcome your child."
"Is-- Is this what I should do? Is this what you advise me to do?"
"I can not make any decision for you, Beth; I only want to lay before you the choices you may make. Some young widowers find that they can not take care of their children alone and have been known to give them up to a relative or a friend, and no guilt or shame is attached to such a choice. For some young women, giving up a natural child is the best decision. For others, keeping the child, even in difficult circumstances, can be a joy and a blessing, as it proved to be for Mrs Hobart. Perhaps you would do well to speak with Martha again. You may also wish to speak with Miss Ross. She has much experience with young mothers and babies. Though she will breach no confidences, she may tell you of other women and girls who have borne natural children, how each decided, and how each has fared."
"But how shall I know what to choose? How shall I decide?"
"Beth, do not you think your uncle the best person - the only right person - to help you make such a decision? He is your guardian. He will want to help you and to care for you and the child. Do not you think it time to write to him?" As the girl shrank back in her chair and paled sheet-white, saying nothing but shaking her head pitifully, Mrs Taylor sighed. She drew Beth into her motherly embrace, holding the girl until her panic subsided, until she could be persuaded to retire for the evening. The older woman urged nothing more upon her but a soothing draught and a wish that she might sleep well.
Chapter 9, Part 3 ~ A Time to Break Down and a Time to Build Up
Despite Mrs Taylor's good wishes, Beth slept but fitfully. She woke the next morning with spirits as dull and heavy as the leaden clouds above, which promised another day of rain. Her head ached and her face was pale. Her panic of the previous evening had settled into a gloom that seemed as little likely to lift as a heavy fog when there was no prospect of sun. Her spirits were not raised by Jenny's friendly chatter, and she heard few of the many remarks addressed to her. When Mrs Taylor, concerned at her pallour, suggested she stay quietly at the cottage rather than sit with Mr Burns, Beth roused herself and begged to be allowed to go, saying that the activity and the change in scene would do her good, but she relapsed into a listless silence as she and Mrs Taylor walked into the village together. As she passed down the High Street, Beth did not think to look for the disapproving glances or whispers she dreaded.
When she entered the Burns' home, the Gilberts were there, with their son. Mr Gilbert and Ralph had just finished helping Mr Burns, settling him comfortably in his chair, where he was well-wrapped in blankets. Though the days were yet warm, the old man often complained, albeit only mildly, of feeling the cold. Mrs Gilbert had come to bring a hot pie, some cake, and two glasses of fresh plum preserves, and was now occupied in fussing 'round the gentleman, adjusting a cushion here and a coverlet there. Though Beth tried to pass the parlour unnoticed by the sharp-tongued woman, meaning to go to the kitchen until the Gilberts should have left, she did not succeed, for the innkeeper's wife had equally sharp eyes and ears.
"My! You do not look at all well, miss. Are you certain you should have come? Perhaps you would do better to return to Mrs Taylor, or rather, to her cottage. You will do Mr Burns no good looking as you do!"
Beth stopped. "Thank you for your concern, Mrs Gilbert. I shall be well enough."
After a shrewd glance at the young girl, Mr Burns spoke, in a voice weak of tone but firm of intent. "She will suit verra well, Mrs Gilbert, and I shall be sure she does not tire herself. Miss Ross will be by like as not, an' she can judge whether or no' the lass is fit to stay. Miss Beth, if ye are on your way to the kitchen, I would be glad o' some tea. A nice cuppa will do ye good as well."
"Of course, Mr Burns. I shall make it directly."
"Nonsense! You look much too ill - as though you might faint away at any moment, you're so pale. You should not be here at all. Mr Burns, why did you not say that you wished tea? I shall make some straightaway."
Ralph looked up from the papers he was ordering on the table near Mr Burns. "Mama, have you forgotten you are expecting a guest early this morning? You will not wish to keep him waiting."
Mrs Gilbert made a sound of vexation. She had forgotten, in her desire to see Beth gone. "You are right, Ralph. Very well, miss, if you are determined to stay, we shall be on our way. Come along, Ralph."
"I would like to stay as long as Mr Burns wants me, Mama. Papa said that you would not need me just yet."
"Sure an' the boy - beg pardon - your fine young man, is givin' me a bit o' help wi' a particular matter, Mrs Gilbert. If ye can see your way to sparin' him a wee while longer..."
"Well, if it's something to help you, Mr Burns, why then of course he may. But I want him home as soon as may be." Mrs Gilbert sniffed as she avoided looking at Beth. This mother was loath to allow her only son to spend time in the company of this girl, whom she regarded as a scandalous presence and corrupting influence in the village. He had spent far too much time in her company already. It was most unfortunate that Ralph was so much needed by Mr Burns and that the girl had so wormed her way into the old man's good graces, but nothing could be said against the girl directly - Mr Burns would not hear of it, as Mrs Gilbert well knew. At least the girl's confinement would soon remove her from village life for a time. Perhaps after that she would leave altogether - a conclusion to be hoped for, and perhaps encouraged in some way?
"Now, Ralph, mind you don't stay long. You will tire Mr Burns out, and you know you have much work to do at home. I want to see good progress on that new piece, so that Lord Auldbury can look at it soon. His lordship is very eager to see it, you know. He told me so just yesterday."
