CHAPTER II. THE PARSON'S MARJORY.
After some years the old people died, both in one winter, very carefullytended by their adopted son, and very quietly mourned when they weregone. People who had heard of his roving fancies supposed he wouldhasten to sell the property, and go down the river to push his fortunes.But there was never any sign of such in intention on the part of Will. Onthe contrary, he had the inn set on a better footing, and hired a coupleof servants to assist him in carrying it on; and there he settled down, akind, talkative, inscrutable young man, six feet three in his stockings,with an iron constitution and a friendly voice. He soon began to takerank in the district as a bit of an oddity: it was not much to bewondered at from the first, for he was always full of notions, and keptcalling the plainest common-sense in question; but what most raised thereport upon him was the odd circumstance of his courtship with theparson's Marjory.
The parson's Marjory was a lass about nineteen, when Will would be aboutthirty; well enough looking, and much better educated than any other girlin that part of the country, as became her parentage. She held her headvery high, and had already refused several offers of marriage with agrand air, which had got her hard names among the neighbours. For allthat she was a good girl, and one that would have made any man wellcontented.
Will had never seen much of her; for although the church and parsonagewere only two miles from his own door, he was never known to go there buton Sundays. It chanced, however, that the parsonage fell into disrepair,and had to be dismantled; and the parson and his daughter took lodgingsfor a month or so, on very much reduced terms, at Will's inn. Now, whatwith the inn, and the mill, and the old miller's savings, our friend wasa man of substance; and besides that, he had a name for good temper andshrewdness, which make a capital portion in marriage; and so it wascurrently gossiped, among their ill-wishers, that the parson and hisdaughter had not chosen their temporary lodging with their eyes shut.Will was about the last man in the world to be cajoled or frightened intomarriage. You had only to look into his eyes, limpid and still likepools of water, and yet with a sort of clear light that seemed to comefrom within, and you would understand at once that here was one who knewhis own mind, and would stand to it immovably. Marjory herself was noweakling by her looks, with strong, steady eyes and a resolute and quietbearing. It might be a question whether she was not Will's match instedfastness, after all, or which of them would rule the roost inmarriage. But Marjory had never given it a thought, and accompanied herfather with the most unshaken innocence and unconcern.
The season was still so early that Will's customers were few and farbetween; but the lilacs were already flowering, and the weather was somild that the party took dinner under the trellice, with the noise of theriver in their ears and the woods ringing about them with the songs ofbirds. Will soon began to take a particular pleasure in these dinners.The parson was rather a dull companion, with a habit of dozing at table;but nothing rude or cruel ever fell from his lips. And as for theparson's daughter, she suited her surroundings with the best graceimaginable; and whatever she said seemed so pat and pretty that Willconceived a great idea of her talents. He could see her face, as sheleaned forward, against a background of rising pinewoods; her eyes shonepeaceably; the light lay around her hair like a kerchief; something thatwas hardly a smile rippled her pale cheeks, and Will could not containhimself from gazing on her in an agreeable dismay. She looked, even inher quietest moments, so complete in herself, and so quick with life downto her finger tips and the very skirts of her dress, that the remainderof created things became no more than a blot by comparison; and if Willglanced away from her to her surroundings, the trees looked inanimate andsenseless, the clouds hung in heaven like dead things, and even themountain tops were disenchanted. The whole valley could not compare inlooks with this one girl.
Will was always observant in the society of his fellow-creatures; but hisobservation became almost painfully eager in the case of Marjory. Helistened to all she uttered, and read her eyes, at the same time, for theunspoken commentary. Many kind, simple, and sincere speeches found anecho in his heart. He became conscious of a soul beautifully poised uponitself, nothing doubting, nothing desiring, clothed in peace. It was notpossible to separate her thoughts from her appearance. The turn of herwrist, the still sound of her voice, the light in her eyes, the lines ofher body, fell in tune with her grave and gentle words, like theaccompaniment that sustains and harmonises the voice of the singer. Herinfluence was one thing, not to be divided or discussed, only to be feltwith gratitude and joy. To Will, her presence recalled something of hischildhood, and the thought of her took its place in his mind beside thatof dawn, of running water, and of the earliest violets and lilacs. It isthe property of things seen for the first time, or for the first timeafter long, like the flowers in spring, to reawaken in us the sharp edgeof sense and that impression of mystic strangeness which otherwise passesout of life with the coming of years; but the sight of a loved face iswhat renews a man's character from the fountain upwards.
