The Parson's Daughter of Oxney Colne

by Anthony Trollope

　　The prettiest scenery in all England--and if I am contradicted in thatassertion, I will say in all Europe--is in Devonshire, on the southernand southeastern skirts of Dartmoor, where the rivers Dart and Avon andTeign form themselves, and where the broken moor is half cultivated, andthe wild-looking uplands fields are half moor. In making this assertionI am often met with much doubt, but it is by persons who do not reallyknow the locality. Men and women talk to me on the matter who havetravelled down the line of railway from Exeter to Plymouth, who havespent a fortnight at Torquay, and perhaps made an excursion fromTavistock to the convict prison on Dartmoor. But who knows the gloriesof Chagford? Who has walked through the parish of Manaton? Who isconversant with Lustleigh Cleeves and Withycombe in the moor? Who hasexplored Holne Chase? Gentle reader, believe me that you will be rash incontradicting me unless you have done these things.There or thereabouts--I will not say by the waters of which little riverit is washed--is the parish of Oxney Colne. And for those who would wishto see all the beauties of this lovely country a sojourn in Oxney Colnewould be most desirable, seeing that the sojourner would then be broughtnearer to all that he would delight to visit, than at any other spot inthe country. But there is an objection to any such arrangement. Thereare only two decent houses in the whole parish, and these are--or werewhen I knew the locality--small and fully occupied by their possessors.The larger and better is the parsonage in which lived the parson and hisdaughter; and the smaller is the freehold residence of a certain Miss LeSmyrger, who owned a farm of a hundred acres which was rented by oneFarmer Cloysey, and who also possessed some thirty acres round her ownhouse which she managed herself, regarding herself to be quite as greatin cream as Mr. Cloysey, and altogether superior to him in the article ofcider. 'But yeu has to pay no rent, Miss,' Farmer Cloysey would say, whenMiss Le Smyrger expressed this opinion of her art in a manner toodefiant. 'Yeu pays no rent, or yeu couldn't do it.' Miss Le Smyrger wasan old maid, with a pedigree and blood of her own, a hundred and thirtyacres of fee-simple land on the borders of Dartmoor, fifty years of age,a constitution of iron, and an opinion of her own on every subject underthe sun.And now for the parson and his daughter. The parson's name wasWoolsworthy--or Woolathy as it was pronounced by all those who livedaround him--the Rev. Saul Woolsworthy; and his daughter was PatienceWoolsworthy, or Miss Patty, as she was known to the Devonshire world ofthose parts. That name of Patience had not been well chosen for her forshe was a hot-tempered damsel, warm in her convictions, and inclined toexpress them freely. She had but two closely intimate friends in theworld, and by both of them this freedom of expression had been fullypermitted to her since she was a child. Miss Le Smyrger and her fatherwere well accustomed to her ways, and on the whole well satisfied withthem. The former was equally free and equally warm-tempered as herself,and as Mr. Woolsworthy was allowed by his daughter to be quite paramounton his own subject--for he had a subject--he did not object to hisdaughter being paramount on all others. A pretty girl was PatienceWoolsworthy at the time of which I am writing, and one who possessedmuch that was worthy of remark and admiration had she lived where beautymeets with admiration, or where force of character is remarked. But atOxney Colne, on the borders of Dartmoor, there were few to appreciateher, and it seemed as though she herself had but little idea of carryingher talent further afield, so that it might not remain for ever wrappedin a blanket.She was a pretty girl, tall and slender, with dark eyes and black hair.Her eyes were perhaps too round for regular beauty, and her hair wasperhaps too crisp; her mouth was large and expressive; her nose wasfinely formed, though a critic in female form might have declaredit to be somewhat broad. But her countenance altogether was veryattractive--if only it might be seen without that resolution fordominion which occasionally marred it, though sometimes it even addedto her attractions.It must be confessed on behalf of Patience Woolsworthy that thecircumstances of her life had peremptorily called upon her to exercisedominion. She had lost her mother when she was sixteen, and had hadneither brother nor sister. She had no neighbours near her fit eitherfrom education or rank to interfere in the conduct of her life,excepting always Miss Le Smyrger. Miss Le Smyrger would have doneanything for her, including the whole management of her morals andof the parsonage household, had Patience been content with such anarrangement. But much as Patience had ever loved Miss Le Smyrger, shewas not content with this, and therefore she had been called on to putforth a strong hand of her own. She had put forth this strong handearly, and hence had come the character which I am attempting todescribe. But I must say on behalf of this girl that it was not onlyover others that she thus exercised dominion. In acquiring that powershe had also acquired the much greater power of exercising rule overherself.But why should her father have been ignored in these familyarrangements? Perhaps it may almost suffice to say, that of all livingmen her father was the man best conversant with the antiquities of thecounty in which he lived. He was the Jonathan Oldbuck of Devonshire, andespecially of Dartmoor,--but without that decision of character whichenabled Oldbuck to keep his womenkind in some kind of subjection, andprobably enabled him also to see that his weekly bill did not pass theirproper limits. Our Mr. Oldbuck, of Oxney Colne, was sadly deficient inthese respects. As a parish pastor with but a small cure he did his dutywith sufficient energy to keep him, at any rate, from reproach. He waskind and charitable to the poor, punctual in his services, forbearingwith the farmers around him, mild with his brother clergymen, andindifferent to aught that bishop or archdeacon might think or say ofhim. I do not name this latter attribute as a virtue, but as a fact. Butall these points were as nothing in the known character of Mr.Woolsworthy, of Oxney Colne. He was the antiquarian of Dartmoor. Thatwas his line of life. It was in that capacity that he was known to theDevonshire world; it was as such that he journeyed about with his humblecarpetbag, staying away from his parsonage a night or two at a time; itwas in that character that he received now and again stray visitors inthe single spare bedroom--not friends asked to see him and his girlbecause of their friendship--but men who knew something as to thisburied stone, or that old land-mark. In all these things his daughterlet him have his own way, assisting and encouraging him. That was hisline of life, and therefore she respected it. But in all other mattersshe chose to be paramount at the parsonage.Mr. Woolsworthy was a little man, who always wore, except on Sundays,grey clothes--clothes of so light a grey that they would hardly havebeen regarded as clerical in a district less remote. He had now reacheda goodly age, being full seventy years old; but still he was wiry andactive, and shewed but few symptoms of decay. His head was bald, and thefew remaining locks that surrounded it were nearly white. But there wasa look of energy about his