While Mr Burns hid a weak grin at this serious misstatement of fact, Ralph did his best to appear as if he agreed.
"Yes, Mama."
"Now, Mr Burns, are you quite certain that there is nothing else I may bring you, nothing more you might fancy?"
"No, ma'am. I thank ye for what ye've already brought."
"Not at all, sir. What are neighbours for, after all? Well, then - Ralph, remember to come home soon."
"Yes, Mama."
The bonneted head disappeared and quiet came to the room. With a wordless salute to Mr Burns and Beth, Mr Gilbert made to follow his wife. His exit was halted and the quiet interrupted as Mrs Gilbert reappeared.
"Don't forget to stop at the baker's for the bread, Ralph." Coming further into the room once more, she reached into her reticule and extracted a note, which she gave to her son. "I've written everything down for you."
"Yes, Mama."
"Mr Brown promised me five extra loaves. Be sure to count them."
"I will, Mama."
"I expect you within the half-hour, then. Mind you don't dawdle here."
"Come along, Amelia. The boy will come when he has done here and not a moment sooner. If need be, I can fetch the bread well enough myself." With this admonishment - the first that Beth had ever heard from him - he turned and quit the room, his wife following him reluctantly, throwing annoyed glances at Beth as she left.
The girl stood unflinching, though uncomfortably aware of the woman's ill will and of the eyes that shot darts of dislike as pointed as were her words. Though the words of this woman often caused her the discomfort they were meant to, Beth had sometimes found humour in the woman's attitude as well. It was obvious the older woman had the unlikely thought that a girl in Beth's circumstances might bewitch her son, leading him astray. She had made strenuous objections to Ralph's coming to see Mr Burns at all so long as the girl were there - having been suspicious of the girl long before her condition was known - and tried her best each day to hurry him away. Only through the unusual intervention of Mr Gilbert and the good-natured requests of Mr Burns had Ralph been allowed to remain in the same room as Beth at all over the past weeks. Seeing no humour at all today, however, Beth resumed her way to the kitchen, wiping away a few tears as she went.
Despite his mother's objections, Ralph had come every day since the beginning of the carpenter's confirmed illness, either with his father or with Mr Hobart, and had stayed on nearly every day. He used these early times - when Mr Burns was most able to think and speak - to discuss plans with the carpenter. As on each previous morning, the two men were soon deep in a discussion over the merits of woods and supports, nails and tools, and the sundry other materials and considerations of the carpenter's trade.
While Beth was still preparing the wished-for tea, an impatient knocking heralded and preceded Mrs Gilbert's appearance in the parlour once more.
"Have you not done yet, Ralph? Surely Mr Burns is much too tired to think of such things. Can you not see he would rather be left in peace? Come along!"
The two men replied together. "Nay, Mrs Gilbert. We have no' yet done. A few minutes more, if ye please," and, "Mama, it has been only ten minutes."
"Has it really? It seemed positively an hour to me. Very well, but mind you come soon."
"I will come, Mama, as soon as I am finished. I promise." The smile that accompanied the last words apparently mollified his mother, for it was returned with an indulgent look and smile as the woman quitted the room for the third time that morning.
As they heard the door close, Ralph and Mr Burns shared a grin, though Ralph's was replaced with an anxious look as Mr Burns leaned back with a sigh and admitted, "I'm afraid your Ma is right, Ralph, loathe as I am to admit it. I am feeling a wee weary. I only wish it were no' so. Stay, by all means, though - ye'll no' be breaking your promise, as ye've no' finished. At least here ye can work in peace."
"Thank you, sir. I am glad for the offer, for as soon as ever I get home, Mama is sure to want me to be working on something or other, and no matter what the something, it is sure to be a disaster! How Lord Auldbury has stood it this long is a mystery to me."
"Och - he knows your Ma, an' that she only means well, dotin' on ye as she does, as is only natural. She'll soon have other cause to be grateful to his lordship, I'm sure, as soon as she learns of the plans. An' how he'll withstand her appreciation then I'm sure I dinna know!"
Beth appeared, bearing the tea tray, and Ralph went to take it from her and place it on a convenient table. She gave a cup to her host, adding a special draught, given her by Miss Ross to make up for Mr Burns each day, and poured second and third cups for Ralph and for herself. Although her spirits were still depressed, the actions of being useful were most welcome, and the strong tea brought some colour to her cheeks. They drank in companionable silence.
When his cup was drained, Mr Burns nodded and fell into a comfortable, painless sleep, his shrinking frame supported in a nest of cushions. Beth gently took the cup and saucer from a pillow on the old man's lap and removed the tea tray to the kitchen. Ralph returned to his sheets of paper, making calculations and adding figures or sketches.
After she had finished clearing away, Beth came to sit in her usual chair. Resolutely, she pulled out a drawing she had begun several days before. A family in the village had asked for a likeness of their four lively children. Beth had begun by making rude outlines while the children were made to sit still, but this had taxed the restless limbs well beyond their ability to endure. She had promised to finish the work without the children - despite misgivings on the part of the mother - and was now preparing to fulfill that promise. While she readied her materials, Ralph brought another lamp near where she was sitting, to better light the paper, as the day was dark. Thanking him absently, Beth sat absorbed in the marks her pencils made, concentrating so that she did not notice that the young man had not returned to his seat but stood at her shoulder, watching as her hand moved over the paper.
