These were strangers to Oswald Pentreath, save for a dim remembrance of the Pilgrim's Progress, devoured and wondered over in early boyhood. The conversation came to a dead stop at this point, but there was no embarrassment. A pause in the flow of talk is not such an awful thing in a Devonshire village as it is at a London dinner-table, where the fountain of wit is supposed to be inexhaustible, and a silence reflects discredit on the assemblage. "Let us go into the garden," said Joshua when everybody's second cup was empty. Jim had turned his bottom-upwards, and balanced his teaspoon across it, thereby scandalising aunt Judith, whose reproving frown had no influence upon him. "Yes, and I'll show you Naomi's wilderness," said the boy to Oswald, in a confidential undertone. It was one of Joshua's leisure evenings. There was no service of Little Bethel, and until closing-time there was nothing for him to do in the shop. He could afford to lounge in his garden and refresh himself with a little repose after a toilsome day. Aunt Judith went to the shop, where there was generally a run upon tape, needles, and such small gear in the leisure hours of evening, good housewives, who had been too busy to touch their needlework in the day, discovering their wants after tea and running down to Haggard's to supply the same, and perhaps to spend five minutes or so inquiring after the health of that excellent man the minister. The rest repaired to the garden-a square piece of ground of about an acre, running off at the end into another acre, of irregular shape, which had been an orchard for the last hundred years. There was nothing picturesque about Mr. Haggard's garden. It was neatly laid out upon utilitarian principles, with just so much regard to ornament as is implied in narrow borders of old-fashioned cottage flowers in front of homely vegetables, and a row of espaliers screening beds of onions and turnips. It was a garden running over with fertility, from the young pear-trees, around whose lowermost branches the scarlet-runners had entwined themselves lovingly, to the golden pumpkins sprawling in the setting sunlight, and the deformed old quince-trees that hung over a pond in the corner by the wall. The narrows paths were neatly kept, and there were very few weeds among vegetables or flowers, Jim being held answerable for the condition of things, and labouring here himself daily, with some little assistance from the shop-boy and a good deal of help from Naomi, who was passionately fond of flowers. Mr. Haggard walked to the end of the garden with the young people, and then, feeling tired after his long round by hill and dale, seated himself on a bench by the quince-trees, which with an ancient walnut made this the shady spot of the garden. There was a square grass-plat here upon which stood a rude table -a specimen of Jim's carpentry; and on very warm afternoons aunt Judith was sometimes persuaded into an out-of-door tea-drinking here -a concession on her part only to be obtained by much diplomacy. Joshua was fond of his garden in a passive way, and it was here that he communed with himself on Saturday afternoons, meditating his subject for the next day's sermons. It was here he read the Nonconformist divines, or indulged in that introspective study, that searching out of his own heart, which formed a prominent part of his system. There was not much to search for in the minister's heart-no lurking evil to be thrust out of it. In singleness of purpose, in directness of aim, in simplicity of life, he came as near perfection as it is given to erring man to come. The young people strolled on along the narrow path to the orchard, leaving Joshua to his meditations. If Judith had been there she would have taken pains to prevent this unrestricted communion between the young Squire and Naomi; but her brother, in his contemplation of far-off things, was apt to overlook trifles lying near at hand, and he saw no danger in the temporary association of these young minds. "Come and see our wilderness," cried Jim, opening the orchard-gate. The orchard was a queerly-shaped enclosure, a strip of land running into a sharp point; and this triangular end had been allowed to be waste ground until Naomi's fifteenth birthday, on which privileged occasion she begged the bit of waste from her father by way of birthday gift; and from that time forward it had been her constant delight and Jim's occasional caprice to adorn the spot with all manner of Nature's wildlings of forest, heath, and dell. It was a wonderful soil, that wilderness-everything grew there. Plants that af fected sand, and plants that hungered for loam; flowers that loved the sun, and ferns enamoured of shade. They all grew together in harmony, like the happy family of birds and beasts, to oblige Naomi. Such primroses, yellow and purple; such bluebells and foxgloves, and dragon's-mouths and marsh-mallows, and amethysthued heaths, and gold and silver broom, and ferns of every