One day after dinner Will took a stroll among the firs; a grave beatitudepossessed him from top to toe, and he kept smiling to himself and thelandscape as he went. The river ran between the stepping-stones with apretty wimple; a bird sang loudly in the wood; the hill-tops lookedimmeasurably high, and as he glanced at them from time to time seemed tocontemplate his movements with a beneficent but awful curiosity. His waytook him to the eminence which overlooked the plain; and there he satdown upon a stone, and fell into deep and pleasant thought. The plainlay abroad with its cities and silver river; everything was asleep,except a great eddy of birds which kept rising and falling and goinground and round in the blue air. He repeated Marjory's name aloud, andthe sound of it gratified his ear. He shut his eyes, and her imagesprang up before him, quietly luminous and attended with good thoughts.The river might run for ever; the birds fly higher and higher till theytouched the stars. He saw it was empty bustle after all; for here,without stirring a feet, waiting patiently in his own narrow valley, healso had attained the better sunlight.
The next day Will made a sort of declaration across the dinner-table,while the parson was filling his pipe.
'Miss Marjory,' he said, 'I never knew any one I liked so well as you. Iam mostly a cold, unkindly sort of man; not from want of heart, but outof strangeness in my way of thinking; and people seem far away from me.'Tis as if there were a circle round me, which kept every one out butyou; I can hear the others talking and laughing; but you come quiteclose. Maybe, this is disagreeable to you?' he asked.
Marjory made no answer.
'Speak up, girl,' said the parson.
'Nay, now,' returned Will, 'I wouldn't press her, parson. I feel tongue-tied myself, who am not used to it; and she's a woman, and little morethan a child, when all is said. But for my part, as far as I canunderstand what people mean by it, I fancy I must be what they call inlove. I do not wish to be held as committing myself; for I may be wrong;but that is how I believe things are with me. And if Miss Marjory shouldfeel any otherwise on her part, mayhap she would be so kind as shake herhead.'
Marjory was silent, and gave no sign that she had heard.
'How is that, parson?' asked Will.
'The girl must speak,' replied the parson, laying down his pipe. 'Here'sour neighbour who says he loves you, Madge. Do you love him, ay or no?'
'I think I do,' said Marjory, faintly.
'Well then, that's all that could be wished!' cried Will, heartily. Andhe took her hand across the table, and held it a moment in both of hiswith great satisfaction.
'You must marry,' observed the parson, replacing his pipe in his mouth.
'Is that the right thing to do, think you?' demanded Will.
'It is indispensable,' said the parson.
'Very well,' replied the wooer.
Two or three days passed away with great delight to Will, although abystander might scarce have found it out. He continued to take his mealso
pposite Marjory, and to talk with her and gaze upon her in her father'spresence; but he made no attempt to see her alone, nor in any other waychanged his conduct towards her from what it had been since thebeginning. Perhaps the girl was a little disappointed, and perhaps notunjustly; and yet if it had been enough to be always in the thoughts ofanother person, and so pervade and alter his whole life, she might havebeen thoroughly contented. For she was never out of Will's mind for aninstant. He sat over the stream, and watched the dust of the eddy, andthe poised fish, and straining weeds; he wandered out alone into thepurple even, with all the blackbirds piping round him in the wood; herose early in the morning, and saw the sky turn from grey to gold, andthe light leap upon the hill-tops; and all the while he kept wondering ifhe had never seen such things before, or how it was that they should lookso different now. The sound of his own mill-wheel, or of the wind amongthe trees, confounded and charmed his heart. The most enchantingthoughts presented themselves unbidden in his mind. He was so happy thathe could not sleep at night, and so restless, that he could hardly sitstill out of her company. And yet it seemed as if he avoided her ratherthan sought her out.
