Classic Works from Women Writers

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

  “Keep your head still; I see a sketch! I have often tried to draw your head from memory, and failed; but I think I can do it now. If I succeed I will give it to your mother. You would like a portrait of your daughter as Ceres, would you not, ma’am?”

  “I should like a picture of her; yes, very much, thank you, Mr. Holdsworth; but if you put that straw in her hair,” (he was holding some wheat ears above her passive head, looking at the effect with an artistic eye,) “you’ll ruffle her hair. Phillis, my dear, if you’re to have your picture taken, go up-stairs, and brush your hair smooth.”

  “Not on any account. I beg your pardon, but I want hair loosely flowing.” He began to draw, looking intently at Phillis; I could see this stare of his discomposed her—her colour came and went, her breath quickened with the consciousness of his regard; at last, when he said, “Please look at me for a minute or two, I want to get in the eyes,” she looked up at him, quivered, and suddenly got up and left the room. He did not say a word, but went on with some other part of the drawing; his silence was unnatural, and his dark cheek blanched a little. Cousin Holman looked up from her work, and put her spectacles down.

  “What’s the matter? Where is she gone?”

  Holdsworth never uttered a word, but went on drawing. I felt obliged to say something; it was stupid enough, but stupidity was better than silence just then.

  “I’ll go and call her,” said I. So I went into the hall, and to the bottom of the stairs; but just as I was going to call Phillis, she came down swiftly with her bonnet on, and saying, “I’m going to father in the five-acre,” passed out by the open “rector,” right in front of the house-place windows, and out at the little white side-gate. She had been seen by her mother and Holdsworth, as she passed; so there was no need for explanation, only cousin Holman and I had a long discussion as to whether she could have found the room too hot, or what had occasioned her sudden departure. Holdsworth was very quiet during all the rest of that day; nor did he resume the portrait-taking by his own desire, only at my cousin Holman’s request the next time that he came; and then he said he should not require any more formal sittings for only such a slight sketch as he felt himself capable of making. Phillis was just the same as ever the next time I saw her after her abrupt passing me in the hall. She never gave any explanation of her rush out of the room.

  So all things went on, at least as far as my observation reached at the time, or memory can recall now, till the great apple-gathering of the year. The nights were frosty, the mornings and evenings were misty, but at mid-day all was sunny and bright, and it was one mid-day that both of us being on the line near Heathbridge, and knowing that they were gathering apples at the farm, we resolved to spend the men’s dinner-hour in going over there. We found the great clothes-baskets full of apples, scenting the house, and stopping up the way; and an universal air of merry contentment with this the final produce of the year. The yellow leaves hung on the trees ready to flutter down at the slightest puff of air; the great bushes of Michaelmas daisies in the kitchen-garden were making their last show of flowers. We must needs taste the fruit off the different trees, and pass our judgment as to their flavour; and we went away with our pockets stuffed with those that we liked best. As we had passed to the orchard, Holdsworth had admired and spoken about some flower which he saw; it so happened he had never seen this old-fashioned kind since the days of his boyhood. I do not know whether he had thought anything more about this chance speech of his, but I know I had not—when Phillis, who had been missing just at the last moment of our hurried visit, re-appeared with a little nosegay of this same flower, which she was tying up with a blade of grass. She offered it to Holdsworth as he stood with her father on the point of departure. I saw their faces. I saw for the first time an unmistakable look of love in his black eyes; it was more than gratitude for the little attention; it was tender and beseeching—passionate. She shrank from it in confusion, her glance fell on me; and, partly to hide her emotion, partly out of real kindness at what might appear ungracious neglect of an older friend, she flew off to gather me a few late-blooming China roses. But it was the first time she had ever done anything of the kind for me.