denomination. "I think we could grow seaweed if we tried," said Jim. The old, old orchard was like a hospital of cripples, so lame and twisted, and warped and crooked were the ancient trees, with more gummy exudation upon some of them than fruit; such gray old bark, such yawning wounds in their trunks. The turf was deep and soft, all hillocks and hollows; and in one sunny corner there was a row of beehives, the produce whereof was usually sold by aunt Judith, as a favour and at a good price, to some of the superior customers. "Other people get the honey, and we run the risk of getting stung," complained James, who felt injured by this arrangement. "That's what comes of being brought up by an aunt. If mother had lived we should have had cakes and junkets sometimes, I'll warrant." Jim had but a cloudy memory of his dead mother, and was apt to associate her loss with the idea of indulgences which would have flowed naturally from the maternal bounty. They loitered a little in the orchard, talking in a lazy summer-evening way about nothing particular. It was long past the Squire's dinnertime, and Oswald knew that he had forfeited his dinner by absence. There was no such thing as a meal served out of due season at the Grange. Mrs. Nichols, the housekeeper, knew her duty too well for such foolish concessions. But Oswald was reconciled to the loss of his dinner. Female society was almost a novelty to him. The Squire lived like a recluse, and enjoyed the privilege of being eminently unpopular-a privilege which, in his own opinion, saved him five hundred a year. "Your popular man is everybody's friend except his own," remarked the Squire, in his philosophic mood. "People are always asking favours of him. Nobody ever asks me for anything." Oswald therefore, as the son of a miserly hermit, stinted of pocket-money, and of a nature too generous to live easily under a weight of obligation, visited hardly any one of those pleasant country houses which lay far apart among the fertile hills and valleys of his native place. He lived as lonely a life as ever a young man had to endure, and was in a better position to cultivate the Byronic temperament than most of the great poet's disciples. Happily Nature had given him a disposition to take life easily, rather than the misanthropic mind; and solitary and secluded as his existence was, he tried to make the best of it, amused himself after his own simple fashion, and complained to nobody. There was a touch of bitterness occasionally in his intercourse with his father, the old man's meanness and suspicion being almost too much for endurance; but this was the only bitter in his life. To this young man, therefore, reduced of necessity to the society of peasants and boatmen, it was a new thing to find himself new thing to find himself in the company of a handsome young woman, who spoke with a certain refinement and expressed herself fairly, although her range of ideas was limited. Those vague yearnings of Naomi's for something wider and brighter than the narrow life of Combhollow answered to the sense of loss in his own mind. There was sympathy between them already, though this was but the second time of their meeting. "I suppose you would hardly stay at Combhollow if you were a man, Miss Haggard?" said Oswald, after they had discussed the place and its dulness. "Oh, no. If I were a man I should be a minister, and I would go and preach to the Cornish miners, as father did when he was a young man; or else I would be a missionary, and go to India." "Ah, you talked about that the other night." "Yes; I should like to teach those poor creatures-to turn them from their hideous gods, their human sacrifices, their cruelties. Why do we let them go on with such dreadful creeds?" as "I fancy the work of conversion would be rather beyond us. A missionary may labour in a corner, set up his little schoolroom, and baptise a handful or so of dusky Christians, who will go back to Siva and the rest of them soon as his back is turned; but to turn all India from her false idols is a project beyond man's dreams of the impossible. When Burke addressed the House of Commons on the evils of our government in India, the territory of the East India Company was larger than Russia and Turkey. We have extended our conquests since his day, and we are but a sprinkling among that vast population. I think you must put India out of your head, Miss Haggard. The Thugs would strangle you; or the Khoords would bury you up to your neck and sacrifice you to their gods; or the tigers would eat you." "Of course," cried Jim. "How few people ever go to India that don't get eaten by tigers in the long run! I never took up a magazine yet without seeing a picture of tigereating. They had arrived at the wilderness by this time-a corner of fern-tangle and sweet-smelling flowers, with masses of rough stone here and there amongst the greenery; which stonework had cost Jim much labour. There were some elder-trees leaning over from an adjoining