Marshall Emma
Under the Mendips: A Tale

CHAPTER VI.
AMONGST THE HEATHER

Gilbert Arundel's visit to Fair Acres extended far beyond the limit of a week. He felt every day more absorbed by the simple, happy life, in which, as Joyce had said, Melville was the only cloud.

He was an universal favourite. A man who has been accustomed to yield respect and courtesy to his own mother, seldom fails in yielding it to the mothers of his friends.

If anyone in the household at Fair Acres was dissatisfied it was Melville himself, who found that his friend had been so entirely taken possession of by his brothers and sister, and was held in such high esteem by his father and mother, that his own light was effectually put out.

The twins, Harry and Bunny, came to him about fly-fishing, and Ralph consulted him as to a difficult passage in his Homer; while he spent a whole morning in helping Piers to re-arrange his moths and butterflies, and to look out their names with greater precision in a book he had actually borrowed from the Palace at Wells, for this purpose.

All the time Joyce went about her accustomed duties: darned Melville's socks, mended the schoolboys' clothes, and was every morning assisting her mother in her household duties.

It was an added charm in Gilbert's eyes that Joyce made no difference in her daily routine, and that what are familiarly called "company manners" were apparently unknown at Fair Acres.

But the last day came of Gilbert Arundel's visit, as the last must come to everything, and the squire proclaimed a holiday for every one and an excursion to Wookey, and a pic-nic to Ebbor. Then there was a great packing of hampers, and loading of one of the spring carts with the boys and the provisions, and the "four-wheel" with the more grown-up members of the party.

Even Mrs. Falconer allowed herself to be enlisted in the service, and to give herself for once a day's pleasure; while Melville put on a riding-coat of the most approved cut, and a pair of wellingtons, and was graciously pleased to lend himself for the occasion, with as much show of satisfaction as was consistent with his dignity.

After depositing the party at Wookey, the squire kindly drove into Wells in the "four-wheel" to fetch Charlotte from the Vicar's Close, and before the dinner had been laid in the Ebbor Valley he was back again, bearing Charlotte in triumph, in spite of his sister's entreaties that Charlotte would be careful of adders which swarmed at Ebbor amongst the loose stones; and that she was to be sure to sit upon a cloak with four capes, made of large plaid, which Miss Falconer insisted should be put into the carriage.

But nothing spoiled Charlotte's pleasure when fairly off, and she was delighted to be helped down from the carriage by her Cousin Melville, with whose fine ways, and what she would have called "elegant dress," she had keen sympathy. Indeed, the hero of the "drooping rose" was in danger of falling from his pedestal; and the fact of a cousin, who said a great many flattering things to her was, after all, more interesting than a minor Canon, who was to be worshipped from afar, and who when actually introduced to her the day before by her aunt, when he called in virtue of his office in the cathedral, had not seemed to desire to cultivate her acquaintance; certainly had made her no pretty speeches. Melville, on the contrary, made her a great many, and she listened with unquestioning faith, and profound interest to his stories of high life, and the men with titles with whom he was on familiar terms, and the large wine parties at Oxford to which Maythorne came.

Gilbert caught the sound of that name, and turning quickly, his deep blue eyes shot a warning glance, which could not be mistaken, as he said in a voice audible to those nearest him:

"The less said about him the better."

The day passed quickly, and it was proposed that the younger portion of the party should walk up the uneven road between the rocks, and, taking the rough paths over the flat country, into which the gorge opens, reach Fair Acres by crossing it, a distance of some six miles.

Charlotte was to remain at Fair Acres for the night, but both she and Melville preferred to drive with the squire and Mrs. Falconer and Piers. Charlotte's shoes were too thin for scrambling, and a country walk was not at all to Melville's taste.

"Off with you, then," said the squire, "and mind you keep the road to the left, or you will find yourselves on Mendip, and if it gets dark that may not be so pleasant."

"I know the way, father," Ralph said; "and so do Harry and Bunny. We shall not lose ourselves."

"Perhaps Joyce had better drive," her father said, just as the five were starting. "Sunshine, what do you think?"