mouth, and a humour in his light grey eye,which forbade those who knew him to regard him altogether as an old man.As it was, he could walk from Oxney Colne to Priestown, fifteen longDevonshire miles across the moor; and he who could do that could hardlybe regarded as too old for work.But our present story will have more to do with his daughter than withhim. A pretty girl, I have said, was Patience Woolsworthy; and one, too,in many ways remarkable. She had taken her outlook into life, weighingthe things which she had and those which she had not, in a manner veryunusual, and, as a rule, not always desirable for a young lady. Thethings which she had not were very many. She had not society; she hadnot a fortune; she had not any assurance of future means of livelihood;she had not high hope of procuring for herself a position in life bymarriage; she had not that excitement and pleasure in life which sheread of in such books as found their way down to Oxney Colne Parsonage.It would be easy to add to the list of the things which she had not; andthis list against herself she made out with the utmost vigour. Thethings which she had, or those rather which she assured herself ofhaving, were much more easily counted. She had the birth and educationof a lady, the strength of a healthy woman, and a will of her own. Suchwas the list as she made it out for herself, and I protest that I assertno more than the truth in saying that she never added to it eitherbeauty, wit, or talent.I began these descriptions by saying that Oxney Colne would, of allplaces, be the best spot from which a tourist could visit those partsof Devonshire, but for the fact that he could obtain there none of theaccommodation which tourists require. A brother antiquarian might,perhaps, in those days have done so, seeing that there was, as I havesaid, a spare bedroom at the parsonage. Any intimate friend of Miss LeSmyrger's might be as fortunate, for she was also so provided at OxneyColne, by which name her house was known. But Miss Le Smyrger was notgiven to extensive hospitality, and it was only to those who were boundto her, either by ties of blood or of very old friendship, that shedelighted to open her doors. As her old friends were very few in number,as those few lived at a distance, and as her nearest relations werehigher in the world than she was, and were said by herself to look downupon her, the visits made to Oxney Colne were few and far between.But now, at the period of which I am writing, such a visit was about tobe made. Miss Le Smyrger had a younger sister who had inherited aproperty in the parish of Oxney Colne equal to that of the lady wholived there; but this younger sister had inherited beauty also, and shetherefore, in early life, had found sundry lovers, one of whom becameher husband. She had married a man even then well to do in the world,but now rich and almost mighty; a Member of Parliament, a Lord of thisand that board, a man who had a house in Eaton Square, and a park in thenorth of England; and in this way her course of life had been very muchdivided from that of our Miss Le Smyrger. But the Lord of the Governmentboard had been blessed with various children, and perhaps it was nowthought expedient to look after Aunt Penelope's Devonshire acres. AuntPenelope was empowered to leave them to whom she pleased; and though itwas thought in Eaton Square that she must, as a matter of course, leavethem to one of the family, nevertheless a little cousinly intercoursemight make the thing more certain. I will not say that this was the solecause for such a visit, but in these days a visit was to be made byCaptain Broughton to his aunt. Now Captain John Broughton was the secondson of Alfonso Broughton, of Clapham Park and Eaton Square, Member ofParliament, and Lord of the aforesaid Government Board.And what do you mean to do with him? Patience Woolsworthy asked of MissLe Smyrger when that lady walked over from the Colne to say that hernephew John was to arrive on the following morning.'Do with him? Why, I shall bring him over here to talk to your father.''He'll be too fashionable for that, and papa won't trouble his headabout him if he finds that he doesn't care for Dartmoor.''Then he may fall in love with you, my dear.''Well, yes; there's that resource at any rate, and for your sake I daresay I should be more civil to him than papa. But he'll soon get tired ofmaking love to me, and what you'll do then I cannot imagine.'That Miss Woolsworthy felt no interest in the coming of the Captain Iwill not pretend to say. The advent of any stranger with whom she wouldbe called on to associate must be matter of interest to her in thatsecluded place; and she was not so absolutely unlike other young ladiesthat the arrival of an unmarried young man would be the same to her asthe advent of some patriarchal pater-familias. In taking that outlookinto life of which I have spoken she had never said to herself that shedespised those things from which other girls received the excitement,the joys, and the disappointment of their lives. She had simply givenherself to understand that very little of such things would come in herway, and that it behoved her to live--to live happily if such might bepossible--without experiencing the need of them. She had heard, whenthere was no thought of any such visit to Oxney Colne, that JohnBroughton was a handsome clever man--one who thought much of himself andwas thought much of by others--that there had been some talk of hismarrying a great heiress, which marriage, however had not taken placethrough unwillingness on his part, and that he was on the whole a man ofmore mark in the world than the ordinary captains of ordinary regiments.Captain Broughton came to Oxney Colne, stayed there a fortnight--theintended period for his projected visit having been fixed at three orfour days--and then went his way. He went his way back to his Londonhaunts, the time of the year then being the close of the Easterholy-days; but as he did so he told his aunt that he should assuredlyreturn to her in the autumn.'And assuredly I shall be happy to see you, John--if you come with acertain purpose. If you have no such purpose, you had better remainaway.''I shall assuredly come,' the Captain had replied, and then he had goneon his journey.The summer passed rapidly by, and very little was said between Miss LeSmyrger and Miss Woolsworthy about Captain Broughton. In manyrespects--nay, I may say, as to all ordinary matters,--no two womencould well be more intimate with each other than they were; and morethan that, they had the courage each to talk to the other with absolutetruth as to things concerning themselves--a courage in which dearfriends often fail. But, nevertheless, very little was said between themabout Captain John Broughton. All that was said may be here repeated.'John says that he shall return here in August,' Miss Le Smyrger saidas Patience was sitting with her in the parlour at Oxney Colne, on themorning after that gentleman's departure.'He told me so himself,' said Patience; and as she spoke her round darkeyes assumed a look of more than ordinary self-will. If Miss Le Smyrgerhad intended to carry the conversation any further she changed her mindas she looked at her companion. Then, as I said, the summer ran by, andtowards the close of the warm days of July, Miss Le Smyrger, sitting inthe same chair in the same room, again took up the conversation.'I got a letter from John this morning. He says that he shall be here onthe third.''Does