One day, as he was coming home from a ramble, Will found Marjory in thegarden picking flowers, and as he came up with her, slackened his paceand continued walking by her side.
'You like flowers?' he said.
'Indeed I love them dearly,' she replied. 'Do you?'
'Why, no,' said he, 'not so much. They are a very small affair, when allis done. I can fancy people caring for them greatly, but not doing asyou are just now.'
'How?' she asked, pausing and looking up at him.
'Plucking them,' said he. 'They are a deal better off where they are,and look a deal prettier, if you go to that.'
'I wish to have them for my own,' she answered, 'to carry them near myheart, and keep them in my room. They tempt me when they grow here; theyseem to say, "Come and do something with us;" but once I have cut themand put them by, the charm is laid, and I can look at them with quite aneasy heart.'
'You wish to possess them,' replied Will, 'in order to think no moreabout them. It's a bit like killing the goose with the golden eggs. It'sa bit like what I wished to do when I was a boy. Because I had a fancyfor looking out over the plain, I wished to go down there--where Icouldn't look out over it any longer. Was not that fine reasoning? Dear,dear, if they only thought of it, all the world would do like me; and youwould let your flowers alone, just as I stay up here in the mountains.'Suddenly he broke off sharp. 'By the Lord!' he cried. And when sheasked him what was wrong, he turned the question off and walked away intothe house with rather a humorous expression of face.
He was silent at table; and after the night hid fallen and the stars hadcome out overhead, he walked up and down for hours in the courtyard andgarden with an uneven pace. There was still a light in the window ofMarjory's room: one little oblong patch of orange in a world of dark bluehills and silver starlight. Will's mind ran a great deal on the window;but his thoughts were not very lover-like. 'There she is in her room,'he thought, 'and there are the stars overhead:--a blessing upon both!'Both were good influences in his life; both soothed and braced him in hisprofound contentment with the world. And what more should he desire witheither? The fat young man and his councils were so present to his mind,that he threw back his head, and, putting his hands before his mouth,shouted aloud to the populous heavens. Whether from the position of hishead or the sudden strain of the exertion, he seemed to see a momentaryshock among the stars, and a diffusion of frosty light pass from one toanother along the sky. At the same instant, a corner of the blind waslifted and lowered again at once. He laughed a loud ho-ho! 'One andanother!' thought Will. 'The stars tremble, and the blind goes up. Why,before Heaven, what a great magician I must be! Now if I were only afool, should not I be in a pretty way?' And he went off to bed,chuckling to himself: 'If I were only a fool!'
The next morning, pretty early, he saw her once more in the garden, andsought her out.
'I have been thinking about getting married,' he began abruptly; 'andafter having turned it all over, I have made up my mind it's notworthwhile.'
She turned upon him for a single moment; but his radiant, kindlyappearance would, under the circumstances, have disconcerted an angel,and she looked down again upon the ground in silence. He could see hertremble.
'I hope you don't mind,' he went on, a little taken aback. 'You oughtnot. I have turned it all over, and upon my soul there's nothing in it.We should never be one whit nearer than we are just now, and, if I am awise man, nothing like so happy.'
'It is unnecessary to go round about with me,' she said. 'I very wellremember that you refused to commit yourself; and now that I see you weremistaken, and in reality have never cared for me, I can only feel sadthat I have been so far misled.'
'I ask your pardon,' said Will stoutly; 'you do not understand mymeaning. As to whether I have ever loved you or not, I must leave thatto others. But for one thing, my feeling is not changed; and foranother, you may make it your boast that you have made my whole life andcharacter something different from what they were. I mean what I say; noless. I do not think getting married is worth while. I would rather youwent on living with your father, so that I could walk over and see youonce, or maybe twice a week, as people go to church, and then we shouldboth be all the happier between whiles. That's my notion. But I'llmarry you if you will,' he added.