"I think that we are more likely to lose our way, sir," Gilbert said, "if you take the sun from us."

The squire laughed.

"Well, that may be true. Take care of your sister, boys."

The ascent through the Ebbor cliffs is difficult; there is a vast quantity of thin sharp stones, worn by the action of the water from the face of the rocks. Although not nearly so grand as Cheddar, Ebbor has many points of beauty. The rocks are fantastic in form, and as the path winds between them they assume various shapes, like miniature towers and bastions, clothed with ivy, and coloured with dark brown and yellow lichen.

The air, when they were fairly in the open country, was fresh and crisp; the lark sang his sweet song high above their heads, and the sweet, clear notes of distant thrushes and blackbirds came from the low lying copses, which fringe the head of the Ebbor valley.

Harry and Bunny chased moths for Piers: Ralph meditated and repeated to himself some lines of a Greek poet which he wanted to get by heart.

Thus, as was only to be expected, Joyce and Mr Arundel were left to themselves, and in Gilbert's heart at least was the weight of coming separation, and the uncertainty as to whether he should ever be able to renew the sweet, free intercourse of the past fortnight. He dreaded to change the present happy relations between him and Joyce by telling her what he felt. She confided so entirely in him; she told him so much of her little joys, and home happiness, of Ralph's cleverness, of Harry and Bunny's frantic desires to be sailors, of her father's goodness to Melville, and infinite patience with him. On this last night especially, he felt that he could not bring himself to break the spell, and disturb the serenity of that sweet, pure life, by letting friendship go, to replace it by the more tumultuous and passionate love, which he knew if once this barrier were broken down, he should pour forth on her in a torrent which might distress and almost frighten, one so simple and so unversed in the world's ways.

Whilst Charlotte was always on the look-out for some preux chevalier, who was to be at her feet and vow eternal devotion, Joyce had as yet no such airy castles. Her education had been widely different from her cousin's, and home and home interests had so filled her seventeen years with their joys and pleasures, that she had no time to dream over "keepsakes," and read Miss Burney's romances, or steep herself in the unreality of sentimental verses, which Wordsworth was beginning to break down and send into the shadows, by bringing out the beauties of creation into the strong light, which his genius threw around them.

Joyce had not wasted her youth in foolish dreams of impossible perfection, but when the real story of her life was ready to unfold itself, she would find a zest and fulness in it, that the sentimental visionary could never know.

That was a memorable walk over the sweet country side, with the west all aglow, and the sky above serenely blue. In after years both looked back on it through that mist of tender sadness, which gathers round the happy past of youth, even though the present is full of the fruition of joy to which that very past led.

"This is our last evening," Gilbert said; "I hope, if I can be of any use, you will write to me."

"Yes," Joyce said, "and I feel as if the worst were over now. If Melville has a year abroad with the gentleman the bishop recommends, he may settle afterwards. Of course it is a great pull upon father's purse; but if Harry and Bunny can get into the navy we shall be able to manage."

"When we are settled in Clifton I hope you will come and see my mother."

"Oh! I should like that very much; but I have a visit to Barley Wood to come first, and then in the winter I must do all I can to cheer father. He feels the want of out-door exercise now he has given up his hunters. He used to ride to the meet very often."

"I am sorry he has had to give that up, all through Melville's extravagance."

"Yes, and then farming has been so bad the last year or two. I hope it may be a better crop this year; but the wheat in this district is very poor at all times. We must not get too much to the right," she said, "or we shall get near the miners, who are a rough set of people. Mrs. More has had a school in these parts for many years; but there are a great many discontented folks, who seem to think the gentry are their natural enemies. That man we saw the day you came to Wells was from these parts."

Joyce raised her voice in a clear, ringing tone, and called her brothers by name.

"They have gone on so far in front," she said; "but I feel sure this is the right track." She called again, but there was no reply.

"We had better walk faster," she said, "or we shall be left behind;" then she stopped.

"I see a man lying in that dip under the gorse-bushes. I hope he will not beg."

She had scarcely spoken the words when a huge form rose before them, and stood in the narrow track between the heather and gorse, filling up the path.

