Scene VI.--MELODRAMA

And the Voices of the Dialogue would be Strong and Manly. And the Ditty High and Tragicall; Not nice or Dainty.--_Bacon_.

Drinkers of tea in Kingsmore continued to talk scandal concerning Conway and Nancy Reed; but when the evil practice extended beyond the farm-houses and reached the untidy Vicarage, Mr. Price considered the time had come for him to act. The breath of ill-report was poison to the simple squire. Having drunk his customary four cups of tea, he roundly lectured his sister and niece; and when he had finished his sermon he went out to the stable-yard, saddled a cob with his own hands, then jogged across the hills to Thorlund, to acquaint himself personally with the facts relating to his peccant parishioner Lone Nance.

The squire remained a very short time at the Strath; yet it was long enough to satisfy him. He trotted back contented, although ignorant that he had regarded his neighbour’s domestic affairs through the spectacles which the spirit of the place had thought good to push before his eyes. Reaching home, he fell in with Flora, and after removing himself slowly from the saddle thus expressed his mind:

“The only way of punishing scandal-mongers is to disgrace them publicly. Our ancestors had the sense to know that. When gossips made a nuisance of themselves they had their heads harnessed in an iron cage. I could name a few chattering people who would be none the worse for a dose of old English penalties. Give me the stocks again, and let me see the public nuisances with their ankles picketed, and a beadle handy to encourage honest folk to jeer at them--”

“I suppose you have been to the Strath?” broke in Flora, who knew by experience that when her uncle was mounted upon a hobby his speech was liable to flow.

“Where I discovered the truth,” the vicar snapped. “Mr. Conway finds that old woman totally inadequate, and I’m sure I don’t wonder. It appears that Nancy Reed came and offered her services and he accepted them. It is all quite respectable and right. But the extraordinary part of it is the girl appears to be perfectly sane.”

“Did you go into the house?” Flora asked, with meaning.

“I stood in the hall for about five minutes, and enjoyed a very interesting conversation with Mr. Drayton. A most well-informed man, my dear, and as clear-headed as anyone could be. I have asked him to come and visit us. Really I found the Strath quite fascinating. After all I should be sorry to see it pulled down.”

“Did you interview this young woman?” Flora pursued.

“What?” said her uncle, somewhat blankly. “Well, I cannot remember that I did,” he went on crossly. “I was perfectly satisfied. Anyhow it’s not a subject for you to discuss, and I do not wish to hear any more questions.”

The squire was walking beside the girl, who was tall enough to look down upon him. As they came near the house he turned to her, and asked sharply, for he was not in a good humour that evening, how many men it had pleased her to refuse to marry.

“Four at present,” replied Flora carelessly.

“Ah!” exclaimed her uncle. “It is evident you are incapable of selecting a husband for yourself. When is your reply going to be in the affirmative?”

“Probably never. I don’t want to marry, and I don’t want to talk about it,” returned Flora.

“Bless my soul! A good-looking girl not want to talk about matrimony!” said the astounded squire. “I want to see you settled,” he went on seriously. “I am an old man, and I should like to have the pleasure of uniting you to some suitable partner before I take my departure.”

“You have someone in your mind,” she suggested. “Is it Mr. Conway?”

“You might do worse, I suppose,” said the vicar, stroking his chin, and glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes.

“And live at the Strath?” she went on.

“You might improve it.”

“Not very long ago you told me Mr. Conway was not a gentleman,” Flora reminded him. “You remarked that he was connected with the Reeds of this village. You called the Strath a haunted house. Do you know what has caused your mind to change so completely?”

The vicar stared her in amazement.

“It is the house,” she said. “You have just come from there, and I believe its influence is still upon you. You were not expressing your own opinions just now. They are not your opinions.”

“Flora,” the old gentleman exclaimed angrily, “I may be over seventy, but I am not a fool, and I am not to be told by a young girl that I do not know what I am talking about. I want you to marry, and of course I hope you will choose a worthy gentleman. In my young days girls were not allowed to have opinions of their own, and it was very much better for them. I did not ask your poor dear aunt if she would marry me. I went to her father, who, I believe, was far more capable of judging a man than she could ever have been and told him I wanted his daughter. That is the way marriages ought to be arranged. If any man asks me for you, and I think him desirable, I shall take it upon myself to answer for you, and if you refuse to accept him I shall leave my money elsewhere. I have an idea you have behaved disgracefully.”

With that the squire led his horse off to the stable; while Flora, very white and angry, mounted her bicycle and rode across country to seek consolation from Maude.

The little lady was not at home. A man of general uselessness, who was rolling the lawn without energy, volunteered the information that his mistress had driven off in her donkey-cart half an hour earlier. Flora returned to the road, and tempted by a long declivity ran down into Thorlund.

She saw no one in the hamlet; not a living thing appeared upon the road; only a subdued hammering issued from the smithy on the side of the hill. The Strath never appeared more alluring than when flooded in evening sunlight. It seemed to be breathing softly, reaching a dreamy influence over church, fields, and hills, hushing nature into silence. Flora walked to the gate in the churchyard, responding to a summons which would accept no denial; and for the second time found herself in the garden with the eyes of the house upon her soul.