he?''He is very punctual to the time he named.''Yes; I fancy that he is a punctual man,' said Patience.'I hope that you will be glad to see him,' said Miss Le Smyrger.'Very glad to see him,' said Patience, with a bold clear voice; and thenthe conversation was again dropped, and nothing further was said tillafter Captain Broughton's second arrival in the parish.Four months had then passed since his departure, and during that timeMiss Woolsworthy had performed all her usual daily duties in theiraccustomed course. No one could discover that she had been less carefulin her household matters than had been her wont, less willing to goamong her poor neighbours, or less assiduous in her attentions to herfather. But not the less was there a feeling in the minds of thosearound her that some great change had come upon her. She would sitduring the long summer evenings on a certain spot outside the parsonageorchard, at the top of a small sloping field in which their solitary cowwas always pastured, with a book on her knees before her, but rarelyreading. There she would sit, with the beautiful view down to thewinding river below her, watching the setting sun, and thinking,thinking, thinking--thinking of something of which she had never spoken.Often would Miss Le Smyrger come upon her there, and sometimes wouldpass her even without a word; but never--never once did she dare to askof the matter of her thoughts. But she knew the matter well enough. Noconfession was necessary to inform her that Patience Woolsworthy was inlove with John Broughton--ay, in love, to the full and entire loss ofher whole heart.On one evening she was so sitting till the July sun had fallen andhidden himself for the night, when her father came upon her as hereturned from one of his rambles on the moor. 'Patty,' he said, 'youare always sitting there now. Is it not late? Will you not be cold?''No papa,' she said, 'I shall not be cold.''But won't you come to the house? I miss you when you come in so latethat there's no time to say a word before we go to bed.'She got up and followed him into the parsonage, and when they were inthe sitting-room together, and the door was closed, she came up to himand kissed him. 'Papa,' she said, 'would it make you very unhappy if Iwere to leave you?''Leave me!' he said, startled by the serious and almost solemn tone ofher voice. 'Do you mean for always?''If I were to marry, papa?''Oh, marry! No; that would not make me unhappy. It would make me veryhappy, Patty, to see you married to a man you would love;--very, veryhappy; though my days would be desolate without you.''That is it, papa. What would you do if I went from you?''What would it matter, Patty? I should be free, at any rate, from aload which often presses heavy on me now. What will you do when I shallleave you? A few more years and all will be over with me. But who is it,love? Has anybody said anything to you?''It was only an idea, papa. I don't often think of such a thing; but Idid think of it then.' And so the subject was allowed to pass by. Thishad happened before the day of the second arrival had been absolutelyfixed and made known to Miss Woolsworthy.And then that second arrival took place. The reader may have understoodfrom the words with which Miss Le Smyrger authorized her nephew to makehis second visit to Oxney Colne that Miss Woolsworthy's passion was notaltogether unauthorized. Captain Broughton had been told that he was notto come unless he came with a certain purpose; and having been so told,he still persisted in coming. There can be no doubt but that he wellunderstood the purport to which his aunt alluded. 'I shall assuredlycome,' he had said. And true to his word, he was now there.Patience knew exactly the hour at which he must arrive at the station atNewton Abbot, and the time also which it would take to travel over thosetwelve up-hill miles from the station to Oxney. It need hardly be saidthat she paid no visit to Miss Le Smyrger's house on that afternoon; butshe might have known something of Captain Broughton's approach withoutgoing thither. His road to the Colne passed by the parsonage-gate, andhad Patience sat even at her bedroom window she must have seen him. Buton such an evening she would not sit at her bedroom window;--she woulddo nothing which would force her to accuse herself of a restless longingfor her lover's coming. It was for him to seek her. If he chose to doso, he knew the way to the parsonage.Miss Le Smyrger--good, dear, honest, hearty Miss Le Smyrger, was in afever of anxiety on behalf of her friend. It was not that she wished hernephew to marry Patience,--or rather that she had entertained any suchwish when he first came among them. She was not given to match-making,and moreover thought, or had thought within herself, that they of OxneyColne could do very well without any admixture from Eaton Square. Herplan of life had been that when old Mr. Woolsworthy was taken away fromDartmoor, Patience should live with her, and that when she also shuffledoff her coil, then Patience Woolsworthy should be the maiden-mistressof Oxney Colne--of Oxney Colne and of Mr. Cloysey's farm--to the utterdetriment of all the Broughtons. Such had been her plan before nephewJohn had come among them--a plan not to be spoken of till the coming ofthat dark day which should make Patience an orphan. But now her nephewhad been there, and all was to be altered. Miss Le Smyrger's plan wouldhave provided a companion for her old age; but that had not been herchief object. She had thought more of Patience than of herself, and nowit seemed that a prospect of a higher happiness was opening for herfriend.'John,' she said, as soon as the first greetings were over, 'do youremember the last words that I said to you before you went away?' Now,for myself, I much admire Miss Le Smyrger's heartiness, but I do notthink much of her discretion. It would have been better, perhaps, hadshe allowed things to take their course.'I can't say that I do,' said the Captain. At the same time the Captaindid remember very well what those last words had been.'I am so glad to see you, so delighted to see you, if--if--if--,' andthen she paused, for with all her courage she hardly dared to ask hernephew whether he had come there with the express purport of asking MissWoolsworthy to marry him.To tell the truth--for there is no room for mystery within the limits ofthis short story,--to tell, I say, at a word the plain and simple truth,Captain Broughton had already asked that question. On the day before heleft Oxney Colne he had in set terms proposed to the parson's daughter,and indeed the words, the hot and frequent words, which previously tothat had fallen like sweetest honey into the ears of PatienceWoolsworthy, had made it imperative on him to do so. When a man in sucha place as that has talked to a girl of love day after day, must not hetalk of it to some definite purpose on the day on which he leaves her?Or if he do not, must he not submit to be regarded as false, selfish,and almost fraudulent? Captain Broughton, however, had asked thequestion honestly and truly. He had done so honestly and truly, but inwords, or, perhaps, simply with a tone, that had hardly sufficed tosatisfy the proud spirit of the girl he loved. She by that time hadconfessed to herself that she loved him with all her heart; but she hadmade no such confession to him. To him she had spoken no word, grantedno favour, that any lover might rightfully regard as a token of lovereturned. She had listened to him as he spoke, and bade him keep suchsayings for the drawing-rooms of his fashionable friends. Then he hadspoken out and had asked for that hand,--not, perhaps, as a suitortremulous with hope,--but as a rich man who knows that he can commandthat which he desires to purchase.'You should think more of this,' she had said to him at last. 