CHAPTER I
ST. THOMAS'S DAY
To a man of Hepworth's peculiar temperament the discovery which he had just made was full of the most remarkable meaning. For many days he went about his business, or sat in his lonely room thinking it over. In all his thought there was never any doubt as to his exact feeling for Elisabeth. That he loved her he felt certain; that he should continue to love her, and only her, he felt equally sure. That which he had never expected to encounter, and for which he had formerly felt no desire, had now come to him, and filled up all his life.
Being accustomed from childhood to self-examination, and to a certain introspection which he sometimes carried to the verge of morbid feeling, Hepworth at this period subjected his own emotions to a strict dissection. He found himself at forty years of age in love with a young woman who was a perfect stranger to him as regarded her history and antecedents. He wondered why he should fall in love with her. Was it some turn of her head, some note in her voice, some trick of the eye? If so, why did any of these things appeal to him? He had seen prettier women, not once, but a score of times—fresher, sweeter, more attractive. Why, if this one attracted him, did not they? He could say honestly that he had never been attracted by any woman's physical beauty: if he had noticed it, it had been as other men notice pictures—with a passing glance that stopped at admiration. But now there was a different feeling within him. He analysed that feeling mercilessly, concealing nothing of it from his speculative mind.
"Here I am," said he, as he walked the fields, or sat alone through the long evening, "a man of nigh on middle age, content until recently to live as lonely a life as ever a hermit could desire. I knew nothing of women—certainly I never wanted one. In the matter of love they were unknown to me. I never supposed that I should care to think of one in that way. And now here is this woman, whose sorrowful face attracted me to her at first, filling me with a new attraction. She is not a girl, I know she has been married already, and that she may have no more love to give, and yet I have a feeling for her that I never had for anything in my life. That feeling is a feeling of want. I want Her—not some other woman, but Her. I want all of Her—body, soul, mind. And now I know something that I never dreamed of till she came—I shall not be myself, my life will not be full and complete, unless she and I come together in one life."
Hepworth continued this analysis of his own thoughts and feelings for many days, but he never arrived at any other conclusion than that which made itself evident at first. There was now a want in his life which only Elisabeth could satisfy. As he had already recognised, it was not some other woman, not woman in the abstract, but her. He made no attempt to explain this mystery to himself, but accepted it and waited.
For some weeks he said nothing to Elisabeth of the thoughts which filled his mind. They maintained their relations as master and servant, she with perfect sincerity, knowing nothing of the feeling which she had inspired, he with a sort of curious delight in being waited upon by the woman he loved. Hepworth indeed found a strange pleasure in the secrecy of his new feelings and emotions. He rarely conversed with Elisabeth save on the most ordinary topics, but he watched her occasionally as she went about her duties. The quiet and regular life of the lonely farmstead had exerted an improving influence upon her—she was by that time a well-favoured, even pretty woman, likely to catch the eye of any man with an eye for beauty. Hepworth noticed this, but paid little heed to it. He was not insensible to physical beauty, and indeed appreciated it keenly as all men who suddenly emerge from loneliness and self-inspection must, but his feeling was deeper, and could not be explained by the fact that Elisabeth had regained her pretty looks and bright eyes.
It is the fashion in these parts for the old women of the parish to band themselves together upon the morning of St. Thomas's Day, and to go from farm to farm gathering contributions towards a general fund which is subsequently divided amongst them in equal shares. Hepworth's farmstead being situated some distance from the nearest village, a deputation from the band came to him, walking through the snow in the early morning in order to collect his contribution. Elisabeth summoned him from the parlour when the old women arrived, and Hepworth left his breakfast to attend to them. They were three in number, and they sat on chairs before the kitchen fire warming hands and feet, and complaining of the bitter weather. One was wrapped closely in a man's greatcoat, and had tied up her poke-bonnet about her ears with a shawl; another wore a stout piece of sacking over her shoulders; the third had encased her feet in successive layers of stout stocking, drawn over the boots, until she resembled an Esquimaux. Each rose and curtsied profoundly as Hepworth entered the kitchen.
"Now, then," said Hepworth. "Come again, eh? Why, it isn't a year since you were here, is it? The doorstep 'll never cool of you at this rate."
This was a pleasantry made upon every such occasion, and each old woman laughed at it as a matter of course. Having laughed, they sighed profoundly.
"Poor folks, Mestur Hepworth, poor folks, ye know!" said one. "We mun keep t' owd customs up for wer own sakes, ye know. T' cowd's that bitter, and coals is that dear, and poverty's a sharp tooith, as the saying goes."
"I'll be bound you don't know much about that, Nanny," said Hepworth. "I expect you've got an old stocking-foot somewhere that's pretty well lined, eh?"
