I
ENOCH GROUCH'S DAUGHTER
Grouch! That is the name--and in the interest of euphony it isimpossible not to regret the fact. Some say it should be spelled"Groutch," which would not at all mend matters, though it makes thepronunciation clear beyond doubt--the word must rhyme with "crouch" and"couch." Well might Lady Meg Duddington swear it was the ugliest nameshe had ever heard in her life! Sophy was not of a very differentopinion, as will be shown by-and-by. She was Grouch on bothsides--unmixed and unredeemed. For Enoch Grouch married his uncle'sdaughter Sally, and begat, as his first child, Sophy. Two other childrenwere born to him, but they died in early infancy. Mrs. Grouch did notlong survive the death of her little ones; she was herself laid inMorpingham church-yard when Sophy was no more than five years old. Thechild was left to the sole care of her father, a man who had marriedlate for his class--indeed, late for any class--and was already well onin middle age. He held a very small farm, lying about half a mile behindthe church. Probably he made a hard living of it, for the only servantin his household was a slip of a girl of fifteen, who had, presumably,both to cook and scrub for him and to look after the infant Sophy.Nothing is remembered of him in Morpingham. Perhaps there was nothing toremember--nothing that marked him off from thousands like him; perhapsthe story of his death, which lives in the village traditions, blottedout the inconspicuous record of his laborious life.
Morpingham lies within twenty-five miles of London, but for all that itis a sequestered and primitive village. It contained, at this time atleast, but three houses with pretensions to gentility--the Hall, theRectory, and a smaller house across the village street, facing theRectory. At the end of the street stood the Hall in its grounds. Thiswas a handsome, red-brick house, set in a spacious garden. Along oneside of the garden there ran a deep ditch, and on the other side of theditch, between it and a large meadow, was a path which led to thechurch. Thus the church stood behind the Hall grounds; and again, as hasbeen said, beyond the church was Enoch Grouch's modest farm, held of Mr.Brownlow, the owner of the Hall. The church path was the favorite resortof the villagers, and deservedly, for it was shaded and beautified by afine double row of old elms, forming a stately avenue to the humblelittle house of worship.
On an autumn evening in the year 1855 Enoch Grouch was returning fromthe village, where he had been to buy tobacco. His little girl was withhim. It was wild weather. A gale had been blowing for full twenty-fourhours, and in the previous night a mighty bough had been snapped fromone of the great elms and had fallen with a crash. It lay now rightacross the path. As they went to the village, her father had indulgedSophy with a ride on the bough, and she begged a renewal of the treat ontheir homeward journey. The farmer was a kind man--more kind than wise,as it proved, on this occasion. He set the child astraddle on the thickend of the bough, then went to the other end, which was much slenderer.Probably his object was to try to shake the bough and please his smalltyrant with the imitation of a see-saw. The fallen bough suggested nodanger to his slow-moving mind. He leaned down towards the bough without-stretched hands--Sophy, no doubt, watching his doings with excitedinterest--while the wind raged and revelled among the great branchesover their heads. Enoch tried to move the bough, but failed; in order tomake another effort, he fell on his knees and bent his back over it.
At this moment there came a loud crash--heard in the Rectory grounds andin the dining-room at Woodbine Cottage, the small house opposite.
"There's another tree gone!" cried Basil Williamson, the Rector's secondson, who was giving his retriever an evening run.
He raced through the Rectory gate, across the road, and into the avenue.
A second later the garden gate of Woodbine Cottage opened, and Julia,the ten-years-old daughter of a widow named Robins who lived there, cameout at full speed. Seeing Basil just ahead of her, she called out: "Didyou hear?"
He knew her voice--they were playmates--and answered without lookingback: "Yes. Isn't it fun? Keep outside the trees--keep well in themeadow!"
"Stuff!" she shouted, laughing. "They don't fall every minute, silly!"
Running as they exchanged these words, they soon came to where thebough--or, rather, the two boughs--had fallen. A tragic sight met theireyes. The second bough had caught the unlucky farmer just on the nape ofhis neck, and had driven him down, face forward, onto the first. He laywith his neck close pinned between the two, and his arms spread out overthe undermost. His face was bad to look at; he was quite dead, andapparently death must have been instantaneous. Sobered and appalled, theboy and girl stood looking from the terrible sight to each other'sfaces.
"Is he dead?" Julia whispered.