The mood had changed; on her former visit the house had transferred her into a light-hearted mummer. Then it suggested solemn truths, responsibilities which might not be avoided, and the necessary sorrows of existence. It suggested that a thin veil separated knowledge from belief; creatures of a day could not afford to dally; the mind which faces the whirlwind must bend or be broken; women who will not obey the call of destiny must die, even as Henry Reed had died; tragedy arises from self-will; obedience is the road to happiness. Through this atmosphere Flora wandered, with an indefinite longing for a guide, beginning to comprehend that she could no more struggle against destiny than the butterfly against the storm.

A rebellious desire came over her to defy those influences, and in that moment it seemed to her that the light darkened. She experienced the stunning sensation of walking out to execution before a howling mob; there was the ancient tragic wail, “Alas, my sister!” and she saw a stage with curtain descending slowly before a dying body. Here then was the end of those who opposed themselves to destiny. So she resigned herself, and immediately the light became clear, and her mind was at rest. She was told contemptuously that she was human, therefore ignorant, and fated to stumble. She was like a foolish moth coming out of darkness, burning its beauty, and returning into darkness.

Life must be something more than a glimmering meteor. It is a flame burning well, or flickering feebly, according to the supply of soul. A life might light the world, and continue burning. Far back in the morning mists of time a fair woman had struck the lyre. It still vibrated. Four thousand men had held at bay three millions of foes, falling at last, envied, their tomb an altar; and a general in command of a few heroes had faced the fighting force of the world, and hurled it back, with death in the front, destruction in the rear. The light shed by such lives might never be extinguished.

Flora had sought originality. She had longed to render herself conspicuous by a line of action contrary to the laws of the drama. It was for the Strath to open her eyes, and point out, what should have been obvious, namely that she was a very ordinary woman. Originality does not consist in doing uncommon things, but in doing common things in an uncommon way. Thousands of men had fought and fallen, before Miltiades occupied the plain of Marathon, or Leonidas led his handful to the pass of the Hot Springs. Hundreds of singers had lifted up their voices, before Sappho’s throat melted with its music. They were immortal, because they had played the fine old parts as well as it was possible to play them. But let a man or woman create a fresh part which was contrary to the laws of the drama--then would come failure, dishonour, and the hisses of the audience.

The voice of warning was clear. Away from the Strath the girl might assume her part of attracting men with no idea of union; but there at least she was bound by the custom of ages. She stirred among strange forces. The dramatic fingers of destiny indicated the well-worn paths along which she must walk, through pain and difficulties by performing a woman’s duty, to attain present happiness and rest at last. The influence suggested, moreover, that she might not turn into that beaten track without a punishment for having gone astray.

The lessons of the Strath were those of the didactic drama, which teaches that mortals must submit to unchanging laws. The battle of free-will against destiny was its theme when serious, but under the teaching there lurked undoubtedly the sting of malevolence, of hatred for the actors upon its stage, and a desire to destroy them if it might. It had no phantasm to show, nor could it terrify by any sound; it could only shape minds for good or evil, causing the puppets to act and speak in comic or in tragic mood, showing them that life is not a small thing, the world no passing scene, but rather a permanent stage, upon which actors pass and repass, each playing many characters, with the same passions in them, and the same destiny always behind.

Unmindful of time or place Flora walked on until she reached the orchard. And there other voices came to her ears, and looking out she saw Conway and Nance walking beneath the mossy branches.

She stood aloof, watching those dream-like figures crossing the bright green orchard, her ears filled with the drowsy hum of their voices, until the knowledge came that she was jealous of the brown village girl who trailed across the grass the long discarded garments of Winifred Hooper, and rested a hand, half hidden in lace ruffles, upon the arm of her new-found friend.

Flora swayed to and fro beside the hedge, and endeavoured to reason with her sane self, but the Strath held her fast. Could this wild Medea-like passion be love, or was it hatred? There was hatred in her heart, but it was for Nance, and her eyes had never seen the girl before that day. A breath of wind shivered through the trees, and strong-minded Flora bent beneath the tragic influence of the place.

She ran to the house and entered the hall, which was filled with dust-flecked sunbeams. Then into the saloon, where Drayton was lying asleep with a smile upon his white face. A mask of tragedy stared from the wall with pitiful blank eyes. Flora smiled wildly at the emblem; then, catching the reflection of her own face in one of the mirrors, shrank because of its tragic similarity. She caught up the rusty sword, which her uncle had handled upon their former visit, and passed again through the garden with the day upon one side, and the night upon the other.

The man and the girl were still walking within the orchard. Flora felt no sense of nervousness, when they approached her hiding-place. She could see the lone girl’s face, idealised in that atmosphere, its large eyes roaming restfully across the sun-mists. She could hear the long grass brushing against their garments. A few more steps and they would have passed; but the opposing influence had already issued its warning, and Nance stopped a few paces from the hedge, and lifting her hand pointed towards the exact spot where Flora stood concealed.