"You do that well, Miss Beth. I wish I could bring children, or anything, to life as you do. I would know the four young Swifts anywhere from your drawing of them."
"Oh - thank you. It is nothing."
"It is not at all nothing - it is quite something. I know of no one else here in the village who can draw so well. I wish I could - and it would please my mother no end, though, of course, it would come as no great surprise to her: she already thinks I can."
The young man had hoped his joke, feeble though it was, would draw the girl out of her apathy. In the past months, they had spent hours together here in the Burns' rooms as Ralph alternately assisted and was assisted by the old carpenter. Ralph thought her a pleasant girl, honoured her for the care she was taking for this old friend of his, and admired the great talent she possessed. It amused him that this girl, so despised and disparaged by his mother, had the gift Mrs Gilbert so desired for her son. The young man had been shocked by the revelation of Beth's condition, for she had not seemed to him a girl so wanton as some in the village judged her. He and Mr Burns had spoken a little of it; the old man had been deeply saddened by the girl's situation, knowing how difficult a time she would now likely have. Without talking over or speculating on the many tales flying about the neighbourhood, they had come to their own conclusion: Though the girl had been once misled - and perhaps willingly - it did not seem a habit, and she now appeared humbled by the outcome of what she had done. The last weeks had brought an increasing want of spirits in her - perhaps it was not surprising - but today a deeper depression was evident, and he was sorry to see it.
"Can you imagine? I am now to work a statue of what should be the King himself - on horseback, no less - and, of course, I began with a sketch, an outline, just as you have done. I do not think His Highness would thank me for it, were he to see it. I should more likely be brought up on charges of libel. I am that relieved to know there is little chance of anyone seeing it. If nothing else, his lordship would most certainly forbid any public display."
Ralph's pleasantry penetrated Beth's abstraction and was rewarded with a weak smile. She was grateful to this young man. His simple courtesy - in such great contrast to his mother's treatment of her - reminded Beth of the young man she had met in London, who had shown her kindness when she had been in her first despair, offering her such meager funds as he was possessed of towards her travel to and stay in Auldbridge. Instead of returning at once to her drawing, she looked across to the papers strewn before Ralph as he sat over his own work again.
"Are those plans for Lord Auldbury? What are they?"
"Yes, they are, and I am sure he will be more pleased to see them than he would an inept piece of statuary." He smiled as he looked up, glad to hear more than two words together from Beth today. "They are for the new school and its outbuildings. They are almost complete, and will be entirely so if I can have but a few more hours without interruption."
Without thinking, Beth asked, "How can you stand her interruptions, and her expectations of you?" She blushed hotly, realizing how rude her words were. "Oh, I do beg pardon! That was unforgivable of me."
"It is quite all right, Miss Beth. I am sure there are many who agree with you - his lordship, if no one else."
Seeing the young man had not taken offense, Beth ventured a further comment. "It is such a shame that she does not see what good work you are doing here. She only wishes you to work on artistic things, and you do not seem to be interested in them at all."
The young man grinned widely, "If you had ever seen any of them - and you should be thankful to have been spared the sight - you would understand my complete lack of interest; it springs from my complete lack of talent."
"But you are talented - in this work. Why do you consent to waste your time with other things at all?"
Ralph considered the papers before him for several moments. "I know her ideas seem ridiculous, but Mr Burns is right. I try to remember that she does love me and wants what is best for me, even if she is mistaken in what that might be. She has always longed for an artist in the family, and has set all her hopes on me. Perhaps it is because a cousin of ours is making a name for himself as a painter, and she can not bear to have her own son outdone. I oblige her as I can because she is my mother. It has not hurt me to do a few things now and then, and it has given her great pleasure. She is truly blind to the fact that I am a complete inept in art; she sees only what she so desperately wishes to see."
"Why does not your father make her see the truth?"
"He feels some battles are not worth fighting. He would have liked me to take over the Inn someday, but he sees how the custom is every year growing less. When he saw how well I did in helping him with repairs about our buildings, he thought this sort of work would provide a better living than the Inn. A good carpenter will always find work, and I have been fortunate to have learned from a very good carpenter, indeed. Father arranged for me to go to the Hall while Mr Burns was still there, to learn the trade properly. In important matters my father can be firm, but in small matters he prefers peace in the house. I suppose I do, too. Mama will see eventually, I am sure - especially if the news comes from his lordship. I only hope she will not faint from the shock, or throw herself about his lordship's neck to show her gratitude." Ralph was pleased to see another fleeting smile at the prospect conjured by his words.
"You bear it all so patiently. I think I would scream with frustration. Have you never wanted to scream or shout? Have you never been tempted to run away, to escape your mother's expectations - which you yourself say you can not hope to meet?"
"Even were I to wish to leave, Miss Beth, I could not wish to hurt my mother, as my leaving would most certainly do - especially seeing as I have no brothers or sisters to remain here."
Beth watched again as Ralph bent his head to his work. "Have you always lived here?"
"Yes, always. I have never been out of Auldbridge."
"What - never, truly? Not even with your father, to town, perhaps?"