'Do you know that you are insulting me?' she broke out.
'Not I, Marjory,' said he; 'if there is anything in a clear conscience,not I. I offer all my heart's best affection; you can take it or wantit, though I suspect it's beyond either your power or mine to change whathas once been done, and set me fancy-free. I'll marry you, if you like;but I tell you again and again, it's not worth while, and we had beststay friends. Though I am a quiet man I have noticed a heap of things inmy life. Trust in me, and take things as I propose; or, if you don'tlike that, say the word, and I'll marry you out of hand.'
There was a considerable pause, and Will, who began to feel uneasy, beganto grow angry in consequence.
'It seems you are too proud to say your mind,' he said. 'Believe methat's a pity. A clean shrift makes simple living. Can a man be moredownright or honourable, to a woman than I have been? I have said mysay, and given you your choice. Do you want me to marry you? or will youtake my friendship, as I think best? or have you had enough of me forgood? Speak out for the dear God's sake! You know your father told youa girl should speak her mind in these affairs.'
She seemed to recover herself at that, turned without a word, walkedrapidly through the garden, and disappeared into the house, leaving Willin some confusion as to the result. He walked up and down the garden,whistling softly to himself. Sometimes he stopped and contemplated thesky and hill-tops; sometimes he went down to the tail of the weir and satthere, looking foolishly in the water. All this dubiety and perturbationwas so foreign to his nature and the life which he had resolutely chosenfor himself, that he began to regret Marjory's arrival. 'After all,' hethought, 'I was as happy as a man need be. I could come down here andwatch my fishes all day long if I wanted: I was as settled and contentedas my old mill.'
Marjory came down to dinner, looking very trim and quiet; and no soonerwere all three at table than she made her father a speech, with her eyesfixed upon her plate, but showing no other sign of embarrassment ordistress.
'Father,' she began, 'Mr. Will and I have been talking things over. Wesee that we have each made a mistake about our feelings, and he hasagreed, at my request, to give up all idea of marriage, and be no morethan my very good friend, as in the past. You see, there is no shadow ofa quarrel, and indeed I hope we shall see a great deal of him in thefuture, for his visits will always be welcome in our house. Of course,father, you will know best, but perhaps we should do better to leave Mr.Will's house for the present. I believe, after what has passed, weshould hardly be agreeable inmates for
some days.'
Will, who had commanded himself with difficulty from the first, broke outupon this into an inarticulate noise, and raised one hand with anappearance of real dismay, as if he were about to interfere andcontradict. But she checked him at once looking up at him with a swiftglance and an angry flush upon her cheek.
'You will perhaps have the good grace,' she said, 'to let me explainthese matters for myself.'
Will was put entirely out of countenance by her expression and the ringof her voice. He held his peace, concluding that there were some thingsabout this girl beyond his comprehension, in which he was exactly right.
The poor parson was quite crestfallen. He tried to prove that this wasno more than a true lovers' tiff, which would pass off before night; andwhen he was dislodged from that position, he went on to argue that wherethere was no quarrel there could be no call for a separation; for thegood man liked both his entertainment and his host. It was curious tosee how the girl managed them, saying little all the time, and that veryquietly, and yet twisting them round her finger and insensibly leadingthem wherever she would by feminine tact and generalship. It scarcelyseemed to have been her doing--it seemed as if things had merely sofallen out--that she and her father took their departure that sameafternoon in a farm-cart, and went farther down the valley, to wait,until their own house was ready for them, in another hamlet. But Willhad been observing closely, and was well aware of her dexterity andresolution. When he found himself alone he had a great many curiousmatters to turn over in his mind. He was very sad and solitary, to beginwith. All the interest had gone out of his life, and he might look up atthe stars as long as he pleased, he somehow failed to find support orconsolation. And then he was in such a turmoil of spirit about Marjory.He had been puzzled and irritated at her behaviour, and yet he could notkeep himself from admiring it. He thought he recognised a fine, perverseangel in that still soul which he had never hitherto suspected; andthough he saw it was an influence that would fit but ill with his ownlife of artificial calm, he could not keep himself from ardently desiringto possess it. Like a man who has lived among shadows and now meets thesun, he was both pained and delighted.
