CHAPTER VI
PARSON TOM INTERFERES
It was nearly five o'clock and the table was set for tea. Betty wasstanding at the window staring thoughtfully out upon the valley.Ordinarily her contemplation would have been one of delighted interest,for the scene was her favorite view of the valley, where every featureof it, the village, the mill, the river, assumed its most picturesqueaspect.
She loved the valley with a deep affection. Unlike most people, whotire of their childhood's surroundings and pant for fresh sights, freshfields in which to expand their thoughts and feelings, she clung to thevalley with all an artist's love for the beautiful, and a strengthinspired by the loyal affection of a simple woman. Her delight in hersurroundings amounted almost to a passion. To her this valley was atreasured possession. The river was a friend, a fiery, turbulentfriend, and often she had declared, when in a whimsical mood, one towhom she could tell her innermost secrets without fear of their beingpassed on, in confidence, to another, or of having them flung back inher face when spite stirred its tempestuous soul.
She knew her river's shortcomings, she knew its every mood. It wasmerely a torrent, a strenuous mountain torrent, but to her it possesseda real personality. In the spring flood it was like some smallindividual bursting with its own importance, with its vanity, withresentment at the restraint of the iron hand of winter, from which ithad only just torn itself loose, and stirred to the depths of itsfrothy soul with an overwhelming desire for self-assertion. Often shehad watched the splendid destruction of which it was capable at such atime. She had seen the forest giants go down at the roar of itsbattle-cry. She had often joined the villagers, standing fearful anddismayed, watching its mounting waters lest their homes should bedevoured by the insatiable little monster, and filled with awe at itsmagnificent bluster.
Then, in the extreme heat of the late summer, when autumn had tingedthe valley to a glorious gold and russet, she had just as often seenthe reverse side of the picture. No longer could the river draw on thevast supplies of the melting mountain snows, and so it was doomed tofall a prey to the mighty grip of winter, and, as if in anticipation ofits end, it would sing its song of sadness as it sobbed quietly overits fallen greatness, sighing dismally amongst the debris which in thedays of its power it had so wantonly torn from its banks.
There was a great deal of the girl's character in her love for theriver. She possessed an enthusiastic admiration for that strength whichfights, fights until the last drop of blood, the last atom of power isexpended. Fallen greatness evoked her enthusiasm as keenly as success,only that the enthusiasm was of a different nature. With her it wasbetter to have striven with all one's might and encountered disasterthan to have lived fallow, a life of the most perfect rectitude. Hertwenty-seven years of life had set her thrilling with a mental andphysical virility which was forever urging her, and steadily mouldingher whole outlook upon life, even though that outlook carried her nofarther than the confines of her beautiful sunlit valley.
Something of this was stirring within her now. She was not thinking ofthat which her eyes looked upon. She was thinking of the man to whomshe had given her promise, her woman's promise, which carries with itall the best a woman has to give. She was no weakling, dreamingregretfully of all that might have been; she had no thought ofretracting because in her heart she knew she had made a mistake. Shewas reviewing the man as she had seen him that noon, and consideringthe story of his doings as she had been told them, quietly making upher mind to her own line of action.
He was presently to come up to her home to have tea with them, and shewould be given the opportunity of seeing the man that five years'absence in the wilds had made of him. Once or twice she almostshuddered as the details of their meeting on the bridge obtrudedthemselves. She tried to shut them out. She understood the rough sideof men, for she lived amongst a people in whom it was difficult enoughto trace even a semblance of gentleness. She allowed for the moment ofprovocation when the man's horse had shied and unseated him. Sherealized the natural inclination it would inspire to forcibly, even ifirresponsibly, protest. Even the manner of his protest she condoned.But his subsequent attitude, his appearance, and his manner towardherself, these were things which had an ugly tone, and for which shecould find no extenuation.
However, it should all be settled that afternoon. She unfolded andstraightened out a piece of paper she had been abstractedly crumplingin her hand. She glanced at the unsteady writing on it, a writing shehardly recognized as Jim's.
"Will come up to tea this afternoon. Sorry for this morning.--JIM."
That was the note he had sent her soon after she had reached home.There was no word of affection in it. Nothing but a bare statement andan apology which scarcely warranted the name. To her it seemed to havebeen prompted by the man's realization of an unpleasant and undesiredduty to be performed. The few letters she had received from himimmediately before his return had borne a similar tone of indifference,and once or twice she had felt that she ought to write and offer himhis freedom. This, however, she had never done, feeling that by doingso she might be laying herself open to misinterpretation. No, if theirengagement were distasteful to him, it must be Jim who broke it. Unlikemost women, she would rather he threw her over than bear the stigma ofhaving jilted him. She had thought this all out very carefully. She hadan almost mannish sense of honor, just as she possessed something of aman's courage to carry out her obligations.