orchard, and the spreading branches of a mulberry, which shaded one side of the small enclosure. There was a stone bench, which Jim had picked up from among the ruins of an old manor-house; and in the middle of the wilderness, its rugged base choked with fern and primrose roots, there stood an old stone sun-dial, spoil from the same ruined mansion. That sun-dial, and the monkish-looking bench, gave an air of antiquity to the place. It was quite out of the world of Combhollow, as lonely as if it had been an oasis in a desert. One might have lived all one's life in the Highstreet, and never suspected the existence of Naomi's wilderness. A mild-faced sheep sometimes peeped at it through an opening in the blackberry-hedge, perhaps wondering whether those ferns and flowers were edible; but except the sheep, there was rarely any sign of life in the adjoining orchard. Oswald praised the spot, as in duty bound. It could not appear particularly beautiful to him after the picturesque wildness of Pentreath park and wood; but it had a quaint prettiness that was not without its charm. He sat down by Naomi on the broad old stone bench, and watched her thoughtfully and in silence for a little. She had taken her knitting out of her pocket, and the needles were flashing swiftly under her slender fingers. The hands were brown, but slim and well shaped. She was very handsome, Oswald thoughtmuch handsomer than the Devonshire beauties, with their complexions of roses and cream. Her face had a noble look: the features boldly carved; the eyes deep and dark, with heavy lids such as he remembered seeing oftener in sculpture than in flesh; the mouth was full and firm; the chin a thought too square for feminine loveliness. If the face erred at all, it was that the girl was too like her father: -manly firmness rather than womanly softness prevailed. But Oswald could not see any blemish in this noble countenance. He was drawn to its owner with strongest sympathy. It was not love at first sight, but friendship, confidence, companionship, which drew him; and he had no thought of peril in this new influence. What peril could there be, indeed, for him, even if the fancy had been of a warmer tendency? He had no money to spend, but he was the master of his own heart. He might dispose of that as he pleased. "Marry a dairy-maid if you like," the Squire had once said to him, in his brutal fashion; "but I shall expect you to keep her until I'm under the sod. An impoverished estate can't afford to recognise early marriages, unless they bring land or money along with them." They had been in the wilderness about half an hour, Jim exhibiting his chosen specimens, in pursuit of which he had, by his showing, more or less imperilled his life, hanging on to precipices like the samphire gatherer, scaling inaccessible hills, and losing himself in pathless woods inhabited by the reptile tribe. The sun had gone down behind the old tiled roofs and thatched gables of the High-street, and Joshua had left his quiet garden for the bustle and business of the shop. "We'd better be going indoors, Jim," said Naomi, rolling up her stocking. "You've your sum to do for to-morrow." Oswald felt that he had no excuse for prolonging his visit. He walked back to the house with Naomi and her brother, but did not go indoors with them. There was a side gate opening into the street, and here he stopped to wish them good-evening. "You might as well stop to supper," said Jim. "It would be livelier if you stayed." "I think I have intruded too long already," answered Oswald ceremoniously; and as Naomi did not second her brother's invitation, he shook hands with them both, and went away. Aunt Judith was standing at the housedoor when they went in-a surprise for both, as it was her custom to be in the shop at this hour. "I hope you've wasted enough time with your fine gentleman," she said, with extra acidity. "I wasn't wasting time, aunt; I had my knitting with me," replied Naomi; "and there was nothing for me to do indoors." "A pity there wasn't. Idling about the garden with a gentleman above you in station! What would your father say to that, I wonder?" "Father was with us part of the time," said Naomi. "Was he really? and what about the rest of the time when he wasn't with you? Fine carryings on indeed for a grocer's daughter! No good ever came of that kind of thing, Miss Naomi, I can tell you." "No harm will ever come of it while I'm here," cried Jim, his face crimson with anger. "I'd knock down any man that said an uncivil word to my sister. As for the young Squire, he's a gentleman, and as soft-spoken as a girl." "I never trust your soft-spoken people,' answered Judith; and at this juncture a shrill cry of "Miss Haggard, wanted, please," from the opened door at the back of the shop diverted the spinster's attention, and she ran off to measure calico or printed goods for an impatient matron. Supper-time, prayers, and Scripture reading seemed a little duller than usual to Naomi that