'If youwould really have me for your wife, it will not be much to you to returnhere again when time for thinking of it shall have passed by.' Withthese words she had dismissed him, and now he had again come back toOxney Colne. But still she would not place herself at the window to lookfor him, nor dress herself in other than her simple morning countrydress, nor omit one item of her daily work. If he wished to take her atall, he should wish to take her as she really was, in her plain countrylife, but he should take her also with full observance of all thoseprivileges which maidens are allowed to claim from their lovers. Heshould curtail no ceremonious observance because she was the daughter ofa poor country parson who would come to him without a shilling, whereashe stood high in the world's books. He had asked her to give him allthat she had, and that all she was ready to give, without stint. But thegift must be valued before it could be given or received. He also was togive her as much, and she would accept it as being beyond all price. Butshe would not allow that that which was offered to her was in any degreethe more precious because of his outward worldly standing.She would not pretend to herself that she thought he would come to herthat afternoon, and therefore she busied herself in the kitchen andabout the house, giving directions to her two maids as though the daywould pass as all other days did pass in that household. They usuallydined at four, and she rarely, in these summer months, went far from thehouse before that hour. At four precisely she sat down with her father,and then said that she was going up as far as Helpholme after dinner.Helpholme was a solitary farmhouse in another parish, on the border ofthe moor, and Mr. Woolsworthy asked her whether he should accompany her.'Do, papa,' she said, 'if you are not too tired.' And yet she hadthought how probable it might be that she should meet John Broughton onher walk. And so it was arranged; but, just as dinner was over, Mr.Woolsworthy remembered himself.'Gracious me,' he said, 'how my memory is going! Gribbles, fromIvybridge, and old John Poulter, from Bovey, are coming to meet here byappointment. You can't put Helpholme off till tomorrow?'Patience, however, never put off anything, and therefore at six o'clock,when her father had finished his slender modicum of toddy, she tied onher hat and went on her walk. She started forth with a quick step, andleft no word to say by which route she would go. As she passed up alongthe little lane which led towards Oxney Colne she would not even look tosee if he was coming towards her; and when she left the road, passingover a stone stile into a little path which ran first through the uplandfields, and then across the moor ground towards Helpholme, she did notlook back once, or listen for his coming step.She paid her visit, remaining upwards of an hour with the old bedriddenmother of the farmer of Helpholme. 'God bless you, my darling!' said theold lady as she left her; 'and send you someone to make your own pathbright and happy through the world.' These words were still ringing inher ears with all their significance as she saw John Broughton waitingfor her at the first stile which she had to pass after leaving thefarmer's haggard.'Patty,' he said, as he took her hand, and held it close within both hisown, 'what a chase I have had after you!''And who asked you, Captain Broughton?' she answered, smiling. 'If thejourney was too much for your poor London strength, could you not havewaited till tomorrow morning, when you would have found me at theparsonage?' But she did not draw her hand away from him, or in any waypretend that he had not a right to accost her as a lover.'No, I could not wait. I am more eager to see those I love than you seemto be.''How do you know whom I love, or how eager I might be to see them? Thereis an old woman there whom I love, and I have thought nothing of thiswalk with the object of seeing her.' And now, slowly drawing her handaway from him, she pointed to the farmhouse which she had left.'Patty,' he said, after a minute's pause, during which she had lookedfull into his face with all the force of her bright eyes; 'I have comefrom London today, straight down here to Oxney, and from my aunt'shouse close upon your footsteps after you to ask you that one question.Do you love me?''What a Hercules?' she said, again laughing. 'Do you really mean thatyou left London only this morning? Why, you must have been five hours ina railway carriage and two in a post-chaise, not to talk of the walkafterwards. You ought to take more care of yourself, Captain Broughton!'He would have been angry with her,--for he did not like to bequizzed,--had she not put her hand on his arm as she spoke, and thesoftness of her touch had redeemed the offence of her words.'All that have I done,' said he, 'that I may hear one word from you.''That any word of mine should have such potency! But, let us walk on, ormy father will take us for some of the standing stones of the moor. Howhave you found your aunt? If you only knew the cares that have sat onher dear shoulders for the last week past, in order that your highmightyness might have a sufficiency to eat and drink in these desolatehalf-starved regions.''She might have saved herself such anxiety. No one can care less forsuch things than I do.''And yet I think I have heard you boast of the cook of your club.' Andthen again there was silence for a minute or two.'Patty,' said he, stopping again in the path; 'answer my question. Ihave a right to demand an answer. Do you love me?''And what if I do? What if I have been so silly as to allow yourperfections to be too many for my weak heart? What then, CaptainBroughton?''It cannot be that you love me, or you would not joke now.''Perhaps not, indeed,' she said. It seemed as though she were resolvednot to yield an inch in her own humour. And then again they walked on.'Patty,' he said once more, 'I shall get an answer from youtonight,--this evening; now, during this walk, or I shall returntomorrow, and never revisit this spot again.''Oh, Captain Broughton, how should we ever manage to live without you?''Very well,' he said; 'up to the end of this walk I can bear itall;--and one word spoken then will mend it all.'During the whole of this time she felt that she was ill-using him. Sheknew that she loved him with all her heart; that it would nearly killher to part with him; that she had heard his renewed offer with anecstasy of joy. She acknowledged to herself that he was giving proof ofhis devotion as strong as any which a girl could receive from her lover.And yet she could hardly bring herself to say the word he longed tohear. That word once said, and then she knew that she must succumb toher love for ever! That word once said, and there would be nothing forher but to spoil him with her idolatry! That word once said, and shemust continue to repeat it into his ears, till perhaps he might be tiredof hearing it! And now he had threatened her, and how could she speak itafter that? She certainly would not speak it unless he asked her againwithout such threat. And so they walked on again in silence.'Patty,' he said at last. 