CHAPTER III.
THE MASTER OF ASKE.
"A child of our grandmother Eve, a female; or, for thy more sweet understanding, a woman."
"A woman moved is like a fountain troubled,
Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty."
"Down on your knees,
And thank Heaven, fasting, for a good man's love."
The moral atmosphere, like the physical one, becomes impregnated with certain aromas; absent people rule over us, get hold of us by the forces of antipathy or attraction. As Burley left the mill he was conscious of being under a dominion of this kind. His daughter had taken possession of him. She compelled him to leave his business and his bargains, she called him to her by an attraction which he did not understand, but yet felt compelled to obey.
It was a lovely afternoon, and he had a ride of six miles, a distance not worth naming in connection with the animal he was behind, one of those sturdy Suffolk punches that can be driven one hundred and ten miles in eleven hours; the very best horse in the world before a whip; the only one that will pull twice at a dead weight. Jonathan was very fond of horses, and was very kind to them. It was only his strong religious instincts which had prevented him from being a jockey. "When I was young," he often said, "I was all for horses! My word, I could sit anything, and jump anything right and left! There was Squire Oxley's Rampagious; no one could mount him, and he sent for me. Rampagious stared at me, and I stared at him, then I leaped upon his back and rode him to Oxleyholme, twenty-eight miles!"
Outside his mill Jonathan was never more thoroughly happy than when he was driving a fine horse, and this afternoon, anxious and worried as he was, he felt a certain amount of relief as soon as the reins were in his hand, and he knew himself bowling away into pleasant country lanes. Swift motion seemed, at first, to be just what he most needed, but after a hard run of two miles he felt more inclined to take the distance easily. He was in a lovely road, shaded by branching limes and great elms, in which the wind swayed shadowy masses of thick leaves. The stone walls which bounded it were green with immemorial moss and fern, and fragrant with gadding honeysuckles, and beyond he could see the quiet crofts and pastures where the slow moving cattle were grazing while towards the horizon the undulating country had all the mystery of brooding clouds.
This was a different atmosphere from the noisy mill, and he felt its influence; for as a mother rocks and soothes her child at her breast, so Nature took the troubled man to her still, sweet heart, and he was comforted and knew not how. The last two miles were through the shady beech woods and fine parks of the Aske Manor, and the effect upon Burley's temper was a beneficial one. The man who inherited such a grand old mansion and such rich lands through twelve generations of gentlemen was not one to be rated like a cotton-spinner. He told himself that Aske might have rights peculiarly his own, and that any woman would owe something to the love which had selected her from all the world to share such an honorable position.
Aske had also been peculiarly generous about Eleanor's fortune. He would have married her without a penny, if Burley had not insisted on making over positively the fifty thousand pounds he intended as his daughter's portion. Riding slowly through Aske's lands, Burley got a view of his son-in-law's side of the quarrel; and he was more just to him than he had been in Burley House and in Burley Mills. He even began to suspect that Eleanor might have been trying. He remembered certain times in his own experience when she had been beyond everything so, and he made up his mind to give no encouragement to her unreasonable demands, for he was quite sure now they were in the main unreasonable.
But when a man reckons up a woman in her absence, his decisions are very apt to amount to nothing when brought face to face with her. Just as soon as Burley met his daughter she trained her influence over him. She was sitting in her own parlor, a dainty room full of all sorts of pretty luxuries, and sweet with stands of exquisite flowers. Never had she seemed so radiantly beautiful in his eyes. Her flowing robe of soft scarlet merino gave a wonderful brilliancy to the snow and rose of her complexion and the pale gold of her loosened hair. She flung down the novel she was reading at his entrance, and with a cry of joy went to meet him.
"Father! father!"
The dear, simple words flung the inmost door of his heart open to her. He took her in his arms and kissed her. "My lass, my lass, I am glad to see thee." She drew the low chair in which she had been sitting beside him, and took his large, brown hand between her white, jewelled ones, and stroked and fondled it Aske was out riding, and Burley determined to take the opportunity and talk wisely to his child. He would advise her to do what was kind and right, but at the same time he knew that, right or wrong, he would defend her to the last shilling of his money and the last hour of his life.
But who can reason with a high-tempered woman into whom the spirit of wilful contradiction has entered? The quarrel between Eleanor and her husband had come to a struggle for supremacy, and Eleanor was determined not to submit. And alas, the tenacity with which a woman will hold a post of this kind is amazing; there is no driving her from it, no compromise, no terms of capitulation of which she can conceive.
In the midst of a very unsatisfactory conversation Aske entered. He was a small, slight man of fair complexion, with an honest, kindly face, and a pleasant shrewdness in the eyes. Jonathan could have carried him almost as easily as a child, but inches and weight were no indication of the real man. The real Anthony Aske was self-poised, quickly observant, and cool-headed, without being cold. He had a refined mouth, a wilful chin, and those wide-open gray eyes, with the bluish tint of steel in them, that always indicate a resolute and straightforward character. He looked at Eleanor as he entered the room, and his glance roused and irritated her, but she met it fearlessly, with her handsome head a little on one side and perceptibly lifted, and a smile which was at once attractive and provoking.