"No, my mother has always insisted she could not bear to remain here alone, not even for a day. If someday an opportunity is offered me when it will not offend Mama, perhaps I shall go, but it is of little consequence whether I go or not."
"Have you never wanted to leave, to see other places?"
Ralph smiled at her amazement. "I do not think so; I am content here. It is, after all, my home."
"Do you not wish to see other places then, other towns, other counties, perhaps even other countries? Have you no wish even to see London? London is not so very far from Auldbridge - one can travel there and back in a day, and it is such a great, beautiful place, with well-known areas and shops, public rooms and parks, and such a variety of people."
"I find it beautiful here, Miss Beth. Auldbury surely has no equal in all of England, with its grounds and its gardens, its forests and farms, and the Hall itself, of course. All my friends, my childhood companions, are here in the village or at the Hall. I have heard that London is crowded, dirty and noisy, with bad air and bad neighbourhoods, and that not all the society is pleasant. I should much prefer the country to such a place, though to you, I suppose, this village may seem too quiet, too confined, too backward; I suppose you have traveled much, to London and other towns? Have you lived in London?"
Beth coloured, recalling her last travels and the subsequent ignominious events. Although she would have liked to rise to the defense of town and society, in honesty, she felt she could not, from her experiences, do so. "No, I have lived mostly in the country, in Dorsetshire, but I never liked it. I always wanted to see more, but when I did, it was not exactly as I had expected... I have been to Bath, with a friend. I have been to London often, but only because--" The colour deepened as she realized what she had nearly let slip out. The young man seemed to pay no special notice or, if he did, he showed no sign.
"Is that where you would live, then?"
"No," said Beth, and was surprised to find her answer nothing less than the truth. She spoke again more slowly. "No, I think I might like to visit London from time to time, or other places of culture and history, but I would prefer always to return to the country - if I could live in a village like Auldbridge. You are right, it is a beautiful place, and you are fortunate to live here."
The two young people returned to their separate work, both making good progress in the next hour. As Mr Burns woke again, Ralph assisted him a last time and helped to bring out a light refreshment, before leaving as he had been bid by his mother. He was satisfied with his morning's work on two accounts: His plans were, at last, finished, and he was glad to leave Beth in better spirits than when she had first come.
Chapter 9, Part 4
Mr Burns had just done eating when a knock came at the door. Beth found Mr Grahame standing on the doorstep, and with him a second gentleman. Both men's garments were glistening wet from the steady rain that fell, and Beth hastened to invite them in.
"Good day, Miss Beth. I trust you are well?" At her brief reply, the vicar continued, "How is Mr Burns today? Is he able to receive a visitor?"
"He is much the same as he has been of late, Mr Grahame. I know he will be happy to see you - your visits cheer him no end - and I am sure he would be glad to meet any acquaintance of yours." As she spoke, Beth could not help giving the other man an inquisitive glance. He was about the vicar's age, or perhaps a few years older, but a smaller, slighter man, with a countenance somehow familiar to Beth, though she could not say when or where she might have seen it before.
Leaving the men's cloaks to drip in the entrance, she led the way to the parlour. That Mr Grahame had not troubled to introduce his companion served only to heighten Beth's curiosity; it was most unlike the vicar to neglect this common courtesy. At the doorway she stood aside, allowing the men to precede her. The clergyman went forward with a hearty greeting; the other man hung back, moving after a few moments to stand behind the taller man.
Mr Burns looked up as he noticed the newcomer. "Mr Grahame! 'Tis kind of ye to come today. Sit down, sit down, do, if ye can stay a while."
"I will stay if you like, of course, Mr Burns, although I have another call to pay shortly, but I have come today to bring you a visitor. I hope that you will welcome him in my place as he is most eager to speak with you." The vicar moved aside to reveal his companion, who stepped forward hesitantly.
"I have come home, father. Have you still a welcome for me?"
The shrunken figure supported by cushions and the arms of his chair sat motionless and stared up at the young man for a time before asking, "Are ye come alone? Is your brother no' wi' ye?"
"No. He would not come, though I begged him. So I am here alone - to ask if you can forgive me, to ask if I am still your son."
After another silence - during which time Mr Burns' eyes searched the face of the man standing humbly before him and filled with tears - the old man stretched out both hands, making as if to rise but succeeding only in shifting himself a handsbreadth forward. "Of course ye are still my son, and always welcome. My forgiveness ye might have had at any time; I've waited years for ye to ask that I might tell ye so, and I'm that glad that ye've finally come." The younger man stepped forward quickly to grasp the extended hands, then knelt beside the older man's chair to bury his face in the blanket wrapped around his father's chest.
Beth, watching the scene with rapt attention, her own eyes becoming moist, started as she felt a hand on her sleeve and heard a quiet voice in her ear.
"Miss Beth, perhaps you and I might prepare more tea, for Mr Joel Burns if not for his father. He has had a long journey to come here."
"Yes, of course, sir." Repressing a desire to look back, to see more of this touching, unanticipated drama, she followed the vicar to the kitchen and busied herself with preparations. While the vicar refilled the kettle and replaced it on the fire, Beth added more tea to the pot and readied fresh cups and plates.