She glanced over the tea-table. There were four places set. The tablewas daintily arranged, and though the china was cheap, and there was nodisplay of silver, or any elaborate furnishings, it looked attractive.The bread and butter was delicate, the assortment of home-made cakesluscious, the preserves the choicest from her aunt's store-cupboard.Betty had been careful, too, that the little sitting-room, with itssimple furniture and unpretentious decorations, should be in the nicestorder. She had looked to everything so that Jim's welcome should be ascordial as kindly hearts could make it. And now she was awaiting hiscoming.
The clock on the sideboard chimed five, and a few moments later heruncle came in.
"What about tea, Betty?" he inquired, glancing with approval at thecareful preparations for the meal.
"I think we ought to wait," she replied, with a wistful smile into hiskeen blue eyes. "I sent word to Jim for five o'clock--but--well,perhaps something has detained him."
"No doubt," observed the parson dryly. "I dare say five minutes addedon to five years means nothing to Jim."
He didn't approve the man's attitude at all. All his ideas on thesubject of courtship had been outraged at his delay in calling. He hadbeen in the village nearly five hours.
The girl rearranged the teacups.
"You mustn't be hard on him," she said quietly. "He had to get cleanedup and settled at the hotel. I don't suppose he'd care to come herelike--like----"
"It doesn't take a man five hours to do all that," broke in her uncle,with some warmth. Then, as he faced the steady gaze of the girl's browneyes, he abruptly changed his tone and smiled at her. "Yes, of coursewe'll wait. We'll give him half an hour's grace, and then--I'll fetchhim."
Betty smiled. There was a characteristic snap in the parson's finaldeclaration. The militant character of the man was always very near thesurface. He was the kindest and best of men, but anything suggestinglack of straightforwardness in those from whom he had a right to expectthe reverse never failed to rouse his ire.
For want of something better to do Betty was carrying out a furtherrearrangement of the tea-table, and presently her uncle questioned hershrewdly.
"You don't seem very elated at Jim's return?" he said.
"I am more than pleased," she replied gravely.
Parson Tom took up his stand at the window with his back turned.
"When I was engaged to your aunt," he said, smiling out at the valley,"if I had been away for five years and suddenly returned, she wouldprobably have had about three fits, a scene of shrieking hysteria, andgone to bed for a week. By all of which
I mean she would have beensimply crazy with delight. It must be the difference of temperament,eh?" He turned round and stood smiling keenly across at the girl'sserious face.
"Yes, uncle, I don't think I am demonstrative."
"Do you want to marry him?"
The man's eyes were perfectly serious now.
"I am going to marry him--unless----"
"Unless?"
"Unless he refuses to marry me."
"Do you want to marry him, my dear? That was my question."
Her uncle had crossed over to her and stood looking down at her withinfinite tenderness in his eyes. She returned his gaze, and slowly asmile replaced her gravity.
"You are very literal, uncle," she said gently. "If you want anabsolutely direct reply it is 'Yes.'"
But her uncle was not quite satisfied.
"You--love him?" he persisted.
But this catechism was too much for Betty. She was devoted to heruncle, and she knew that his questions were prompted by the kindliestmotives. But in this matter she felt that she was entirely justified inthinking and acting for herself.
"You don't quite understand," she said, with just a shade ofimpatience. "Jim and I are engaged, and you must leave us to settlematters ourselves. If you press me I shall speak the plain truth, andthen you will have a wrong impression of the position. I perfectlyunderstand my own feelings. I am not blinded by them. I shall act as Ithink best, and you must rely on my own judgment. I quite realize thatyou want to help me. But neither you nor any one else can do that,uncle. Ah, here is auntie," she exclaimed, with evident relief.
Mrs. Chepstow came in. She was hot from her work in the kitchen, whereshe was operating, with the aid of her "hired" girl, a large bake ofcakes for the poorer villagers. She looked at the clock sharply.
"Why, it's half-past five and no tea," she exclaimed, her round faceshining, and her gentle eyes wide open. "Where's Jim? Not here? Why, Iam astonished. Betty, what are you thinking of?--and after five years,too."
"Betty hasn't got him in proper harness yet," laughed the parson, butthere was a look in his eyes which was not in harmony with his laugh.
"Harness? Don't be absurd, Tom." Then she turned to Betty. "Did youtell him five?"