Aske had a great respect for his father-in-law, and no intention whatever of making him a partner in his domestic troubles. To tell the truth, he was not seriously uneasy about them. He had anticipated some difficulty in transforming the spoiled daughter into an obedient, gentle wife, but any doubts as to his ultimate success had never assailed him. "The Taming of the Shrew" is a drama every young husband believes himself capable of playing, and Eleanor's anger and scorn, her disobediences, and her sins of ommission and commission against his authority, were not things which greatly dismayed or hurt him. He loved her none the less as yet for them, and he confidently looked forward to a time when she would acknowledge the matrimonial bit, and answer the lightest touch of his guiding rein. In the interval he felt the dispute to be entirely their own, and he desired neither assistance nor sympathy from outsiders regarding it.
He met Burley with the frankest welcome, and soon took him away to the gardens and stables. Jonathan was greatly impressed with all he saw. Aske's was evidently the eye of the diligent and kind master. In the gardens, the hot-houses, the park, the most beautiful profusion and the most beautiful order reigned. The great court, surrounded by the stables and barns and granaries, was a place for men to linger delightedly in. Aske was fond of horses, and he knew a great deal about them, but that day Jonathan Burley amazed him. He looked at the cotton-spinner with admiration, and the cotton-spinner keenly enjoyed his little triumph.
For two hours the men were really happy together, and they had found one topic at least on which both could talk with unflagging interest. Eleanor watched them coming along the terrace talking with animation, her father's hand upon her husband's shoulder, and Anthony's gay, short laugh chorusing some merry recital of Jonathan's younger days. Her heart burned with anger. She felt as if her father was a traitor to her cause. As for her husband, he was trying to put himself in matrimonial colors which he did not deserve, trying to deceive her father, and to give him a wrong impression as to his treatment of her.
When Aske, under the happy influence of that confidential two hours, met her, it was with lover-like admiration and affection. She had dressed herself with wonderful skill and taste, and his eyes brightened with pleasure as he looked at her. But she answered his glance with one of intelligent scorn. She was determined he should understand that she had seen through his effusive demonstrations towards her father. So the dinner, though an excellent one, faultlessly served, was a very painful meal. Eleanor was satirical, mocking, brilliant, almost defiant, and Jonathan suffered keenly amid the flying shafts of her ready tongue. But he remembered that a little meddling will make a deal of care, and he tried to pass over the unpleasant, doubtful speeches. As for Aske, he received them with an impassive good-humor, he talked well and rapidly, and kept the conversation as far as possible from all domestic topics.
After dinner there was a most uncomfortable two hours, but Aske throughout them exhibited in a marked manner the influence which gentle traditions and fine breeding exercise. Upon his own hearth-stone he would protect his father-in-law from every annoyance, if it were possible to do so, and though he was naturally a much more passionate man than Burley, he never once suffered his good temper to desert him amid his wife's innuendoes and scornful sarcasms.
Not so with Jonathan. He was astonished, pained, and then angry, and when this point had been reached he showed it by lapsing into a frowning silence. But Eleanor seemed possessed by a spirit of aggravation; her father's evident disapproval taught her no restraint, and her husband's amiability nettled and irritated her. At length Burley rose impatiently and said, "Aske, I'll be obliged to thee if thou wilt order my gig. I'd better be going, I'm sure."
Left for a few minutes with his daughter, he turned to her and asked, sternly, "Whatever is t' matter wi' thee? Thou hast behaved thysen varry badly to-night. Thou niver acted like this at Burley, and if thou had, I would have put an end to it varry soon, thou may be sure o' that."
"Nobody ordered me about at Burley. I did just what I wanted to do. You never quarreled with me, father."
"I'm varry sure it wasn't thy husband as was quarrelsome to-night. Far from it He was patient beyond iverything. A better man to bear wi' a cross, unreasonable, provoking woman, I niver saw! Niver!"
"You know nothing about him, father. Patient! Why, he has the angry word before the angry thought, and as for being quarrelsome, sooner than want a reason for a dispute, Anthony would quarrel with Aske, and Aske with Anthony."
"I warn thee, Eleanor. Take care what thou art doing. It is far easier to put t' devil in a good husband than to get him out If thy mother hed iver talked to me as thou talked to Anthony this night, I would have gone to t' mill and I would hev stopped there till she said she was 'shamed o' hersen; yes, I would, if I'd stopped there t' rest o' my life."
"I suppose all husbands are alike. I have no doubt they are."
"Nay, then, they aren't There are some varry bad ones, and some varry good ones. Thou hes got a better than thou deserves. And don't thee forget one thing, thou can sow scornful, doubtful speeches if thou wants to, but thou will be sure to reap a fine harvest of plain, even' down hatred and sorrow. Mind what I say."
But though he thought it right to speak thus to her, he had never loved and admired her so much. Marriage had developed the beautiful girl into a splendidly brilliant woman. The magnificence of her dress at dinner, the haughty confidence of her manner affected him strangely. He rode home in a conflict of emotion, but the end of every train of thought was the same—"She was a good, loving lass when she was under my roof, and there is bound to be summat wrong wi' Aske or wi' his way of managing her."