“What is that?” she said to her companion.

“It is a holly bush,” Conway answered.

“A flash of light passed through it,” the girl said.

“It was the sun. See how it flashes through the apple-trees.”

“There is a dark shadow round the holly bush, and the light that I saw was cold,” Nance went on. “This morning a robin was singing there. It has flown away, and now the sun has gone too. Let us follow them. I hear the robin singing beside the stream.”

They turned and went away, Nance casting back glances at the deep green bush, until they came into a jungle of roses, leading towards a little stream which murmured evermore among its weeds. Here the girl paused and pushed Conway back into the sunlight. “Go to the holly bush,” she said. “There is an enemy in the garden.”

He regarded her with calm astonishment.

“There is danger there, and it is to me,” she went on. “You are safe. I will sit here, and watch the water until you come.”

Her wild eyes aroused him and he returned, smiling in perplexity, wading through masses of scented herbs, and tangled brakes of briars, scattering rose petals all over the slope; and so advanced, forgetful of his mission, until he saw Flora walking to meet him with the bent sword hanging from her hand.

He remembered her dimly as one who had scorned him once, but the thought that she was out of place in that garden did not occur, until another breath of wind came from the house and set the leaves in motion; and then there came a suggestion of treachery and the memory of bodily death.

“So you would have killed her,” he said quietly, as they stopped face to face.

Flora was deathly pale. After that wave of passion a spirit of cunning had entered into her. She was following her enemy, hoping to find her alone; but now that she was confronted by the man of her desires resolution began to ebb and the deeper self came uppermost.

“I would only have frightened her,” she said glibly. “She has no right to be here--in my place.”

“This is not your place,” he answered. “Nor is it mine. I was brought here to learn, but I am on probation. One who was here before me rebelled against the master of the house, and he was punished.”

“Have you always acted according to the dictates of your master’s mind?” she asked.

“I dare not do otherwise.”

“Neither do I,” she cried. “My enemy is here, and I was told to hide in the holly-bush and kill her as she passed.”

“She has done you no wrong.”

“She is winning your love. She is drawing you away from me. She walks by your side, with her hand upon yours, and looks into your eyes, and you return her words of affection, and give her smile for smile. I was watching while you walked together in the orchard. I heard your flatteries--”

“You are lying,” the male actor interposed. “She is as clear as the light. I gave her no word of flattery. She has a place in this garden. You have none. I do not know you, and I do not desire to see you again. Put down that sword, and go.”

The wind was blowing steadily from the house.

“Do not speak so cruelly,” she prayed. “Do not look at me with those hard eyes. It is my love which has driven me to this. I will go if you bid me, or come if you call, or kill myself if you would be rid of me. Have pity upon me. Let me walk with you. Come into the orchard, and talk to me as you talked to her, and let me rest my hand upon your arm.”

Conway stepped from her to an open spot, and faced the wind.

“I believe there is no sincerity in you,” he said. “I have had dreams of a woman like you, one who would lead men on by smiles, and later spurn them. You are tall and you are beautiful, but I do not trust you. I am told you are incapable of love, and this one thing I feel--it is dangerous for you to be here. Give me that sword.”

She put out her arm and gave it him.

“Come with me.”

“Give me something to carry away with me,” she prayed.

He plucked a white rose and handed it to her. She touched it, and screamed. That environment, which had caused her to forget the world and to act a strange part, had not removed her natural antipathies. The bloom was dashed to pieces between them. She allowed herself to be hurried on, through the deepening shadows and that cold scrutinising wind, in silence and hopelessness, towards the ivy-covered wall and the gate which stood ajar as she had left it. Conway fell back from her, as she fled through and escaped.

At the sight of the grass road, and blue hills beyond, the girl’s normal conditions were established. But as she passed out there was a feeling in her body, as though some vital essence, which had abandoned her temporarily, was then restored, and with it came a dull pain throbbing above her eyes.

Conway stumbled stupidly back to the side of the stream, where he found Nance singing to the water and making boats of buttercups. He gave her the old sword without a word of explanation, and she as silently received and flung it into the water, where the long tresses of weeds closed over and hid it from their sight.

Then she sang him an old sad song.

Mr. Price had just returned from the farm, and was standing on his lawn drawing long white hairs meditatively off the arm of his overcoat. Seeing his niece he hurried to her, smiling in his genial fashion, because he had been afraid she might have taken his late lecture too much to heart, and it was not in his nature to play the part of stern guardian for long.

“Been taking the air?” he cried. “Your mother was wondering where you had gone to. Why, child, your face is as white as chalk.”

“I have a horrible headache,” said Flora sulkily. “I am going to lie down. I actually went into the Strath and met Mr. Conway, and I believe I had a row with him about something or other, but I really cannot remember, because my head is so bad. It was an extraordinary thing my going there at all.”