'By the heavens above us you shall answer me.Do you love me?'She now stood still, and almost trembled as she looked up into his face.She stood opposite to him for a moment, and then placing her two handson his shoulders, she answered him. 'I do, I do, I do,' she said, 'withall my heart; with all my heart--with all my heart and strength.' Andthen her head fell upon his breast.Captain Broughton was almost as much surprised as delighted by thewarmth of the acknowledgment made by the eager-hearted passionate girlwhom he now held within his arms. She had said it now; the words hadbeen spoken; and there was nothing for her but to swear to him over andover again with her sweetest oaths, that those words were true--true asher soul. And very sweet was the walk down from thence to the parsonagegate. He spoke no more of the distance of the ground, or the length ofhis day's journey. But he stopped her at every turn that he might pressher arm the closer to his own, that he might look into the brightness ofher eyes, and prolong his hour of delight. There were no more gibes nowon her tongue, no raillery at his London finery, no laughing comments onhis coming and going. With downright honesty she told him everything:how she had loved him before her heart was warranted in such a passion;how, with much thinking, she had resolved that it would be unwise totake him at his first word, and had thought it better that he shouldreturn to London, and then think over it; how she had almost repentedof her courage when she had feared, during those long summer days, thathe would forget her; and how her heart had leapt for joy when her oldfriend had told her that he was coming.'And yet,' said he, 'you were not glad to see me!''Oh, was I not glad? You cannot understand the feelings of a girl whohas lived secluded as I have done. Glad is no word for the joy I felt.But it was not seeing you that I cared for so much. It was the knowledgethat you were near me once again. I almost wish now that I had not seenyou till tomorrow.' But as she spoke she pressed his arm, and thiscaress gave the lie to her last words.'No, do not come in tonight,' she said, when she reached the littlewicket that led up the parsonage. 'Indeed you shall not. I could notbehave myself properly if you did.''But I don't want you to behave properly.''Oh! I am to keep that for London, am I? But, nevertheless, CaptainBroughton, I will not invite you either to tea or to supper tonight.''Surely I may shake hands with your father.''Not tonight--not till--. John, I may tell him, may I not? I must tellhim at once.''Certainly,' said he.'And then you shall see him tomorrow. Let me see--at what hour shall Ibid you come?''To breakfast.''No, indeed. What on earth would your aunt do with her broiled turkeyand the cold pie? I have got no cold pie for you.''I hate cold pie.''What a pity! But, John, I should be forced to leave you directly afterbreakfast. Come down--come down at two, or three; and then I will goback with you to Aunt Penelope. I must see her tomorrow.' And so at lastthe matter was settled, and the happy Captain, as he left her, washardly resisted in his attempt to press her lips to his own.When she entered the parlour in which her father was sitting, therestill were Gribbles and Poulter discussing some knotty point of Devonlore. So Patience took off her hat, and sat herself down, waiting tillthey should go. For full an hour she had to wait, and then Gribbles andPoulter did go. But it was not in such matters as this that PatienceWoolsworthy was impatient. She could wait, and wait, and wait, curbingherself for weeks and months, while the thing waited for was in her eyesgood; but she could not curb her hot thoughts or her hot words whenthings came to be discussed which she did not think to be good.'Papa,' she said, when Gribbles' long-drawn last word had been spoken atthe door. 'Do you remember how I asked you the other day what you wouldsay if I were to leave you?''Yes, surely,' he replied, looking up at her in astonishment.'I am going to leave you now,' she said. 'Dear, dearest father, how am Ito go from you?''Going to leave me,' said he, thinking of her visit to Helpholme, andthinking of nothing else.Now there had been a story about Helpholme. That bedridden old ladythere had a stalwart son, who was now the owner of the Helpholmepastures. But though owner in fee of all those wild acres and of thecattle which they supported, he was not much above the farmers aroundhim, either in manners or education. He had his merits, however; for hewas honest, well to do in the world, and modest withal. How strong lovehad grown up, springing from neighbourly kindness, between our Patienceand his mother, it needs not here to tell; but rising from it had comeanother love--or an ambition which might have grown to love. The youngman, after much thought, had not dared to speak to Miss Woolsworthy, buthe had sent a message by Miss Le Smyrger. If there could be any hope forhim, he would present himself as a suitor--on trial. He did not owe ashilling in the world, and had money by him--saved. He wouldn't ask theparson for a shilling of fortune. Such had been the tenor of hismessage, and Miss Le Smyrger had delivered it faithfully. 'He does notmean it,' Patience had said with her stern voice. 'Indeed he does, mydear. You may be sure he is in earnest,' Miss Le Smyrger had replied;'and there is not an honester man in these parts.''Tell him,' said Patience, not attending to the latter portion of herfriend's last speech, 'that it cannot be,--make him understand, youknow--and tell him also that the matter shall be thought of no more.'The matter had, at any rate, been spoken of no more, but the youngfarmer still remained a bachelor, and Helpholme still wanted amistress. But all this came back upon the parson's mind when hisdaughter told him that she was about to leave him.'Yes, dearest,' she said; and as she spoke, she now knelt at his knees.'I have been asked in marriage, and I have given myself away.''Well, my love, if you will be happy--''I hope I shall; I think I shall. But you, papa?''You will not be far from us.''Oh, yes; in London.''In London.''Captain Broughton lives in London generally.''And has Captain Broughton asked you to marry him?''Yes, papa--who else? Is he not good? Will you not love him? Oh, papa,do not say that I am wrong to love him?'He never told her his mistake, or explained to her that he had notthought it possible that the high-placed son of the London great manshall have fallen in love with his undowered daughter; but he embracedher, and told her, with all his enthusiasm, that he rejoiced in her joy,and would be happy in her happiness. 'My own Patty,' he said, 'I haveever known that you were too good for this life of ours here.' And thenthe evening wore away into the night, with many tears but still withmuch happiness.Captain Broughton, as he walked back to Oxney Colne, made up his mindthat he would say nothing on the matter to his aunt till the nextmorning. He wanted to think over it all, and to think it over, ifpossible, by himself. He had taken a step in life, the most importantthat a man is ever called on to take, and he had to reflect whether orno he had taken it with wisdom.'Have you seen her?' said Miss Le Smyrger, very anxiously, when he cameinto the drawing-room.'Miss Woolsworthy you mean,' said he. 