"You are Squire Falconer's lass, ain't you?" he said, defiantly.

"Yes," Gilbert answered, "yes; this is Miss Falconer, of Fair Acres. How long are you going to stand there and prevent us from passing you?"

"Till I've settled my score. Your gov'nor was hard on me t'other day; he tried to get me sent to gaol. I'll smash his head for 'im next time I come across 'im, sure as my name is Bob Priday!"

The broad, Somersetshire lingo made the man all but unintelligible to Gilbert; but Joyce understood him well enough.

"Ye hand me out a guinea, now, or a trinket, and I'll let bygones be bygones, specially" – with a horrid leer – "if you'll give me a kiss with 'em; eh?"

In a moment Gilbert had sprung over the bushes which hedged in the track on either side, and had his hand on the man's throat.

"Let this young lady pass, you villain!" he said, shaking the huge form, who, taken unawares, had very little power of resistance. "Let her pass."

There is always something in a brave, strong, young spirit which is too much for the brute force of an untutored giant like Bob Priday. He staggered and fell back, Gilbert's hand being still at his throat.

Joyce, pale and trembling, did not lose her self-control. "Please let me pass," she said; "I have no money to give you, and if I had it would not be right to bribe you. My father only did his duty on the bench that day. You were guilty, and you know it; you got off unpunished, and you should be thankful, and try to lead a better life."

There was something wonderfully grand in the way Joyce spoke, though her face was white with girlish fear, and her lips quivered, her voice did not falter as she appealed to the huge man who might, she knew, shake off Gilbert's restraining hand, and spring on her at any moment.

"Let me pass," she said, "and this gentleman will – "

At this moment a woman's voice was heard, and a girl with a red handkerchief on her head, with an effort at respectable attire in her short, blue cotton frock, and large, thick boots, came over the tangled mass of heath and ling, and cried:

"Father! What are you about now, father?"

"You mind your own business, you hussy, and leave me alone."

"Oh, father!" the girl said, passionately, "I wish you would be good. Think how mother used to pray for you! Oh, dear lady," the girl said, bursting into tears, "I am heart-broken about father. Please, sir, let him go."

"Let me go!" said the giant, with a loud, discordant laugh; "I'll see about that." Then, with a mighty effort, he hurled Gilbert from him, and before he could recover his feet, he had seized Joyce's arm. "Give me the money, or I'll be even with your father; curse him!"

But the girl threw herself on her father and held him back, while Gilbert, stunned and bewildered by the force with which he had been hurled over the heather, staggered to his feet again, and, with a well-aimed blow at the back of the man's head, laid him sprawling on the path.

"Oh! I hope he is not hurt!" Joyce exclaimed involuntarily, as the huge form lay motionless; the girl leaning over him.

"He is not hurt," Gilbert said, "any more than he has hurt me; it was in self-defence," he added.

"Father, father!" moaned the girl. "Oh, sir! oh, miss! I don't know what to do!"

"Hold your tongue, and let me get up and at him again," growled the man, struggling to sit upright.

But his daughter had the advantage, and seated herself on her father's chest, saying to Gilbert, "I'll keep him quiet till you are out of sight, sir; I will indeed. I know you were driven to do it," she said. "Father is always fighting; but, oh! sir, we have a hard time of it. There is no work for the men and boys, and if it were not for the good lady's schools, and the help she gives, I don't know what would become of us. Many were starving last winter, and of course it is kind of hard, to know rich folks have plenty and we are starving. Mother died last fall; and though Mrs. More sent her physic, and the schoolmistress broth, she could not stand up against the fever, and trouble about poor father and Jim, and Dick, and the baby."

Joyce's eyes filled with tears. "What is to be done?" she said, helplessly; "what can be done?"

"I don't know, miss; I don't know. There's plenty of the ore left, but it is no use working it, there's no market for it. Mrs. More teaches us to pray to God and try to trust Him, but He does not seem to hear or help. I have been in service, and could get a place again at a Farm at Publow, through Mrs. More, but since mother is gone, there is none to look after baby. I do love the baby!"

"How long are you going to jaw like this, Sue? Let me get up and settle the question; if not now, I will settle it at last."

