"How could I? Put me back in the Hall, and I should be as ignorant and as coarse as I am out here.A labourer is all I am and all I am fit to be.I once had a rather bookish ambition, you know, but that is over--I wanted to read Greek and translate 'The Iliad' and all that--and yet to-day I doubt if I could write a decent letter to save my soul.It's partly my fault, of course, but you can't know you could never know--the abject bitterness and despair of those years when I tried to sink myself to the level of the brutes--tried to forget that I was any better than the oxen I drove.No, there's no pulling me up again; such things aren't lived over, and I'm down for good."Her tears, which she had held back, broke forth at his words, and he saw them fall upon her bosom, where her hands were still tightly clasped.
"And it is all our fault," she said brokenly.
"Not yours, surely."
"It is not too late," she went on passionately, laying her hand upon his arm and looking up at him with a misty brightness."Oh, if you would let me make amends--let me help you!""Is there any help?" he asked, with his eyes on the hand upon his arm.
"If you will let me, I will find it.We will take up your study where you broke it off--we will come up step by step, even to Homer, if you like.I am fond of books, you know, and I have had my fancy for Greek, too.Oh, it will be so easy--so easy; and when the time comes for you to go back to the Hall, I shall have made you the most learned Blake of the whole line."He bent quickly and kissed the hand which trembled on his sleeve.
"Make of me what you please," he said; "I am at your service."For the second time he saw the wonderful light--the fervour--illumine her face, and then fade slowly, leaving a still, soft radiance of expression.
"Then I may teach you all that you haven't learned," she said with a happy little laugh."How fortunate that I should have been born a bookworm.Shall we begin with Greek?"He smiled."No; let's start with English--and start low.""Then we'll do both; but where shall it be? Not at the Hall.""Hardly.There's a bench, though, down by the poplar spring that looks as if it were meant to be in school.Do you know the place?
It's in my pasture by the meadow brook?"
"I can find it, and I'll bring the books to-morrow at this hour.
Will you come?"
"To-morrow--and every day?"
"Every day."
For an instant he looked at her in perplexity."I may as well tell you," he said at last, "that I'm one of the very biggest rascals on God's earth.I'm not worth all this, you know; that's honest.""And so are you," she called back gaily, as she turned from him and went rapidly along the little path.
CHAPTER IX.Christopher Faces Himself When she had gone through the gate and across the little patch of trodden grass into the sunken road, Christopher took up the ropes and with a quick jerk of the buried ploughshare began his plodding walk over the turned-up sod.The furrow was short, but when he reached the end of it he paused from sheer exhaustion and stood wiping the heavy moisture from his brow.The scene through which he had just passed had left him quivering in every nerve, as if he had been engaged in some terrible struggle against physical odds.All at once he became aware that the afternoon was too oppressive for field work, and, unhitching the horses from the plough, he led them slowly back to the stable beyond the house.As he went, it seemed to him that he had grown middle-aged within the hour; his youth had departed as mysteriously as his strength.
A little later, Tucker, who was sitting on the end of a big log at the woodpile, looked up in surprise from the anthill he was watching.
"Quit work early, eh, Christopher?"
"Yes; I've given out," replied Christopher, stopping beside him and picking up the axe which lay in a scattered pile of chips.
"It's the spring weather, I reckon, but I'm not fit for a tougher job than chopping wood.""Well, I'd leave that off just now, if I were you."Raising the axe, Christopher swung it lightly over his shoulder;then, lowering it with a nerveless movement, he tossed it impatiently on the ground.
"A queer thing happened just now, Uncle Tucker," he said, "a thing you'll hardly believe even when I tell you.I had a visit from Mrs.Wyndham, and she came to say--" he stammered and broke off abruptly.
"Mrs.Wyndham?" repeated Tucker."She's Bill Fletcher's granddaughter, isn't she?""Maria Fletcher--you may have seen her when she lived here, five or six years ago."Tucker shook his head.
"Bless your heart, my boy, I haven't seen a woman except Lucy and the girls for twenty-five years.But why did she come, I wonder?""That's the strange part, and you won't understand it until you see her.She came because she had just heard--some one had told her--about Fletcher's old rascality.""You don't say so!" exclaimed Tucker beneath his breath.He gave a long whistle and sat smiling at the little red anthill."And did she actually proffer an apology?" he inquired.
"An amendment, rather.The Hall will come to her at Fletcher's death, and she walked over to say quite coolly that she wanted to give it back to us.Think of that! To part with such a home for the sake of mere right and justice.""It is something to think about," assented Tucker, "and to think hard about, too--and yet I cut my teeth on the theory that women have no sense of honour.Now, that is pure, foolish, strait-laced honour, and nothing else.""Nothing else," repeated Christopher softly; "and if you'll believe it, she cried--she really cried when I told her Icouldn't take it.Oh, she's wonderful!" he burst out suddenly, all his awkward reserve dropping from him."You can't be with her ten minutes without feeling how good she is--good all through, with a big goodness that isn't in the least like the little prudishness of other women--"He checked himself hastily, but not before Tucker had glanced up with his pleasant smile.