'Yes, I've seen her. As I foundher out I took a long walk and happened to meet her. Do you know, aunt,I think I'll go to bed; I was up at five this morning, and have been onthe move ever since.'Miss Le Smyrger perceived that she was to hear nothing that evening, soshe handed him his candlestick and allowed him to go to his room.But Captain Broughton did not immediately retire to bed, nor when hedid so was he able to sleep at once. Had this step that he had takenbeen a wise one? He was not a man who, in worldly matters, had allowedthings to arrange themselves for him, as is the case with so many men.He had formed views for himself, and had a theory of life. Money formoney's sake he had declared to himself to be bad. Money, as aconcomitant to things which were in themselves good, he had declared tohimself to be good also. That concomitant in this affair of hismarriage, he had now missed. Well; he had made up his mind to that, andwould put up with the loss. He had means of living of his own, thoughmeans not so extensive as might have been desirable. That it would bewell for him to become a married man, looking merely to that state oflife as opposed to his present state, he had fully resolved. On thatpoint, therefore, there was nothing to repent. That Patty Woolsworthywas good, affectionate, clever, and beautiful, he was sufficientlysatisfied. It would be odd indeed if he were not so satisfied now,seeing that for the last four months he had declared to himself dailythat she was so with many inward asseverations. And yet though herepeated now again that he was satisfied, I do not think that he was sofully satisfied of it as he had been throughout the whole of those fourmonths. It is sad to say so, but I fear--I fear that such was the case.When you have your plaything how much of the anticipated pleasurevanishes, especially if it have been won easily!He had told none of his family what were his intentions in this secondvisit to Devonshire, and now he had to bethink himself whether theywould be satisfied. What would his sister say, she who had married theHonourable Augustus Gumbleton, gold-stick-in-waiting to Her Majesty'sPrivy Council? Would she receive Patience with open arms, and make muchof her about London? And then how far would London suit Patience, orwould Patience suit London? There would be much for him to do inteaching her, and it would be well for him to set about the lessonwithout loss of time. So far he got that night, but when the morningcame he went a step further, and began mentally to criticize her mannerto himself. It had been very sweet, that warm, that full, that readydeclaration of love. Yes; it had been very sweet; but--but--; when,after her little jokes, she did confess her love, had she not been alittle too free for feminine excellence? A man likes to be told that heis loved, but he hardly wishes that the girl he is to marry should flingherself at his head!Ah me! yes; it was thus he argued to himself as on that morning he wentthrough the arrangements of his toilet. 'Then he was a brute,' you say,my pretty reader. I have never said that he was not a brute. But this Iremark, that many such brutes are to be met with in the beaten paths ofthe world's high highway. When Patience Woolsworthy had answered himcoldly, bidding him go back to London and think over his love; while itseemed from her manner that at any rate as yet she did not care for him;while he was absent from her, and, therefore, longing for her, thepossession of her charms, her talent, and bright honesty of purpose hadseemed to him a thing most desirable. Now they were his own. They had,in fact, been his own from the first. The heart of this country-bredgirl had fallen at the first word from his mouth. Had she not soconfessed to him? She was very nice,--very nice indeed. He loved herdearly. But had he not sold himself too cheaply?I by no means say that he was not a brute. But whether brute or no hewas an honest man, and had no remotest dream, either then, on thatmorning, or during the following days on which such thoughts pressedmore thickly on his mind--of breaking away from his pledged word. Atbreakfast on that morning he told all to Miss Le Smyrger, and that lady,with warm and gracious intentions, confided to him her purpose regardingher property. 'I have always regarded Patience as my heir,' she said,'and shall do so still.''Oh, indeed,' said Captain Broughton.'But it is a great, great pleasure to me to think that she will giveback the little property to my sister's child. You will have yourmother's, and thus it will all come together again.''Ah!' said Captain Broughton. He had his own ideas about property, anddid not, even under existing circumstances, like to hear that his auntconsidered herself at liberty to leave the acres away to one who was byblood quite a stranger to the family.'Does Patience know of this?' he asked.'Not a word,' said Miss Le Smyrger. And then nothing more was said uponthe subject.On that afternoon he went down and received the parson's benediction andcongratulations with a good grace. Patience said very little on theoccasion, and indeed was absent during the greater part of theinterview. The two lovers then walked up to Oxney Colne, and there weremore benedictions and more congratulations. 'All went merry as amarriage bell', at any rate as far as Patience was concerned. Not a wordhad yet fallen from that dear mouth, not a look had yet come over thathandsome face, which tended in any way to mar her bliss. Her first dayof acknowledged love was a day altogether happy, and when she prayed forhim as she knelt beside her bed there was no feeling in her mind thatany fear need disturb her joy.I will pass over the next three or four days very quickly, merely sayingthat Patience did not find them so pleasant as that first day after herengagement. There was something in her lover's manner--something whichat first she could not define--which by degrees seemed to grate againsther feelings. He was sufficiently affectionate, that being a matter onwhich she did not require much demonstration; but joined to hisaffection there seemed to be--; she hardly liked to suggest to herself aharsh word, but could it be possible that he was beginning to think thatshe was not good enough for him? And then she asked herself thequestion--was she good enough for him? If there were doubt about that,the match should be broken off, though she tore her own heart out in thestruggle. The truth, however, was this,--that he had begun that teachingwhich he had already found to be so necessary. Now, had any one essayedto teach Patience German or mathematics, with that young lady's freeconsent, I believe that she would have been found a meek scholar. But itwas not probable that she would be meek when she found a self-appointedtutor teaching her manners and conduct without her consent.So matters went on for four or five days, and on the evening of thefifth day, Captain Broughton and his aunt drank tea at the parsonage.Nothing very especial occurred; but as the parson and Miss Le Smyrgerinsisted on playing backgammon with devoted perseverance during thewhole evening, Broughton had a good opportunity of saying a word or twoabout those changes in his lady-love which a life in London wouldrequire--and some word he said also--some single slight word, as to thehigher station in life to which he would exalt his bride. Patience boreit--for her father and Miss Le Smyrger were in the room--she bore itwell, speaking no syllable of anger, and enduring, for the moment, theimplied scorn of the old parsonage. Then the evening broke up, andCaptain Broughton walked back to Oxney Colne with his aunt. 