  We had to walk fast to be back on the line before the men’s return, so we spoke but little to each other, and of course the afternoon was too much occupied for us to have any talk. In the evening we went back to our joint lodgings in Hornby. There, on the table, lay a letter for Holdsworth, which had been forwarded to him from Eltham. As our tea was ready, and I had had nothing to eat since morning, I fell to directly without paying much attention to my companion as he opened and read his letter. He was very silent for a few minutes; at length he said,

  “Old fellow! I’m going to leave you!”

  “Leave me!” said I. “How? When?”

  “This letter ought to have come to hand sooner. It is from Greathed the engineer” (Greathed was well known in those days; he is dead now, and his name half-forgotten); “he wants to see me about some business; in fact, I may as well tell you, Paul, this letter contains a very advantageous proposal for me to go out to Canada, and superintend the making of a line there.”

  I was in utter dismay.

  “But what will our company say to that?”

  “Oh, Greathed has the superintendence of this line, you know; and he is going to be engineer in chief to this Canadian line; many of the Shareholders in this company are going in for the other, so I fancy they will make no difficulty in following Greathed’s lead. He says he has a young man ready to put in my place.”

  “I hate him,” said I.

  “Thank you,” said Holdsworth, laughing.

  “But you must not,” he resumed; “for this is a very good thing for me, and, of course, if no one can be found to take my inferior work, I can’t be spared to take the superior. I only wish I had received this letter a day sooner. Every hour is of consequence, for Greathed says they are threatening a rival line. Do you know, Paul, I almost fancy I must go up tonight? I can take an engine back to Eltham, and catch the night train. I should not like Greathed to think me luke-warm.”

  “But you’ll come back?” I asked, distressed at the thought of this sudden parting.

  “Oh, yes! At least I hope so. They may want me to go out by the next steamer, that will be on Saturday.” He began to eat and drink standing, but I think he was quite unconscious of the nature of either his food or his drink.

  “I will go tonight. Activity and readiness go a long way in our profession. Remember that, my boy! I hope I shall come back, but if I don’t, be sure and recollect all the words of wisdom that have fallen from my lips. Now where’s the portmanteau? If I can gain half an hour for a gathering up of my things in Eltham, so much the better. I’m clear of debt anyhow; and what I owe for my lodgings you can pay for me out of my quarter’s salary, due November 4th.”

  “Then you don’t think you will come back?” I said, despondingly.

  “I will come back some time, never fear,” said he, kindly. “I may be back in a couple of days, having been found in-competent for the Canadian work; or I may not be wanted to go out so soon as I now anticipate. Anyhow you don’t suppose I am going to forget you, Paul this work out there ought not to take me above two years, and, perhaps, after that, we may be employed together again.” Perhaps! I had very little hope. The same kind of happy days never returns. However, I did all I could in helping him: clothes, papers, books, instruments; how we pushed and struggled—how I stuffed. All was done in a much shorter time than we had calculated upon, when I had run down to the sheds to order the engine. I was going to drive him to Eltham. We sate ready for a summons. Holdsworth took up the little nosegay that he had brought away from the Hope Farm, and had laid on the mantel-piece on first coming into the room. He smelt at it, and caressed it with his lips.

  “What grieves me is that I did not know—that I have not said good-bye to—to them.”

  He spoke in a grave tone, the shadow of the coming separation falling upon
him at last.

  “I will tell them,” said I. “I am sure they will be very sorry.” Then we were silent.

  “I never liked any family so much.”

  “I knew you would like them.”

  “How one’s thoughts change—this morning I was full of a hope, Paul.” He paused, and then he said—

  “You put that sketch in carefully?”

  “That outline of a head?” asked I. But I knew he meant an abortive sketch of Phillis, which had not been successful enough for him to complete it with shading or colouring.

  “Yes. What a sweet innocent face it is! and yet so—Oh, dear!” He sighed and got up, his hands in his pockets, to walk up and down the room in evident disturbance of mind. He suddenly stopped opposite to me.

  “You’ll tell them how it all was. Be sure and tell the good minister that I was so sorry not to wish him good-bye, and to thank him and his wife for all their kindness. As for Phillis—please God in two years I’ll be back and tell her myself all in my heart.”