"They should be left alone for a time, Miss Beth. I rather think there is much to be said between them, and those many words will best be said in private. It is a pity that it rains, else I would suggest we go out on any errands you may have."
"I have no errands, although I am not afraid of a little rain, sir, but do you really think we should leave them alone in the house? Mr Burns' son - it is his son, is it not? - is not acquainted with his father's condition. Had I not better remain to see that Mr Burns has need of nothing? I would be glad to stay here, out of the way. I promise you I will not disturb them."
"Perhaps you are right." The vicar smiled at the girl's evident concern for the gentleman in her care, at her solemn promise, and at her valiant effort at suppressing the interest showing so plainly in her eyes. "If you can manage, then, I will return after paying another call nearby; I will not be long. I feel a certain responsibility for this visit and am most anxious it should turn out well, though I have no real doubts, judging by the beginning."
Beth watched the vicar go with some regret that she could not ask him the reason for the scene they had just witnessed. Sighing a little over the curiosity that was unlikely to be soon satisfied, she readied more refreshments and carried them into the parlour. There she found the younger man sitting on a footstool pulled close to his father's chair. The carpenter still held one of his son's hands in his, as if loathe to be parted any greater distance from him, as if to prevent the young man from disappearing as unexpectedly as he had come.
Mr Burns turned to the girl as she entered. "Miss Beth, I dinna believe ye know my son, Joel. He has been away for a time, but has now come home." The joy in his voice was unmistakable.
The girl acknowledged the introduction as she placed the tea things within easy reach of the younger Mr Burns. After pouring out and making certain they had all they wanted, she left the room once again. Returning to the kitchen, Beth cleared a space on the large table there and took out the drawing of the Swift children again, though she strained to hear the least sound that might escape the parlour. Less than half an hour had passed when Joel Burns came to the kitchen in search of her, inquiring anxiously, "Miss Beth? Father has fallen asleep, almost in mid-sentence - is there something should be done? someone I can fetch?"
"Oh no, sir. Mr Burns rarely stays awake longer than thirty minutes at a time now, whether he is alone or in company." As deep grief filled the man's eyes, she added gently, "You do know, sir, that your father is very ill, do you not?"
"My sister's letter reached my brother and me more than one month ago, but we did not really believe him ill. I am ashamed to say that we thought Hannah might have written - at father's instigation - only to lure us home. Mr Grahame tried to tell me more when I arrived at the vicarage, but I am afraid I did not pay him much heed. I was already far too worried about whether I should have come at all, what I should find, whether I would be welcome... Are you certain there is nothing to be done for him? Is there anything I can fetch from one of the shops? Shall I not call back the vicar, or fetch Miss Ross, perhaps?"
"There is nothing - truly. He will sleep for at least an hour or more. He is peaceful, sir, and in little pain, thanks to Miss Ross. If you do not believe me, Mr Grahame can tell you more when he returns, or you may speak with Miss Ross herself. She comes every day now, sometimes more than once. Be assured your father is well cared for, sir; he lacks nothing - Lord Auldbury and your father's neighbours see to that."
The man flushed. "Please forgive me for doubting you, miss. If Hannah and the others trust you - and Miss Ross certainly knows her business - then I must do so as well. It seems I am very much in your debt, as are my sister and my brothers. Mr Grahame tells me you have been looking after father every day, for some months."
"It is very little - I only bear him company, should he have need of something, or should Miss Ross be wanted. It is many others who look after him: Miss Ross, of course, and Mr Grahame, Mr and Mrs Hobart, Mr and Mrs Gilbert (this mention cost Beth an effort, but in all honesty she had to admit that Mrs Gilbert was a good neighbour to the carpenter, and had been even before his illness), Ralph--"
"Little Ralph? Well, no, I suppose he is no longer the small lad I recall. As to the Hobarts and the Gilberts - their help would be no more than I would expect; it would seem they have not changed at all. Is Mrs Hobart still as thin, and does she still worry so? Does she still keep a supply of gingerbread for children who come to the shop with their parents? When we went to the shop many years ago, she was sure to give us each a piece. I suppose young Stephen is also no longer a boy - he was a few years older even than Ralph. Does Mrs Gilbert still go on everlastingly about Ralph's being to be a famous something or other?" Mr Joel Burns' manner was dazed; his questions were asked with absentminded curiosity. He talked for the sake of talking, to fill the over-quiet house with some sound.
Beth wondered why he had gone from the village so long ago - long enough for Ralph Gilbert and Stephen Hobart to have grown from small boys to young men, apparently - and why he had been afraid his own father would not welcome him, though she kept her thoughts to herself as she answered. "I think you will find all those you have mentioned much as they were, sir. I could not imagine a better, more generous family than the Hobarts. Stephen Hobart is at the Hall, now, but Phoebe and Julia Hobart are very nice little girls--"
"Phoebe and Julia? So the Hobarts have two daughters? They must be very happy, then."
"The girls are eight and nine years old already. They are pupils of Miss Rose--"
"Miss Rose is still here, as well? So she never married. Does she still terrorize and amaze all the children with her strict ways, noticing everything while seeing nothing at all? And Mrs Taylor? Does she still keep the post office? Have you met her adopted daughter, perhaps? Is the poor thing still alive?"