'Patty,' herfather said to her before they went to bed, 'he seems to me to be a mostexcellent young man.' 'Dear papa,' she answered, kissing him. 'Andterribly deep in love,' said Mr. Woolsworthy. 'Oh, I don't know aboutthat,' she answered, as she left him with her sweetest smile. But thoughshe could thus smile at her father's joke, she had already made up hermind that there was still something to be learned as to her promisedhusband before she could place herself altogether in his hands. Shewould ask him whether he thought himself liable to injury from thisproposed marriage; and though he should deny any such thought, she wouldknow from the manner of his denial what his true feelings were.And he, too, on that night, during his silent walk with Miss Le Smyrger,had entertained some similar thoughts. 'I fear she is obstinate', he hadsaid to himself, and then he had half accused her of being sullen also.'If that be her temper, what a life of misery I have before me!''Have you fixed a day yet?' his aunt asked him as they came near to herhouse.'No, not yet; I don't know whether it will suit me to fix it before Ileave.''Why, it was but the other day you were in such a hurry.''Ah--yes-I have thought more about it since then.''I should have imagined that this would depend on what Patty thinks,'said Miss Le Smyrger, standing up for the privileges of her sex. 'It ispresumed that the gentleman is always ready as soon as the lady willconsent.''Yes, in ordinary cases it is so; but when a girl is taken out of herown sphere--''Her own sphere! Let me caution you, Master John, not to talk to Pattyabout her own sphere.''Aunt Penelope, as Patience is to be my wife and not yours, I must claimpermission to speak to her on such subjects as may seem suitable to me.'And then they parted--not in the best humour with each other.On the following day Captain Broughton and Miss Woolsworthy did not meettill the evening. She had said, before those few ill-omened words hadpassed her lover's lips, that she would probably be at Miss LeSmyrger's house on the following morning. Those ill-omened words didpass her lover's lips, and then she remained at home. This did not comefrom sullenness, nor even from anger, but from a conviction that itwould be well that she should think much before she met him again. Norwas he anxious to hurry a meeting. His thought--his base thought--wasthis; that she would be sure to come up to the Colne after him; but shedid not come, and therefore in the evening he went down to her, andasked her to walk with him.They went away by the path that led by Helpholme, and little was saidbetween them till they had walked some mile together. Patience, as shewent along the path, remembered almost to the letter the sweet wordswhich had greeted her ears as she came down that way with him on thenight of his arrival; but he remembered nothing of that sweetness then.Had he not made an ass of himself during these last six months? That wasthe thought which very much had possession of his mind.'Patience,' he said at last, having hitherto spoken only an indifferentword now and again since they had left the parsonage, 'Patience, I hopeyou realize the importance of the step which you and I are about totake?''Of course I do,' she answered: 'what an odd question that is for you toask!''Because,' said he, 'sometimes I almost doubt it. It seems to me asthough you thought you could remove yourself from here to your new homewith no more trouble than when you go from home up to the Colne.''Is that meant for a reproach, John?''No, not for a reproach, but for advice. Certainly not for a reproach.''I am glad of that.''But I should wish to make you think how great is the leap in the worldwhich you are about to take.' Then again they walked on for many stepsbefore she answered him.'Tell me, then, John,' she said, when she had sufficiently consideredwhat words she would speak;--and as she spoke a dark bright coloursuffused her face, and her eyes flashed almost with anger. 'What leap doyou mean? Do you mean a leap upwards?''Well, yes; I hope it will be so.''In one sense, certainly, it would be a leap upwards. To be the wife ofthe man I loved; to have the privilege of holding his happiness in myhand; to know that I was his own--the companion whom he had chosen outof all the world--that would, indeed, be a leap upward; a leap almost toheaven, if all that were so. But if you mean upwards in any othersense--''I was thinking of the social scale.''Then, Captain Broughton, your thoughts were doing me dishonour.''Doing you dishonour!''Yes, doing me dishonour. That your father is, in the world's esteem, agreater man than mine is doubtless true enough. That you, as a man, arericher than I am as a woman is doubtless also true. But you dishonourme, and yourself also, if these things can weigh with you now.''Patience,--I think you can hardly know what words you are saying tome.''Pardon me, but I think I do. Nothing that you can give me--no gifts ofthat description--can weigh aught against that which I am giving you. Ifyou had all the wealth and rank of the greatest lord in the land, itwould count as nothing in such a scale. If--as I have not doubted--if inreturn for my heart you have given me yours, then--then--then, you havepaid me fully. But when gifts such as those are going, nothing else cancount even as a make-weight.''I do not quite understand you,' he answered, after a pause. 'I fear youare a little high-flown.' And then, while the evening was still early,they walked back to the parsonage almost without another word.Captain Broughton at this time had only one more full day to remain atOxney Colne. On the afternoon following that he was to go as far asExeter, and thence return to London. Of course it was to be expected,that the wedding day would be fixed before he went, and much had beensaid about it during the first day or two of his engagement. Then he hadpressed for an early time, and Patience, with a girl's usual diffidence,had asked for some little delay. But now nothing was said on thesubject; and how was it probable that such a matter could be settledafter such a conversation as that which I have related? That evening,Miss Le Smyrger asked whether the day had been fixed. 'No,' said CaptainBroughton harshly; 'nothing has been fixed.' 'But it will be arrangedbefore you go.' 'Probably not,' he said; and then the subject wasdropped for the time.'John,' she said, just before she went to bed, 'if there be anythingwrong between you and Patience, I conjure you to tell me.''You had better ask her,' he replied. 'I can tell you nothing.'On the following morning he was much surprised by seeing Patience on thegravel path before Miss Le Smyrger's gate immediately after breakfast.He went to the door to open it for her, and she, as she gave him herhand, told him that she came up to speak to him. There was no hesitationin her manner, nor any look of anger in her face. But there was in hergait and form, in her voice and countenance, a fixedness of purposewhich he had never seen before, or at any rate had never acknowledged.'Certainly,' said he. 