evening. The quiet monotony of life hung upon her heavily, like an actual burden. She had begun to ask herself of late whether existence was to go on always in the same measured round-eventless, unvarying; whether the portion which appeared satisfying and all-sufficient for aunt Judith was also to content her; whether those vague aspirings of the soul for something loftier and wider, which stirred in her breast like the wings of imprisoned birds, were to wear themselves out by their own restlessness, and know no fruition. Tonight the question seemed to press itself upon her more closely than usual. Oh, how much better to be a female missionary-a teacher of little tawny heathens in some clearing of the jungle; or to visit fever-poisoned prisons, like Mrs. Fry! How much fairer any life in which there was peril, and with peril the reward of brave deeds, the hope of glory! "What use am I in this world?" she thought, on her knees in that solemn silence which ensued after Joshua's extemporaneous prayera pause which he bade his household devote to self-examination and pious meditation. "If I were to die to-morrow, no one would be the worse for my loss. Father would be sorry, perhaps, because he is good, not because I am of any use to him, or make his life happier by living. There is no duty I do that aunt Judith would not do better than I if I were gone; and the tasks I do listlessly she would perform briskly, putting all her heart and mind into them. But if I were to go abroad and teach heathen children, I feel that I could work honestly and earnestly—yes, like those good women I have read of." These were Naomi's musings on her knees to-night. No fairer scheme of life offered itself to her girlish fancy than the missionary idea. She resolved to work for that end, to read more, to be more attentive to her father's teaching, to raise herself to that higher level from which she might shed enlightenment on ignorant Pagan souls. And behold, in the midst of these high resolves, her thoughts flew off at a tangent. "If I were Mr. Pentreath I would be a soldier," she thought. "I wonder if he is tired of Combhollow? But he has his horse, and, until the other day, he had his yacht. It is different for him. Yet, if I were free like him, with a good old name, I would try to be something more than an idle country gentleman. People respect his brother for running away to sea. I know that by the way they talk of the two in Combhollow." "You'd better take your candle and go to bed, child," Miss Haggard said to Naomi directly after supper. "I want to have a few words with Joshua." Of all things most displeasing to the minister's human weakness was a few words with his sister Judith. That preface of hers as surely foreboded evil as the warning of the screech-owl or the minor howl of the dog. Nothing pleasant ever came of a few words with Judith. "Well, Judith, what is it now?" asked her brother, as soon as they were alone, anxious to come to the worst without beating about the bush. "Only that I think it's a pity you don't keep your eyes a little wider open to see what's under your nose. It's all very well to be looking towards the New Jerusalem, and I'd be the last to lose my habitation in that blessed city, but while a man lives among the Philistines he should have an eye to his own household." "What's the matter, my dear? The new cask of Irish butter is not rancid, I hope? I gave a half-penny a pound more for it than the last." "No, Joshua, the butter is as sweet as a new cob-nut. But I don't like your daughter's goings on with Mr. Pentreath." "What do you mean, Judith?" cried the minister, with a flash of natural indignation. "Bringing him home to tea as if he was her equal. A pretty thing to set tongues wagging in Combhollow." "I see no need for people to talk about us because the Squire's son takes a cup of tea in my house. He is better born than my daughter, I grant you, but not better bred. Naomi is a lady in mind and nature, and as such no man's inferior. And she is something less than my daughter if she does not respect herself so much as to make every man respect her." "That's all very fine," retorted Judith, "but you'd better look out that no mischief comes of it. You heard what Jabez Long said while I was working like a slave to bring the life back to that young man's body. It's unlucky to save a man from drowning. Take care the bad luck doesn't come our way. I don't like to see Mr. Pentreath hanging about the place." "Why, Judith, you can't be weak enough or wicked enough to give heed to such a vulgar superstition." "I don't know about that. There's a grain of good sense sometimes in vulgar superstitions." "Sometimes, perhaps; but in that particular superstition not an iota. Our fishermen get the fancy from the North. It is a common belief in Shetland." "Have it your own way," said Judith, with an offended air; "but I'm afraid you've too much book-learning to be wise about the affairs of this life." TO BE CONTINUED. |