Beth answered in some surprise, "Jenny is very well, sir. I am staying with Mrs Taylor and Jenny. They have both been very kind--"
"Mrs Taylor would be. Does Jenny still talk as much as ever? Does she give her dolls to every visitor to hold, and name each doll after every visitor?"
"Yes, she seems never to change, according to Miss Ross--"
"Dear Miss Ross..." Beth was destined not to finish any sentence, as Joel Burns seemed anxious to be speaking whatever came to his mind. He was restless, as well, and prowled about the kitchen, lifting a piece of crockery here and a pot there, opening and closing cupboard doors, touching table and chairs, and looking out each window. He seemed to forget Beth for a time, murmuring, "As if I had never left - everything as it was, nothing changed..." Wheeling abruptly, he demanded of Beth, "When does Hannah come?"
"She comes whenever she is able, sir, to dinner, if not before. She leaves all prepared before she goes out each morning. Does she not know you have come? Shall I go and tell her?"
"No, I--" He broke off as they heard a soft knock at the kitchen door.
Mr Grahame's head appeared around the opened edge. "I apologize for the intrusion. I did not wish to disturb your father, Mr Burns, so I came straight in." The vicar looked a question at the other man.
"He fell asleep as soon as I had spoken the most urgent thoughts of my heart. Though you tried to warn me, sir, I did not believe he was so ill. You were right, however - he has been more generous than I deserve. I do not know if I could do the same for a son of mine, if he had treated me so shabbily." As words fell in a torrent from Mr Joel's lips, unburdening the man of a load carried for many years, Mr Grahame took a seat at the kitchen table, prepared to listen as he did so often to those who needed no counsel or correction, but only a willing and sympathetic ear. Beth realized that, though she was most interested to hear more of this man's story, she had no right to listen, but as she made to rise from her chair, Mr Grahame caught her eye and shook his head ever so slightly. A festering boil had been lanced in this son's soul, and the vicar did not want to see this cleansing time interrupted.
"We told him, Jacob and I, that we would not stay here forever. We were tired of this small village, tired of father expecting us to work as he advised and where he advised. He claimed he could give us nothing if we wanted to leave. We did not believe him; we were impatient and greedy; we did not want to wait for his death to see what he could leave us then. We took what was not ours to take, and we left. We did not stop to think if he would be more angry or hurt. With as many furious words as we hurled at him, I did not believe he could ever forgive us, to say nothing of forgiving as readily as he has today. Until Hannah's letter reached us, we scarcely thought of home at all. Although we did not credit Hannah's message with true urgency, somehow I could no longer rest easy 'til I had come home and spoken with father. And now - to see him so weak who was never ill a single day... I am only glad I did not come too late! But to have lost so much time - I regret deeply that I did not come to my senses many years ago."
Before another word could be spoken, the heavy oaken door to the street opened noisily. A pause, then uneven, awkward footsteps were heard rushing as fast as possible, and Hannah was throwing herself into her brother's startled embrace.
"Joel - is it really you? Why did you not write that you were coming? Why did you not come sooner? Mr Grahame came and told me you were here. I could not believe my ears and had to see for myself."
Joel disentangled himself from his sister's arms, which she had flung around his neck and from which he was in danger of being lovingly strangled. "My goodness but you've grown, little one! I'm not sure I would have known you, such a lady you have become - and so very like mother, bless her! Hannah, I could not write; I did not know myself when or if I would come. I was afraid - I did not know if father would welcome me or turn me out of the house, or if any of you would want me. Even after I arrived in the village, I was not certain I would stay. Only after seeking out and speaking with your good Mr Grahame was I willing to meet father. He it was convinced me that father would accept me and could forgive me. And - before you ask, for I can see it is on the tip of your tongue, no, Jacob would not come."
"Oh, Joel! I am sorry - but so happy that you have come! It will mean the world for father, and to all of us!"
"Really?" The short question was put with genuine fear.
"How can you doubt us? Whatever pleases father pleases us all, especially now."
"However did you know where to find me, where to send your letter?"
"The directions were among father's papers. He told me of them some time ago, in case I would ever wish to find you."
"But-- How did he know?"
Mr Grahame interrupted at this point. "When your father first became ill, he told me that he had set someone to find you not long after you and your brother had left - but not to bring you back. He would not force you to come home, sir, nor would he force himself on you or your brother, for you were both of age, grown men. He simply wished to know that you were well. He never stopped loving you as his sons, and he never stopped hoping you would return - of your own wish."
Beth and Mr Grahame left the Burns' home soon after Hannah's return. It had stopped raining, and Mr Grahame had offered to accompany Beth to the Taylors' cottage since she was no longer needed this day by Mr Burns. The two walked for a time, both occupied with their own thoughts. The vicar was sending aloft silent, fervent thanks to a gracious Providence for a son reunited with his father - for the prayers of that father being answered in the manner he had hoped - and praying that the same spirit of repentance might yet move the other son to return. Beth was glad at the obvious happiness afforded Mr Burns by this homecoming, and she marveled at the great love and liberal forgiveness of this father for his wayward child. Her heart and fancy were caught by the heartwarming drama - with so pleasing an ending - and she wished nothing more than to talk it over. How fortunate that she found herself in the company of the one person with whom it would be possible to do so without being accused of gossiping or of betraying what she had heard and observed. In truth - what more natural than that they should speak of it?