'Shall I come out with you, or will you comeupstairs?''We can sit down in the summer-house,' she said; and thither they bothwent.'Captain Broughton,' she said--and she began her task the moment thatthey were both seated--'You and I have engaged ourselves as man andwife, but perhaps we have been over rash.''How so?' said he.'It may be--and indeed I will say more--it is the case that we have madethis engagement without knowing enough of each other's character.''I have not thought so.''The time will perhaps come when you will so think, but for the sake ofall that we most value, let it come before it is too late. What would beour fate--how terrible would be our misery, if such a thought shouldcome to either of us after we have linked our lots together.'There was a solemnity about her as she thus spoke which almost repressedhim,--which for a time did prevent him from taking that tone ofauthority which on such a subject he would choose to adopt. But herecovered himself. 'I hardly think that this comes well from you,' hesaid.'From whom else should it come? Who else can fight my battle for me;and, John, who else can fight that same battle on your behalf? I tellyou this, that with your mind standing towards me as it does stand atpresent you could not give me your hand at the altar with true words anda happy conscience. Is it not true? You have half repented of yourbargain already. Is it not so?'He did not answer her; but getting up from his seat walked to the frontof the summer-house, and stood there with his back turned upon her. Itwas not that he meant to be ungracious, but in truth he did not know howto answer her. He had half repented of his bargain.'John,' she said, getting up and following him so that she could put herhand upon his arm, 'I have been very angry with you.''Angry with me!' he said, turning sharp upon her.'Yes, angry with you. You would have treated me like a child. But thatfeeling has gone now. I am not angry now. There is my hand;--the hand ofa friend. Let the words that have been spoken between us be as thoughthey had not been spoken. Let us both be free.''Do you mean it?' he asked.'Certainly I mean it.' As she spoke these words her eyes were filledwith tears in spite of all the efforts she could make to restrain them;but he was not looking at her, and her efforts had sufficed to preventany sob from being audible.'With all my heart,' he said; and it was manifest from his tone that hehad no thought of her happiness as he spoke. It was true that she hadbeen angry with him--angry, as she had herself declared; butnevertheless, in what she had said and what she had done, she hadthought more of his happiness than of her own. Now she was angry onceagain.'With all your heart, Captain Broughton! Well, so be it. If with allyour heart, then is the necessity so much the greater. You go tomorrow.Shall we say farewell now?''Patience, I am not going to be lectured.''Certainly not by me. Shall we say farewell now?''Yes, if you are determined.''I am determined. Farewell, Captain Broughton. You have all my wishesfor your happiness.' And she held out her hand to him.'Patience!' he said. And he looked at her with a dark frown, as thoughhe would strive to frighten her into submission. If so, he might havesaved himself any such attempt.'Farewell, Captain Broughton. Give me your hand, for I cannot stay.' Hegave her his hand, hardly knowing why he did so. She lifted it to herlips and kissed it, and then, leaving him, passed from the summer-housedown through the wicket-gate, and straight home to the parsonage.During the whole of that day she said no word to anyone of what hadoccurred. When she was once more at home she went about her householdaffairs as she had done on that day of his arrival. When she sat down todinner with her father he observed nothing to make him think that shewas unhappy, nor during the evening was there any expression in herface, or any tone in her voice, which excited his attention. On thefollowing morning Captain Broughton called at the parsonage, and theservant-girl brought word to her mistress that he was in the parlour.But she would not see him. 'Laws miss, you ain't a quarrelled with yourbeau?' the poor girl said. 'No, not quarrelled,' she said; 'but give himthat.' It was a scrap of paper containing a word or two in pencil. 'Itis better that we should not meet again. God bless you.' And from thatday to this, now more than ten years, they have never met.'Papa,' she said to her father that afternoon, 'dear papa, do not beangry with me. It is all over between me and John Broughton. Dearest,you and I will not be separated.'It would be useless here to tell how great was the old man's surpriseand how true his sorrow. As the tale was told to him no cause was givenfor anger with anyone. Not a word was spoken against the suitor who hadon that day returned to London with a full conviction that now at leasthe was relieved from his engagement. 'Patty, my darling child,' he said,'may God grant that it be for the best!''It is for the best,' she answered stoutly. 'For this place I am fit;and I much doubt whether I am fit for any other.'On that day she did not see Miss Le Smyrger, but on the followingmorning, knowing that Captain Broughton had gone off,--having heard thewheels of the carriage as they passed by the parsonage gate on his wayto the station,--she walked up to the Colne.'He has told you, I suppose?' said she.'Yes,' said Miss Le Smyrger. 'And I will never see him again unless heasks your pardon on his knees. I have told him so. I would not even givehim my hand as he went.''But why so, thou kindest one? The fault was mine more than his.''I understand. I have eyes in my head,' said the old maid. 'I havewatched him for the last four or five days. If you could have kept thetruth to yourself and bade him keep off from you, he would have been atyour feet now, licking the dust from your shoes.''But, dear friend, I do not want a man to lick dust from my shoes.''Ah, you are a fool. You do not know the value of your own wealth.''True; I have been a fool. I was a fool to think that one coming fromsuch a life as he has led could be happy with such as I am. I know thetruth now. I have bought the lesson dearly--but perhaps not too dearly,seeing that it will never be forgotten.'There was but little more said about the matter between our threefriends at Oxney Colne. What, indeed, could be said? Miss Le Smyrger fora year or two still expected that her nephew would return and claim hisbride; but he has never done so, nor has there been any correspondencebetween them. Patience Woolsworthy had learned her lesson dearly. Shehad given her whole heart to the man; and, though she so bore herselfthat no one was aware of the violence of the struggle, nevertheless thestruggle within her bosom was very violent. She never told herself thatshe had done wrong; she never regretted her loss; but yet--yet!--theloss was very hard to bear. He also had loved her, but he was notcapable of a love which could much injure his daily peace. Her dailypeace was gone for many a day to come.Her father is still living; but there is a curate now in the parish. Inconjunction with him and with Miss Le Smyrger she spends her time in theconcerns of the parish. In her own eyes she is a confirmed old maid; andsuch is my opinion also. The romance of her life was played out in thatsummer. She never sits now lonely on the hillside thinking how much shemight do for one whom she really loved. But with a large heart she lovesmany, and, with no romance, she works hard to lighten the burdens ofthose she loves.As for Captain Broughton, all the world knows that he did marry thatgreat heiress with whom his name was once before connected, and that heis now a useful member of Parliament, working on committees three orfour days a week with zeal that is indefatigable. Sometimes, not often,as he thinks of Patience Woolsworthy a smile comes across his face.THE END.* * * * * * * * * * * *