"I expect so," the boy answered. Neither of them had seen death before.
The next moment he raised his voice and shouted: "Help, help!" then laidhold of the upper bough and strove with all his might to raise it. Thegirl gave a shriller cry for assistance and then lent a hand to hisefforts. But between them they could not move the great log.
Up to now neither of them had perceived Sophy.
Next on the scene was Mr. Brownlow, the master of the Hall. He had beenin his greenhouse and heard the crash of the bough. Of that he took noheed--nothing could be done save heave a sigh over the damage to hischerished elms. But when the cries for help reached his ears, withpraiseworthy promptitude he rushed out straight across his lawn, and(though he was elderly and stout) dropped into the ditch, clambered outof it, and came where the dead man and the children were. As he passedthe drawing-room windows, he called out to his wife: "Somebody's hurt,I'm afraid"; and she, after a moment's conference with the butler,followed her husband, but, not being able to manage the ditch, wentround by the road and up the avenue, the servant coming with her. Whenthese two arrived, the Squire's help had availed to release the farmerfrom the deadly grip of the two boughs, and he lay now on his back onthe path.
"He's dead, poor fellow," said Mr. Brownlow.
"It's Enoch Grouch!" said the butler, giving a shudder as he looked atthe farmer's face. Julia Robins sobbed, and the boy Basil looked up atthe Squire's face with grave eyes.
"I'll get a hurdle, sir," said the butler. His master nodded, and he ranoff.
Something moved on the path--about a yard from the thick end of thelower bough.
"Look there!" cried Julia Robins. A little wail followed. With anexclamation, Mrs. Brownlow darted to the spot. The child lay there witha cut on her forehead. Apparently the impact of the second bough hadcaused the end of the first to fly upward; Sophy had been jerked fromher seat into the air, and had fallen back on the path, striking herhead on a stone. Mrs. Brownlow picked her up, wiped the blood from herbrow, and saw that the injury was slight. Sophy began to cry softly, andMrs. Brownlow soothed her.
"It's his little girl," said Julia Robins. "The little girl with themark on her cheek, please, Mrs. Brownlow."
"Poor little thing! Poor little thing!" Mrs. Brownlow murmured; she knewthat death had robbed the child of her only relative and protector.
The butler now came back with a hurdle and two men, and Enoch Grouch'sbody was taken into the saddle-room at the Hall. Mrs. Brownlow followedthe procession, Sophy still in her arms. At the end of the avenue shespoke to the boy and girl:
"Go home, Basil; tell your father, and ask him to come to the Hall.Good-night, Julia. Tell your mother--and don't cry any more. The poorman is with God, and I sha'n't let this mite come to harm." She was achildless woman, with a motherly heart, and as she spoke she kissedSophy's wounded forehead. Then she went into the Hall grounds, and theboy and girl were left together in the road. Basil shook his fist at theavenue of elms--his favorite playground.
"Hang those beastly trees!" he cried. "I'd cut them all down if I wasMr. Brownlow."
"I must go and tell mother," said Julia. "And you'd better go, too."
"Yes," he assented, but lingered for a moment, still looking at thetrees as though reluctantly fascinated by them.
"Mother always said something would happen to that
little girl," saidJulia, with a grave and important look in her eyes.
"Why?" the boy asked, brusquely.
"Because of that mark--that mark she's got on her cheek."
"What rot!" he said, but he looked at his companion uneasily. The eventof the evening had stirred the superstitious fears seldom hard to stirin children.
"People don't have those marks for nothing--so mother says." Otherpeople, no wiser, said the same thing later.
"Rot!" Basil muttered again. "Oh, well, I must go."
She glanced at him timidly. "Just come as far as our door with me. I'mafraid."
"Afraid!" He smiled scornfully. "All right!"
He walked with her to the door of Woodbine Cottage, and waited till itclosed behind her, performing the escort with a bold and lordly air.Left alone in the fast-darkening night, with nobody in sight, with nosound save the ceaseless voice of the angry wind essaying new mischiefin the tops of the elm-trees, he stood for a moment listening fearfully.Then he laid his sturdy legs to the ground and fled for home, lookingneither to right nor left till he reached the hospitable light of hisfather's study. The lad had been brave in face of the visible horror;fear struck him in the moment of Julia's talk about the mark on thechild's cheek. Scornful and furious at himself, yet he was mysteriouslyafraid.