  “You love Phillis, then?” said I.

  “Love her! Yes, that I do. Who could help it, seeing her as I have done? Her character as unusual and rare as her beauty! God bless her! God keep her in her high tranquillity, her pure innocence.—Two years! It is a long time.—But she lives in such seclusion, almost like the sleeping beauty, Paul”—(he was smiling now, though a minute before I had thought him on the verge of tears)—“but I shall come back like a prince from Canada, and waken her to my love. I can’t help hoping that it won’t be difficult, eh, Paul?”

  This touch of coxcombry displeased me a little, and I made no answer. He went on, half apologetically—

  “You see, the salary they offer me is large; and beside that, this experience will give me a name which will entitle me to expect a still larger in any future undertaking.”

  “That won’t influence Phillis.”

  “No! but it will make me more eligible in the eyes of her father and mother.” I made no answer.

  “You give me your best wishes, Paul,” said he, almost pleading. “You would like me for a cousin?”

  I heard the scream and whistle of the engine ready down at the sheds.

  “Ay, that I should,” I replied, suddenly softened towards my friend now that he was going away. “I wish you were to be married tomorrow, and I were to be best man.”

  “Thank you, lad. Now for this cursed portmanteau (how the minister would be shocked); but it is heavy!” and off we sped into the darkness. He only just caught the night train at Eltham, and I slept, desolately enough, at my old lodgings at Miss Dawsons,” for that night. Of course the next few days I was busier than ever, doing both his work and my own. Then came a letter from him, very short and affectionate. He was going out in the Saturday steamer, as he had more than half expected; and by the following Monday the man who was to succeed him would be down at Eltham. There was a P.S., with only these words: “My nosegay goes with me to Canada, but I do not need it to remind me of Hope Farm.”

  Saturday came; but it was very late before I could go out to the farm. It was a frosty night, the stars shone clear above me, and the road was crisping beneath my feet. They must have heard my footsteps before I got up to the house. They were sitting at their usual employments in the house-place when I went in. Phillis’s eyes went beyond me in their look of welcome, and then fell in quiet disappointment on her work.

  “And where’s Mr. Holdsworth?” asked cousin Holman, in a minute or two. “I hope his cold is not worse—I did not like his short cough.”

  I laughed awkwardly; for I felt that I was the bearer of unpleasant news.

  “His cold had need be better—for he’s gone—gone away to Canada!”

  I purposely looked away from Phillis, as I thus abruptly told my news.

  “To Canada!” said the minister.

  “Gone away!” said his wife. But no word from Phillis.

  “Yes!” said I. “He found a letter at Hornby when we got home the other night—when we got home from here; he ought to have got it sooner; he was ordered to go up to London directly, and to see some people about a new line in Canada, and he’s gone to lay it down; he has sailed today. He was sadly grieved not to have time to come out and wish you all good-by; but he started for London within two hours after he got that letter. He bade me thank you most gratefully for all your kindnesses; he was very sorry not to come here once again.” Phillis got up and left the room with noiseless steps.

  “I am very sorry,” said the minister.

  “I am sure so am I!” said cousin Holman. “I was real fond of that lad ever since I nursed him last June after that bad fever.”

  The minister went on asking me questions respecting Holdsworth’s future plans; and brought out a large old-fashioned atlas, that he might find out the exact places between which the new railroad was to run. Then supper was ready; it was always on the table as soon as the clock on the stairs struck eight, and down came Phillis—her face white and set, her dry eyes looking defiance to me, for I am afraid I hurt her maidenly pride by my glance of sympathetic interest as she entered the room. Never a word did she say—never a question did she ask about the absent friend, yet she forced herself to talk.

  And so it was all the next day. She was as pale as could be, like one who has received some shock; but she would not let me talk to her, and she tried hard to behave as usual. Two or three times I repeated, in public, the various affectionate messages to the family with which I was charged by Holdsworth; but she took no more notice of them than if my words had been empty air. And in this mood I left her on the Sabbath evening.