"Nay, not me!" said Nanny. "I never see'd a real golden pound i' my life to call my own. If I hed one somebody else allus hed a call on it."
"Stockin'-feet mak's poor purses," said the second old woman. "They tak' so much fillin'."
"Aye, and now-a-days," said the third, "there's nowt to fill 'em wi'. Times is hard for poor folk."
"Well," said Hepworth, "I suppose you've all had your breakfasts and can't eat any more, can you?"
"None o' your fun-makkin', maister," said Mally, who stood by, busily engaged in cooking preparations. "Eh, dear, men are allus i' t' way. As if there worn't some hot spiced ale all ready for 'em on t' oven top."
As the old women had already seen the hot spiced ale referred to, this was no news to them, but they, nevertheless, manifested much interest in its removal to the table by the fire, and in the spice-bread and cheese which was placed beside it. When each had laid hold of a pint-mug filled with Mally's hot brew, they offered Hepworth their best respects, and wished him a long life.
"And if I might mak' so bold," said Nanny, "and I nursed you, mestur, when you was an infant in arms, I might say 'at I hope you'll be a wed man come next Thomas's Day."
"That's an important matter, Nanny," said Hepworth. "Why do you wish it?"
"Naay," said Nanny, "I ha' no opinion o' single men—saving your presence. I like to see a man wi' a wife and a houseful of bairns—that's summut like. Lord bless ye, that's what the good Book says. I went to t' church last Sunday, and they were reading t' Psalms—'happy is he,' they read, ''at hes his quiver full on 'em.'"
"Aye," sighed the second old woman, "it all depends. It wor all varry weel for David to write that, 'cause he wor a king, and hed all t' money 'at he wanted, and house-room, and all; but it's different wi' poor folk. I've hed ten i' my time, and they tak' a deal o' bringing up."
"I've hed twelve," said Nanny, stoutly. "And I niver browt 'em up at all—they browt theirsens up. Bairns is like weeds—leave 'em alone, and they'll grow apace."
Mally now remarked that she had never heard such rubbish talked in all her born days. She was busily engaged in making pork-pies, and the old women were in her way, and the kitchen was further filled up by Hepworth and Elisabeth. She wanted each of them out of the way, and further resented the old women's remarks as to the blessedness of the married state, for she herself had never enjoyed it. Nanny understanding this, and remembering that they looked to Mally for a pitcher of hot ale every Thomas's Day, gave the signal for departure. Hepworth followed her to the door with the money for which they had walked so far. Old Nanny clutched the hand which held it out to her.
"Mestur," quoth she, with an air of mysterious import, "you mun tak' my advice about bein' wed. You mon't mind me, an owd woman 'at nursed you. Now, there's a fine young woman there"—she nodded her poke-bonnet in Elisabeth's direction—"why not wed her? Tak' my advice, mestur—owd folk knows more nor young uns."
Hepworth went back to his parlour and watched the three old women plodding through the snow that lay thick in the paddock. He was half inclined to be angry that people should so constantly give him advice as to his future; but Nanny's counsel, sly and good-humoured, seemed to fit with his present mood. He stood watching Elisabeth as she cleared his table. Life with her, he thought, would suit all his tastes and inclinations. Why not tell her of all that was in his heart?
"What did you think of the old women, Elisabeth?" he asked. Elisabeth looked up from the table and smiled.
"I thought them very amusing, sir," she answered.
"It is a custom they have hereabouts," he said. "They come every St. Thomas's Day. You never heard it spoken of, perhaps?"
"No, sir."
"That shows you are not a countrywoman," he said, smiling at her.
"No, sir, I am not—I never saw much of the country until I came here."
"Well, how do you like the country now that you do see it? Is it lonely and quiet?"
"I think it is both quiet and lonely, sir. But then—"
"Well?"
"Some people like to be quiet and lonely—I am one of them."
"Ah!" he said, with a certain feeling of satisfaction. "You don't mind the loneliness—you wouldn't object to live here—all your life, eh, Elisabeth?"
Elisabeth glanced at him curiously. From his gaze she turned to the window and looked out at the great black beech-trees rising from the white carpet of snow to the grey, monotonous sky above. There was a strange look in her eyes as she looked at him again.
"Once," she said, with a faint emphasis on the word, "once I should have objected to such a life. The loneliness of it would have killed me. But now—"
"Well, Elisabeth?"
"Now I should not mind it—I could live here always."
Something in her expression prompted him to ask her why this difference in her feelings had come.
"Why should you think differently?" he said.
"Because all places are alike—to me," she answered.
Hepworth said no more. It was plain to him, ill-versed in woman's ways as he was, that this woman had no thought of him.