"Come away," Gilbert said, putting his hand on Joyce's arm; "we can do no good. It is getting so dark. Do come!" He put his hand to his head, for he still felt dazed and giddy with his fall.

"Tell me your name," Joyce said, "and where I should find you."

"Susan Priday, Mendip Mines, that's my name, miss."

"I am going to see Mrs. More soon, and I will tell her about you," Joyce said, in a low tone; "and do believe I am sorry for you. How old are you?"

"Eighteen come Christmas," the girl said, looking up into Joyce's beautiful face with undisguised admiration.

"Just my age," Joyce said. "Oh, I should like to make you happy! How old is the baby?"

"Born when mother died – just nine months old; he is so pretty, he is!"

Joyce had seldom, if ever, spoken familiarly to any of the girls about the country side before. Mrs. Falconer had her views on the subject, and the "miner folks" were her especial aversion, while Mrs. More's attempts to civilise them were met with derision and scorn. The gulf set between her and her household of respectable maids, and the rough, half-clothed miner's families, was in her eyes impassable! What was the use of trying to reclaim those who preferred their own rough and evil ways? They ought to be well punished for raids made on farm yards, and snares set in copses and plantations; but to teach them to read, and talk to them about their duty to God and their neighbour, was in Mrs. Falconer's eyes worse than lost labour; it did harm rather than good.

And not only by Mrs. Falconer was this view of the unclothed and unwashed masses taken! In our days of widely spread and organised charities, and zeal, sometimes I fear hardly tempered with wisdom, it is difficult to throw ourselves back to the beginning of the century now drawing to its close, when efforts like those of the four sisters of the Mendips, of whom Hannah was the leading spirit, were met with scoffs and disapproval; or deep compassion, that educated women could be so misguided, as to wish to teach the boys and girls of their district, anything but to use their legs and arms in the service of their betters!

As I stood by the heavy stone in Wrington churchyard, in the gloom of an autumn afternoon, where the names of the four sisters are inscribed, I could but think of the gratitude we ought to feel to them for their brave efforts to spread the knowledge of the religion of Christ amongst the poor of those 'rolling hills' and peaceful valleys of Somersetshire. It must have been hard for a woman of culture like Hannah More to be met by opposition, and in some cases fierce denunciation; harder still to be smiled at by those in high places, as a fanatic and a visionary. But turning from the ugly, weather-worn stone, enclosed in high rusty railings, to the beautiful church, where what light there was yet in the sky, came through the many-coloured window lately erected to Hannah More's memory, I thought, that as nothing that is good and beautiful, coming from the Fountain of all beauty and all goodness, can ever die, so the light which Hannah More kindled in many humble hearts was still shining in the eternal kingdom, where those that have lived as in the presence of the Son of God here, shine as the stars for ever in their Heavenly Father's realm.

That touch of Nature which makes the whole world kin brought the two girls near to each other, as Joyce laid her hand upon Susan's, and said:

"I am very sorry for you; I shall not forget you;" then added, looking down on the prostrate form which Susan had so determinedly kept from doing further mischief:

"I am sorry for you, too; it must be hard to want bread – but, but – do try to be good and find work."

"Find work, find work! If that's all you can say you'd better hold your tongue."

But though the words were rough the tones grew less fierce, and Susan, finding her restraint was no longer needed, stood up and watched Gilbert Arundel and Joyce pursue the narrow track across the heather till they were lost in the shadows of the gathering twilight.

"Do you know your way?" Gilbert asked.

"I think I do," Joyce answered; "our shepherd's cottage is on the next ridge, and when we get there we can see our own valley and the tower of the church."

"Are you very tired?" Gilbert asked again.

"Not very; but I cannot help trembling; it is so silly. Do tell me if that man hurt you."

"He gave me a good shaking. What a giant he is! I felt as your Nip or Pip might feel in Duke's clutches if he were angry."

"What a comfort we had not Charlotte with us, and that the boys had gone on so far! I hope they will not be very anxious at home."