Tom Chepstow picked up his hat, and before the girl could answer he wasat the door.
"I'm going to fetch him," he said, and was gone before Betty's protestreached him.
"I do wish uncle wouldn't interfere," the girl said, as her auntlaughed at her husband's precipitate exit.
"Interfere, my dear!" she exclaimed. "You can't stop him. He's got aperverted notion that we women are incapable of taking care ofourselves. He goes through life determined to fight our battles.Determined to help us out when we don't need it. He's helped me 'out'all our married life. He spends his life doing it, and I often wishhe'd--he'd leave me 'in' sometimes. I've never seen a man who couldupset a woman's plans more completely than your uncle, and all with thebest intention. One of these days I'll start to help him out, and thenwe'll see how he likes it," she laughed good-humoredly. "You know, ifhe finds Jim he's sure to upset the boy, and he'll come back thinkinghe's done his duty by you. Poor Tom, and he does mean so well."
"I know he does, auntie, and that's why we all love him so. Everybodyloves him for it, He never thinks of himself. It's always others,and----"
"Yes, my dear, you're right. But all the same I think he's right justnow. Why isn't Jim here? Why didn't he come straight away? Why has hebeen in Malkern five hours before he comes to see you? Betty, my child,I've not said a word all these years. I've left you to your own affairsbecause I know your good sense; but, in view of the stories that havereached us about Jim, I feel that the time has come for me to speak.Are you going to verify those stories?"
Mrs. Chepstow established her comfortable form in a basket chair, whichaudibly protested at the weight it was called upon to bear. She foldedher hands in her lap, and, assuming her most judicial air, waited forthe girl's answer. Betty was thinking of her meeting with Jim on thebridge.
"I shall hear what he has to say," she said decidedly, after a longpause.
Her aunt stared.
"You're going to let him tell you what he likes?" she cried inastonishment.
"He can tell me what he chooses, or--he need tell me nothing."
Her aunt flushed indignantly.
"You will never be so foolish," she said, exasperated.
"Auntie, if Uncle Tom had been away five years, would you ask him forproof of his life all that time?" Betty demanded with some warmth.
The other stirred uneasily.
"That depends," she said evasively.
"No, no, auntie, it doesn't. You would never question uncle. You are awoman, and just as foolish and stupid about that sort of thing as therest of us. We must take our men on trust. They are men, and theirlives are different from ours. We cannot judge them, or, at any rate,we would rather not. Why does a woman cling to a scoundrelly husbandwho ill-treats her and makes her life one long round of worry, and evenmisery? Is it because she simply has to? No. It is because he is herman. He is hers, and she would rather have his unkindness than anotherman's caresses. Foolish we may be, and I am not sure but that we wouldrather be foolish--where our men are concerned. Jim has come back. Hispast five years are his. I am going to take up my little story where itwas broken five years ago. The stories I have heard are nothing to me.So, if you don't mind, dear, we will close the subject."
"And--and you love him?" questioned the elder woman.
But the girl had turned to the window. She pointed out down the road inthe direction of the village.
"Here is uncle returning," she said, ignoring the question. "He'shurrying. Why--he's actually running!"
"Running?"
Mrs. Chepstow bustled to the girl's side, and both stood watching thevigorous form of the parson racing up the trail. Just as he came to theveranda they turned from the window and their eyes met. Betty's werefull of pained apprehension, while her aunt's were alight withperplexed curiosity. Betty felt that she knew something of the meaningof her uncle's undignified haste. She did not actually interpret it,she knew it meant disaster, but the nature of that disaster neverentered into her thought. Something was wrong, she knew instinctively;and, with the patience of strength, she made no attempt to even guessat it, but simply waited. Her aunt rushed at the parson as he enteredthe room and flung aside his soft felt hat. Betty gazed mutely at theflaming anger she saw in his blue eyes, as his wife questioned him.
"What is it?" she demanded. "What has happened?"
Parson Tom drew a chair up to the table and flung himself into it.
"We'll have tea," he said curtly.
His wife obediently took her seat.
"And Jim?" she questioned.
The angry blue eyes still flashed.
"We won't wait for him."
Then Betty came to the man's side and laid one small brown hand firmlyon his shoulder.
"You--you saw him?" she demanded.
Her uncle shook her hand off almost roughly.
"Yes--I saw him," he said.
"And why isn't he here?" the girl persisted without a tremor, withouteven noticing his rebuff.
"Because he's lying on his bed at the hotel--drunk. Blinddrunk,--confound him."