CHAPTER III.
When a long and heavy sleep (my first sleep since dear mother's death)had brought me down to the dull plain of life, I read for the first timethe letter so strangely delivered. Even then it seemed unkind to mymother that I should think about it. Mr. Vaughan had placed it in a newenvelope, which he had sealed with his own ring, the original cover (ifany there were) having been removed. The few words, of which itconsisted, were written in a clear round hand, upon a sheet of thintough paper, such as we use for foreign postage, and folded in apeculiar manner. There was nothing remarkable in the writing, exceptthis, that the words as well as the letters were joined. It was asfollows:
"The one who slain your brother is at 19 Grove Street London. You willcome in danger of it why you know."
No date, no signature, no stops, except as shown above. In short, itwas so dark and vague, that I returned to Devonshire, with a resolutionto disregard it wholly. When we reached the foot of the hill, at thecorner of the narrow lane which leads to Tossil's Barton, and where thewhite gate stands of which the neighbourhood is so proud, a suddenscream was heard, and a rush made upon us from behind the furze-bush.The farmer received the full brunt of a most vigorous onset, and thenumber and courage of the enemy making up for their want of size, hisstrong bastions were almost carried by storm. To the cry of "Daddy!Daddy's come home!" half a dozen urchins and more, without distinctionof sex, jumped and tugged and flung and clung around him, with norespect whatever for his Sunday coat, or brass-buttoned gaiters. Takingadvantage of his laughing, they pulled his legs this way and that, as ifhe were skating for the first time, and little Sally (his favourite)swarming up, made a base foot-rope of the great ancestral silverwatch-chain whose mysterious awe sometimes sufficed to keep her eyeshalf open in church. Betwixt delight and shame, the poor father was sodreadfully taken aback, that he could not tell what to do, till fatherlylove suggested the only escape. He lifted them one by one to his lips,and after some hearty smacks sent all (except the baby) sliding down hisback.
While all this was going forward, the good dame, with a clean apron on,kept herself in the background, curtseying and trying to look sad at me,but too much carried away to succeed. Her plump cheeks left but littleroom for tears, yet I thought one tried to find a road from either eye.When the burst was nearly done, she felt (like a true woman) for me solonely in all this love, though I could not help enjoying it; and so shetried to laugh at it.
For a long time after this, the farmer was admired and consulted by allthe neighbouring parishes, as a man who had seen the world. Hislabourers, also, one man and a boy, for a fortnight called him "Sir," agreat discomfort to him; more than this, some letters were brought forhim to interpret, and Beany Dawe became unduly jealous. But in this, asin most other matters, things came to their level, and when it wasslowly discovered that the farmer was just the same, his neighboursshowed much disappointment, and even some contempt.
It was not long before the thought of that letter, which had been laidby so scornfully, began to work within me. Again and again, as timewore on, and the deep barb of sorrow darkly rusted away, it came home tome as a sin, that I was neglecting a special guidance. Moreover, myreason for staying in Devonshire was gone, and as my spirit recoveredits tone, it could not put up with inaction.
Three months after our return, one breezy afternoon in August, when theheath had long succeeded the gorse and broom upon the cleve, and thechildren were searching for "wuts" and half-kerneled nuts, I sat on afallen tree, where a break in the copse made a frame for one of ourfavourite views. Of late I had been trying to take some sketches inwater-colours of what my mother and I had so often admired together, andthis had been kept for the last. Wild as the scheme may appear to allwho know the world and its high contempt for woman's skill, I had somehope of earning money in London by the pencil, and was doing my utmostto advance in art. Also, I wished to take away with me some memorialsof a time comparatively happy.
Little Sally Huxtable, a dear little child, now my chief companion, hadstrayed into the wood to string more strawberry beads on her spike ofgrass, for the wood strawberries here last almost to the equinox; and Ihad just roughed in my outline, and was correcting the bold strokes, bynature's soft gradations; when suddenly through a cobnut bush, and downthe steep bank at my side, came, in a sliding canter, a magnificent reddeer. He passed so close before me, with antlers, like a varnishedcrabstick, russet in the sun, that I could have touched his brown flankwith my pencil. Being in no hurry or fright whatever, he regarded mefrom his large deep eyes with a look of courteous interest, a dignifiedcuriosity too well bred for words; and then, as if with an evening ofpleasant business before him, trotted away through the podded wild broomon the left.
Before I had time to call him back, which, with a childish impulse, Iwas about to do, the nutbush where he had entered moved again, and,laughing at his own predicament on the steep descent, a young man leapedand landed in the bramble at my feet. Before me stood the one whom wehad so often longed to thank. But at sight of me, his countenancechanged entirely. The face, so playful just before, suddenly grew darkand sad, and, with a distant salutation, he was hurrying away, when Isprang forward and caught him by the hand. Every nerve in my bodythrilled, as I felt the grasp that had saved my mother and me.
"Excuse me," he said coldly, "I will lose my prey."
But I would not let him go so curtly. What I said I cannot tell, onlythat it was very foolish, and clumsy, and cold by the side of what Ifelt. Whom but God and him had I to thank for my mother's peaceful end,and all her treasured words, each worth a dozen lives of mine? Heanswered not at all, nor looked at me; but listened with a coldconstraint, and, as I thought, contemptuous pity, at which my pridebegan to take alarm.
"Sir," I exclaimed, when still he answered not, "Sir, I will detain youno longer from murdering that poor stag."
He answered very haughtily, "I am not of the Devonshire hunters, whotoil to exterminate this noble race."
As he spoke he pointed down the valley, where the red deer, my latefriend, was crossing, for his evening browse, to a gnoll of juicy grass.Then why was he pursuing him, and why did he call him his prey? Thelatter, probably a pretext to escape me, but the former question I couldnot answer, and did not choose to ask. He went his way, and I feltdischarged of half my obligation.