They made but slow progress. Joyce's usually swift, elastic steps were slow and faltering. She took several wrong paths, and they came once to a steep dip in the heather, and were within a few inches of one of those rocky pits which are frequent on the face of the level country about Cheddar and the neighbouring district. Indeed Cheddar itself begins with one of these small defiles, when entered from the top of the Mendip, and the gradually increasing height of the rocks, and the widening of the gorge as the road winds through it, is one of its most striking features.

Joyce was so wholly unaccustomed to feel tired and unnerved, that she surprised herself, as well as Gilbert, by sitting down helplessly, and bursting into tears.

"Oh! we should have been killed if we had fallen down there. Won't you leave me, and go on to the shepherd's cottage? What can be the matter with me?" she said, sobbing hysterically.

Gilbert hardly knew whether distress at her condition, or delight in having her all to himself to comfort, predominated.

"Do not be frightened,' he said; we shall get on very well if you will let me carry you."

"Oh! no, no," she said, trying to spring up with her accustomed energy. "I will push on again."

But although she summoned all her courage, she was obliged to let Gilbert put his arm round her and support her, and finally she was lifted in his strong arms and carried whether she wished it or not.

"I shall tire you so dreadfully," Joyce whispered.

"If you do, it is the sweetest tiredness I ever knew; you know that, Joyce."

Then they went on in silence. Gilbert was still suffering from the treatment he had received at Bob Priday's hands, and they made slow progress.

"Just raise your head," he said, after ten minutes' tramp through the narrow track, which he lost at times through the thick tangle of heath and gorse and low-growing bracken. "Raise your head and tell me if you can see the shepherd's cottage. It is getting very dark."

Joyce did as he told her, but, after straining her eyes for a few moments, she said:

"I can't see anything, it is so dark. I don't know where we are. Oh, I don't know!"

"You are safe with me," Gilbert said; and then added, fervently: "I am not afraid for God is with us."

It was so unusual for Joyce to hear that Name spoken. She did not respond, but let her head fall upon his shoulder again.

Presently he said:

"There is a tiny light now – two lights – they must be in the shepherd's cottage. Take heart, my darling. We shall soon be home."

The word had slipped from his lips unawares.

"I am going away early to-morrow. You will not forget me?"

Once more she raised her face, and in the dim light he saw her beautiful eyes gazing at him with an expression which was half wonder and half joy. But she said, simply:

"No, I will never forget you."

The light was close to them now, and there was a sound of men's feet drawing nearer and then Duke came bounding up.

With a cry of "Father! father!" Joyce struggled to her feet, and threw herself into her father's arms.

"Why, Joyce, my Sunshine, where have you been? We have been very anxious, your mother on thorns, and poor Piers imagining all kinds of disasters. Why did you not keep up with the boys? They had been at home an hour before I started. What has happened sir?" the squire said, turning a little sharply on Gilbert Arundel.

"It is too long a story to tell now, sir," Gilbert said. "Miss Falconer and I fell into bad hands, and we may thank God nothing worse has happened."

"Some of the miners, eh?"

"One of them, sir, who is a host in himself; he blocked our way, and threatened us; but I would rather not go over it all now. She is so overwrought, though she has been so splendidly brave."

"Oh! father, dearest dad! take me home," Joyce said. "Is it far; is it far?"

"Some two miles, my Sunshine; but I can carry you. Now for it, be brave, my sweet one, and we shall soon be home. Now, then, Sam and Thomas, march on."

"I think I can walk, father now," Joyce said; "and here is Duke, dear Duke!"

"Why, of course, I brought Duke. He is cleverer at finding his way than I am. He soon snuffed you out, good old fellow."

The two other men now turned towards home, with the big lanthorns in their hands, which served for guiding stars. Duke paced slowly between the men, and his master and young mistress, and Gilbert brought up the rear.

The lights of the village were a welcome sight, and the hall door of Fair Acres was open as they came up the road, showing a group of dark, expectant figures, thrown out by the blaze of a wood fire.

"The mistress has lit a fire that we might have a welcome; that is like her wisdom," the squire said. "A few tallow candles would not have been half as cheerful."