"What a happy day for Mr Burns, do not you think, Mr Grahame?"
"Very happy, indeed, Miss Beth."
"It is almost like a story in a novel: an angry son leaving home, returning after many years to beg his father, who is on his deathbed, for forgiveness."
"It is much older than the oldest novel, Miss Beth; it is the age-old story of the Prodigal Son, though there are some differences from that telling: That prodigal had spent all his inheritance on riotous living and had become very poor, which circumstance brought him to repent of what he had done; he had run away alone and was possessed of an older brother who was jealous, who begrudged him a happy homecoming; and that father was not on his deathbed. I am glad it did not take abject poverty to bring Mr Joel home; I pray that Mr Jacob Burns might yet come to see his father while he lives, for I very much fear Mr Burns will not be long among us. I am happy to see that Hannah welcomed her brother as warmly as did her father; I hope the others will do so as well and not begrudge Mr Joel their father's forgiveness."
"I, too, hope his other son will come; I am sure nothing would make Mr Burns more contented, though I can not understand why his sons could ever have wanted to leave. He is a good man, and he seems a kind and wise father. Have you seen many such homecomings, Mr Grahame? I do not know of any, but I would like to think they all end so well."
"I have been privileged to see several, Miss Beth, and to have heard of others. As to a son disagreeing with a good father, it is very easy for young people to disagree with their parents or guardians - be they ever so good - and for disagreements to end in angry words and unhappy partings. Differences in age, in customs, in likes and dislikes, in expectations - all these can seem insurmountable obstacles. Sad to say, it happens not only with prodigal sons but also with prodigal daughters. The endings with either are not always happy - some prodigals never return home to be forgiven, or they wait too long."
Beth was suddenly conscious of her own actions with regard to her uncle. She had never thought of herself as a prodigal, but the short history she had just heard seemed uncomfortably close to her own. Mr Grahame's words - prodigal daughters and sons - parents and guardians - differences in expectations - waiting too long - unhappy endings - was it possible that he knew her true history, her true identity? Had Mrs Taylor or Miss Ross betrayed her and spoken of her to the clergyman? But, no - Beth would not believe it of them. Mrs Taylor had given her word, and the nurse was discretion itself, whether or not she approved. Despite a sidelong glance telling her that the vicar was lost in thought again and was hiding no special meaning behind his words, Beth's spirits, which had been raised by the easy conversation with Ralph Gilbert, his admiration for her work, and by the further happy events of the day, sank low again - in despondency returned, in growing fear and guilt.
"Have you-- have you ever known a prodigal to be rejected, sir, to be turned away, even if begging forgiveness?" she asked in a voice that would quaver, despite her efforts to speak easily. She dared not look at the tall man walking beside her.
"I am happy to say I have not, although I am sure that somewhere, at some time, it has happened, although it would be a very hard-hearted father or mother, indeed, who would not forgive a true penitent."
"Miss Rose told me that anyone can be forgiven, if they are repentant. Is that true? Or can someone do something so wrong that he can never be forgiven, even by mother or father or-- or by anyone, even if he is sorry and vows to change?"
"Our dear Miss Rose is wise, and quite right, Miss Beth. Fathers and mothers - and even aunts and uncles or grandparents, anyone who has loved and cared for a child and brought him up - love so deeply, that it would be a terrible sin, indeed, that they could not forgive. I have yet to hear of such a case." The vicar glanced quizzically at the girl beside him. Like all the rest of the villagers, he had been shocked to learn of what Beth had done, but his shock had not been long lived - he had far too great an experience of human frailties and foibles to expect perfection of anyone. He had not inquired of the girl himself, fearing that prying questions and unsolicited advice would be resented, doing more harm than good. Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross, who had most certainly known of the girl's situation before it had become apparent, were just the women to deal with the girl, and the clergyman trusted that he would be called upon should the girl - or they - be in need of his counsel. Still, he had privately wondered about Beth Willison - how she had come by these troubles, where she had come from, whether she were running away from someone who had, perhaps, mistreated her. Listening to the girl's questions today, he was more inclined to think she had simply run away from home. Although he had not meant anything by his words, it would seem he had touched her conscience. She had always given out that she had no father or mother but had avoided all other conversation about her family and her past. Perhaps there were some other relative? An uncle or an aunt? A grandparent? A legal guardian? A someone she now feared to face, by whom she feared she would not be forgiven? She seemed to be asking his counsel, if in a roundabout way, seeking comfort and some measure of hope.
The head covered against the dripping from the trees was bowed even lower, the eyes were fixed on the ground at her feet, the face was hidden from the vicar. "Mr Grahame, do-- do you think I can be forgiven?" Before he could reply, she rushed on. "I know I acted very badly, and I am sorry for it. If I could change what I have done, if I could undo it, I would do, but I can not. It does not seem that I will ever be forgiven - everyone here thinks so ill of me. I suppose you do as well."
He considered her words gravely - and his own responsibilities - before answering. "Since you admit that what you did was wrong, I see no reason why you can not be forgiven, Miss Beth. It would be un-Christian to withhold pardon in such a case, for whatever you have done. As for ill will from others, from those you have not wronged, I would not give too much weight to the words and actions of mere acquaintances; I am sure you are not speaking of those who know you best." He looked down at the girl and was relieved to see a smile, though a melancholy one, and directed downward.