The night was dark and close, and Jonathan was unusually sad, for it is the best natures that are most easily subjugated by moral miasmas. He had been full of love and hope, and suddenly a supposition of evil and sorrow had put its hand upon him. He could not close his eyes or pass it by. It had taken its place upon his hearth-stone, and he was compelled to listen to it He was in the atmosphere of an ill-conditioned temper, of a soul determined to quarrel with existence, and he was worried by an uncertainty which doubled his anxieties. For though he was angry with Eleanor, he was yet inclined to believe that her rebellion was, in some way or other, entirely Aske's fault. "It isn't fair," he muttered, "to badger a lass into such a way! I think little of a man that can't give up a bit to his wife."
When he reached his park gates, Ben Holden was slowly walking about in front of them. He came up to the gig as Jonathan tightened the reins, and said, "Thou's earlier than might he."
"What ever art thou here for? Is owt wrong at t' mill?"
"Not likely. There is an offer from Longworthy, and he wants yes or no in t' morning. Thou knows thy mind on that subject, and we'd better send a night message."
"Ay, we had. Get into t' gig, and we'll talk it over."
When the house was reached, Burley said, "That's all about Longworthy; but come in and hev a bit o' cold meat. I want to talk to thee." Then turning to the groom: "Mind thou rubs t' little beast down well, and give him a good supper and bed. I'll mebbe be in to see after thee."
There was a rack in the chimney-corner full of long, clean clay pipes, and after the "bit o' cold meat" the two men sat down to smoke. Hitherto their talk had been of wool and yams and wages, but after a short silence Jonathan said, "I hev been to Aske Hall."
"Well?"
"Nay, it isn't well. It is varry ill, as far as I can see. I don't know whativer is come over my lass. She was always bidable wi' me. I can't help blaming Aske, though he was as patient and kind as niver was to-night."
"Aske is a tight master, he's more than likely to be a tight husband."
"And my Eleanor is none used to take either bid or buffet."
"That's where all t' trouble wi' womankind begins. If Aske hedn't set her up on a monument when he was courting her, she wouldn't hev hed to come down to t' common level after it. If iver I go a-courting, I'll tell no lies to t' lass. I'll not mak' her an angel before t' wedding, and nobbut a wife after it."
"Thou art a wise man, Ben, but when thou fells in love thou wilt do as wiser men than thee hev done."
"Ah, when I fell in love. But this is what I mean. Aske, before he got wed, was niver happy but when he was doing this and doing that, and running here and running there, to pleasure his lady. It was 'What can I get thee?' and 'What shall I say to thee?' and 'What can I do for thee?' And whether she smiled or frowned she was perfect. He liked to dawdle round her better than to go hunting or shooting. He thought little o' Aske Hall then, and was forever at thy house. His place on t' magistrate's bench was always empty, for he were sitting at Miss Burley's feet. As for farming matters, or government matters, he reckoned nowt o' them. He were too happy singing fal-la-la songs wi' thy lass, or rambling hand in hand wi' her in t' garden or park. Now then, he gets wed, and all at once t' angel, and t' queen, and t' mistress of his soul and life is turned into a varry faultable woman. He not only stops all his false worship, but he wants to get up on t' monument himsen and hev t' deposed idol do the worshipping. My word! It's not natural to expect it, that is, if t' idol has any feelings more than a stick or a stone."
"Now thou talks sensible. But heving found out t' cause o' t' trouble, what would ta do to mend it?"
"I would speak to Aske quietly, and advise him to tak' his freedom without any swagger. Mistress Aske will come down step by step, if he'll give her a helping hand and a pleasant word. And I'd speak to her likewise, and tell her that a wife's glory is her obedience. Thou knows."
"Nay, Ben, it's bachelors that know all about women and wives; I'll tell thee what, it's hard on my Eleanor, in any case."
For Jonathan loved his daughter very tenderly, and her little joyful cry of "Father! father!" still echoed in his memory. He looked around his lonely, silent rooms, and remembered how bright and gay they had been during the few happy years when she had held a kind of court in them. Nothing that his friend had said had helped him much, yet it had been some comfort to talk of his trouble to one whom he knew to be both wise and faithful. Still, at the end of an hour's conversation little had been gained, and as their friendship had no pretences, Ben said, as he was leaving, "I hevn't done thee any good;" and Jonathan answered, "No, thou hesn't. I didn't expect it."
"Varry well, then, thou knows Who can do thee good, and if I'd been thee I would hev gone to Him first off."
And Jonathan bent his head in reply, and then went to his lonely room, where he sat still, brooding over his heavy thoughts for some time. For, though he kept saying to himself, "It's only a bit of a tiff and most couples have them," he could not get rid of a presentiment that he had entered into the chill of a long-shadowed sorrow. But when he rose up from fats sombre meditation he went to a little table on which there was a Bible, and he laid his open palm upon it, and said, softly, "Like as a father pitieth his children—" and in the solemn pause and upward glance there was a mighty and a comprehensive petition that only God could answer.