"Here we are; here we are!" the squire called out; and then there was a rush of boyish feet, and a great chorus of rejoicing, and a host of questions.

"We have been so anxious, dying of anxiety," exclaimed Charlotte, thinking it necessary to begin to cry.

"What fools you were to walk over that rough, lonely country," Melville said. While Piers could only hover round Joyce, who, seated on a bench or old-fashioned settle by the side of the wide open hearth, held her mother in a tight embrace.

"The boys ought never to have left you," Piers said. "How could Mr. Arundel find the way?"

"Joyce knew it," said Bunny. "Joyce knew it. We have been over that track several times."

"Yes," echoed Harry, "several times; only Joyce and Mr. Arundel were talking so much, they never thought where they were going."

"'All's well that ends well,'" said the squire. "She had better go to bed, my dear; and this young gentleman looks white enough. You must get him a good hot glass of negus; and I hope supper is ready; but take the poor child to bed first."

Mrs. Falconer had not said much beyond a few words in Joyce's ear, which no one else heard. Her usual vivacity and quick, sharp words seemed to have suddenly failed her.

"Yes; I'll take her to bed, and there she will have to lie all to-morrow, I expect. It's the last time I'll allow her to separate from the rest of us, when we are out on an excursion. Order the supper in, boys; and Melville, look after your friend; he is as white as a ghost; perhaps he has seen one!"

The tone was a little bitter and satirical. Mrs. Falconer resented the hours' keen anxiety she had endured, and was inclined to lay the fault on Gilbert.

He certainly did look exhausted, and leaned back with his head against the wall, over which a large stag's head with spreading antlers gazed down upon him with liquid, meaningless eyes.

"Mother," Joyce said, as, with her brother's arm round her, she rose to go upstairs; "mother, Mr. Arundel was so very brave; he was thrown down by that dreadful man and nearly stunned; he carried me till we met father; he was – he was – so good to me. Do pray thank him." Then disengaging herself from her mother's grasp, Joyce tottered across to the old oak chair, on which Gilbert had sunk. "Good-night, and good-bye," she said; "and don't think them ungrateful. Good-bye."

He stood upright, and took one of her hands in his, raised it reverently to his lips; and so they parted.

He was off the next morning early to catch the coach at Wells. Not this time in a post-chaise with scarlet-clad post-boy, but driven by the squire himself, in a high gig, his portmanteau strapped behind. Melville roused himself to come down in a magnificent flowered dressing-gown, to see him off; and the boys were all there. Just as the gig was starting, Mrs. Falconer appeared. It was unusual for her to be later than her household, but she had a good reason, for Joyce had passed a restless night, and she had not liked to leave her. She was asleep now, she said, and a day's rest would restore her.

"I hope we shall see you here again," Mrs. Falconer added, "before long. But you won't be trusted on the Mendips again, I can tell you!"

"Let bygones be bygones, that's my motto," said the squire, as the gig went swinging out through the white gates near the house, and turned into the road which led through the village.

"And 'all's well that ends well,'" Gilbert said, as he waved his hat in token of farewell.

That evening, when the squire and his wife were alone together, Mrs. Falconer said:

"Did Mr. Arundel say anything to you as he drove into Wells?"

"Say!" exclaimed the squire. "Well, he is not dumb. He said his head ached, for one thing."

"Ah!" said Mrs. Falconer; "he did not say any thing about his heart?"

The squire puffed a little smoke from his long clay pipe; for he indulged in a pipe sometimes, though the amount of tobacco consumed in the present day would have amazed him, and shocked him also, had he known that the greatest smokers were the young men and boys, to whom, sixty years ago, smoking was forbidden. He did not seem inclined to say anything in reply to his wife's last question.

"Because," said Mrs. Falconer, with that far-seeing and oracular wisdom in which men hope in vain to rival us in these matters, at least; "because I believe Gilbert Arundel is in love with our Joyce."

"Well," said the squire, "that would be no wonder to me; but I daresay it is only one of your fancies, Kate."

"We shall see; we shall see," said Mrs. Falconer. "I only hope he has not trifled with my child, and that my 'fancies,' as you call them, are fancies, that is all."