As she though of the Hobarts, the Burns, Mrs Taylor and Miss Rose, she acknowledged, "No, you are right. There are those who have been kinder than I deserve, but there are not many like them."
"I think you are mistaken when you say that everyone in the village thinks ill of you. I am certain you exaggerate the number, Miss Beth. All were likely shocked at first, but surely such feelings have passed for most. As to those who do indeed bear you ill will, their feelings are likely a desire to feel superior, and as such are born of their own guilt, born more of fear rather than judgement."
"Why should anyone be afraid of me, sir? What I have done I can not hide, but it is not a disease that is dangerous or deadly, although some act as though I were somehow unclean."
"While all wrongs have consequences, not all consequences are visible, Miss Beth. Perhaps it is because others' consciences tell them they are not perfect - they have each done wrong at some time or another - that some are so much set against you. Perhaps they fear what might be, should each of their own sins have as visible a consequence as has yours - and as had mine."
"Yours, sir? What wrong can you possibly have done? There is nothing that one can see about you, sir, that can be a consequence of you doing wrong!" Beth had so forgotten the vicar's missing arm that it was several moments before she recalled it and recalled, as well, what Mrs Taylor had told her when Beth had first met the vicar and been curious about his appearance.
"I was not born so, Miss Beth," indicating his left side, where the sleeves of his shirt and coat dangled uselessly and untidily from his shoulder. "Rather, I lost my arm through disobedience. I thought I knew better than persons older and wiser than I. Now I am left with a daily reminder that I am far from perfect, a reminder that everyone can see; a consequence I, too, can not hide."
"What-- what happened, sir? Mrs Taylor once said you did not mind speaking of it, but-- but I never dared to ask."
"I do not mind, Miss Beth, although I am still ashamed of what I did. I was eighteen years old - a time when every youth feels he is immortal, that the laws of men, those of God, and even those of earth, do not bind him, a time when it is tempting to dismiss the opinions and advice of all older persons as hopelessly old-fashioned and designed only to frustrate the ambitions of youth. I was near the end of my second sea voyage - we had gone the whole way 'round Africa - and I was feeling particularly smug about my attainments. I was clever and strong; I had learned much and been singled out for praise by my captain. Before reaching England, we stopped at the Canary Islands - tropical paradises filled with all manner of exotic things. The older men went ashore at once. I and two younger boys were given certain work to finish before we were to be allowed our freedom. I had been told of these islands and was keen to be seeing them for myself. I was all for working as fast as possible; the other two were lazy, as I thought, and did not wish to exert themselves - they had no interest in setting foot on land. Although I had been warned not to work alone because of the dangers, I did so anyway. I was determined to get ashore, no matter the cost. I was determined, as well, to prove that I needed no help, no matter the task. Late the first day, while others slept or were ashore, I slipped and fell overboard, but my arm caught in a rope as I fell. I might have drowned, since I had hit my head as well and was unconscious for many hours, but the rope held me fast. I dangled thus the whole night, unable to cry out or to free myself. One of the men returning to the ship at first light found me and dragged me to safety. A surgeon was called in, but the rope had been tight about my arm for too long. The arm was useless, and the surgeon was forced to cut it off. So ended my career as a seaman, where I had planned to make my fortune. If I had not been impatient, if I had not been so certain that my own judgement was better than that of others, I would still be whole. One consequence - the lash of my captain's tongue as I was not deemed fit enough for the lash of the whip - did not last long, but the other will remind me of my folly as long as I live."
Beth listened wide-eyed to this horrifying tale. "Oh, Mr Grahame! What a terrible thing to have happened!"
"It was a terrible thing, but it was also a good thing, Miss Beth."
"How can you say that? How can there possibly be any good in a terrible thing?"
"It is a constant reminder to me that I can not do all things alone, as I once thought I could. It humbles me, in that I must accept the help of others instead of lording it over them that I am such a strong, able fellow. It allows me to sympathize when others fall into temptations, for I can never say with certainty that I would not do the same."
Beth was silent for some time, trying to understand that even Mr Grahame, as good as he seemed, had not been strong enough to resist temptation. Mrs Taylor had said that the vicar told this story willingly, even telling it from the pulpit, so there would be many who knew of it, yet everyone in the village approved of their vicar, helping him in the many things he could no longer do himself. "No one thinks at all ill of you, sir. Do you think there is hope for me - that others will at long last forgive me, that they will stop condemning me?"
"Do you remember the story of our Lord and the adulterous woman, Miss Beth?"
"I-- I think I may know it," faltered Beth, "but I do not remember it well."
"A woman was brought to our Lord who had been taken in the act of adultery, a sin punishable by death according to the law of Moses. When the religious leaders asked Him what should be done to the woman, our Lord replied, 'He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone at her.' There is no one walking this earth who can say he is without sin, Miss Beth. You asked me if I thought ill of you. The last recorded words to the woman in this story were, 'Neither do I condemn thee: go, and sin no more.' You and I, when tempted to judge or when tempted to sin, can follow no better example than given here."