  My new master was not half so indulgent as my old one. He kept up strict discipline as to hours, so that it was some time before I could again go out, even to pay a call at the Hope Farm.

  It was a cold misty evening in November. The air, even indoors, seemed full of haze; yet there was a great log burning on the hearth, which ought to have made the room cheerful. Cousin Holman and Phillis were sitting at the little round table before the fire, working away in silence. The minister had his books out on the dresser, seemingly deep in study, by the light of his solitary candle; perhaps the fear of disturbing him made the unusual stillness of the room. But a welcome was ready for me from all; not noisy, not demonstrative—that it never was; my damp wrappers were taken off; the next meal was hastened, and a chair placed for me on one side of the fire, so that I pretty much commanded a view of the room. My eye caught on Phillis, looking so pale and weary, and with a sort of aching tone (if I may call it so) in her voice. She was doing all the accustomed things—fulfilling small household duties, but somehow differently—I can’t tell you how, for she was just as deft and quick in her movements, only the light spring was gone out of them. Cousin Holman began to question me; even the minister put aside his books, and came and stood on the opposite side of the fireplace, to hear what waft of intelligence I brought. I had first to tell them why I had not been to see them for so long—more than five weeks. The answer was simple enough; business and the necessity of attending strictly to the orders of a new superintendent, who had not yet learned trust, much less indulgence. The minister nodded his approval of my conduct, and said, “Right, Paul! ‘Servants, obey in all things your master according to the flesh.’ I have had my fears lest you had too much licence under Edward Holdsworth.”

  “Ah,” said cousin Holman, “poor Mr. Holdsworth, he’ll be on the salt seas by this time!”

  “No, indeed,” said I, “he’s landed. I have had a letter from him from Halifax.” Immediately a shower of questions fell thick upon me. When? How? What was he doing? How did he like it? What sort of a voyage? &c.

  “Many is the time we have thought of him when the wind was blowing so hard; the old quince-tree is blown down, Paul, that on the right-hand of the great pear-tree; it was blown down last Monday week, and it was that night that I asked the minister to pray in an especial manner for all them that went down in ships upon the great deep, and he s
aid then, that Mr. Holdsworth might be already landed; but I said, even if the prayer did not fit him, it was sure to be fitting somebody out at sea, who would need the Lord’s care. Both Phillis and I thought he would be a month on the seas.” Phillis began to speak, but her voice did not come rightly at first. It was a little higher pitched than usual, when she said—

  “We thought he would be a month if he went in a sailing-vessel, or perhaps longer. I suppose he went in a steamer?”

  “Old Obadiah Grimshaw was more than six weeks in getting to America,” observed cousin Holman.

  “I presume he cannot as yet tell how he likes his new work?” asked the minister.

  “No! he is but just landed; it is but one page long. I’ll read it to you, shall I?

  “ ‘Dear Paul—We are safe on shore, after a rough passage. Thought you would like to hear this, but homeward-bound steamer is making signals for letters. Will write again soon. It seems a year since I left Hornby. Longer since I was at the farm. I have got my nosegay safe. Remember me to the Holmans. —Yours, E. H.’ ”

  “That’s not much, certainly,” said the minister. “But it’s a comfort to know he’s on land these blowy nights.”

  Phillis said nothing. She kept her head bent down over her work; but I don’t think she put a stitch in, while I was reading the letter. I wondered if she understood what nosegay was meant; but I could not tell. When next she lifted up her face, there were two spots of brilliant colour on the cheeks that had been so pale before. After I had spent an hour or two there, I was bound to return back to Hornby. I told them I did not know when I could come again, as we—by which I mean the company—had undertaken the Hensleydale line; that branch for which poor Holdsworth was surveying when he caught his fever.

  “But you’ll have a holiday at Christmas,” said my cousin. “Surely they’ll not be such heathens as to work you then?”