As the days went forward he passed from one extreme to another; nowpluming himself on the strength of his determination, now despising histimid and silly caution. The former was, perhaps, the true thought ofhis heart, and represented the regular tenor of the man's reflections;but the latter burst forth from time to time with an unruly violence, andthen he would forget all consideration, and go up and down his house andgarden or walk among the fir-woods like one who is beside himself withremorse. To equable, steady-minded Will this state of matters wasintolerable; and he determined, at whatever cost, to bring it to an end.So, one warm summer afternoon he put on his best clothes, took a thornswitch in his hand, and set out down the valley by the river. As soon ashe had taken his determination, he had regained at a bound his customarypeace of heart, and he enjoyed the bright weather and the variety of thescene without any admixture of alarm or unpleasant eagerness. It wasnearly the same to him how the matter turned out. If she accepted him hewould have to marry her this time, which perhaps was, all for the best.If she refused him, he would have done his utmost, and might follow hisown way in the future with an untroubled conscience. He hoped, on thewhole, she would refuse him; and then, again, as he saw the brown roofwhich sheltered her, peeping through some willows at an angle of thestream, he was half inclined to reverse the wish, and more than halfashamed of himself for this infirmity of purpose.
Marjory seemed glad to see him, and gave him her hand without affectationor delay.
'I have been thinking about this marriage,' he began.
'So have I,' she answered. 'And I respect you more and more for a verywise man. You understood me better than I understood myself; and I amnow quite certain that things are all for the best as they are.'
'At the same time--,' ventured Will.
'You must be tired,' she interrupted. 'Take a seat and let me fetch youa glass of wine. The afternoon is so warm; and I wish you not to bedispleased with your visit. You must come quite often; once a week, ifyou can spare the time; I am always so glad to see my friends.'
'O, very well,' thought Will to himself. 'It appears I was right afterall.' And he paid a very agreeable visit, walked home again in capitalspirits, and gave himself no further concern about the matter.
For nearly three years Will and Marjory continued on these terms, seeingeach other once or twice a week without any word of love between them;and for all that time I believe Will was nearly as happy as a man can be.He rather stinted himself the pleasure of seeing her; and he would oftenwalk half-way over to the parsonage, and then back again, as if to whethis appetite. Indeed there was one corner of the road, whence he couldsee the church-spire wedged into a crevice of the valley between slopingfirwoods, with a triangular snatch of plain by way of background, whichhe greatly affected as a place to sit and moralise in before returninghomewards; and the peasants got so much into the habit of finding himthere in the twilight that they gave it the name of 'Will o' the Mill'sCorner.'
At the end of the three years Marjory played him a sad trick by suddenlymarrying somebody else. Will kept his countenance bravely, and merelyremarked that, for as little as he knew of women, he had acted veryprudently in not marrying her himself three years before. She plainlyknew very little of her own mind, and, in spite of a deceptive manner,was as fickle and flighty as the rest of them. He had to congratulatehimself on an escape, he said, and would take a higher opinion of his ownwisdom in consequence. But at heart, he was reasonably displeased, mopeda good deal for a month or two, and fell away in flesh, to theastonishment of his serving-lads.
It was perhaps a year after this marriage that Will was awakened late onenight by the sound of a horse galloping on the road, followed byprecipitate knocking at the inn-door. He opened his window and saw afarm servant, mounted and holding a led horse by the bridle, who told himto make what haste he could and go along with him; for Marjory was dying,and had sent urgently to fetch him to her bedside. Will was no horseman,and made so little speed upon the way that the poor young wife was verynear her end before he arrived. But they had some minutes' talk inprivate, and he was present and wept very bitterly while she breathed herlast.