what made you hate him?”
“The first thing that made me hate him was that he insulted Father, who is a very quiet, timid man, and threatened I don’t know what if Father did not make me keep company with him. Make me indeed! But Mr. Bowles is a dangerous, bad-hearted, violent man, and—don’t laugh at me, sir, but I dreamed one night he was murdering me. And I think he will too, if he stays here: and so does his poor mother, who is a very nice woman, and wants him to go away; but he will not.”
“Jessie,” said Kenelm, softly, “I said I wanted to make friends with you. Do you think you can make a friend of me? I can never be more than friend. But I should like to be that. Can you trust me as one?”
“Yes,” answered the girl, firmly, and, as she lifted her eyes to him, their look was pure from all vestige of coquetry,—guileless, frank, grateful.
“Is there not another young man who courts you more civilly than Tom Bowles does, and whom you really could find it in your heart to like?”
Jessie looked round for another daffodil, and not finding one, contented herself with a bluebell, which she did not tear to pieces, but caressed with a tender hand. Kenelm bent his eyes down on her charming face with something in their gaze rarely seen there,—something of that unreasoning, inexpressible human fondness, for which philosophers of his school have no excuse. Had ordinary mortals, like you or myself, for instance, peered through the leaves of the thorn-trees, we should have sighed or frowned, according to our several temperaments; but we should all have said, whether spitefully or envyingly, “Happy young lovers!” and should all have blundered lamentably in so saying.
Still, there is no denying the fact that a pretty face has a very unfair advantage over a plain one. And, much to the discredit of Kenelm’s philanthropy, it may be reasonably doubted whether, had Jessie Wiles been endowed by nature with a snub nose and a squint, Kenelm would have volunteered his friendly services, or meditated battle with Tom Bowles on her behalf.
But there was no touch of envy or jealousy in the tone with which he said,—
“I see there is some one you would like well enough to marry, and that you make a great difference in the way you treat a daffodil and a bluebell. Who and what is the young man whom the bluebell represents? Come, confide.”
“We were much brought up together,” said Jessie, still looking down, and still smoothing the leaves of the bluebell. “His mother lived in the next cottage; and my mother was very fond of him, and so was Father too; and, before I was ten years old, they used to laugh when poor Will called me his little wife.” Here the tears which had started to Jessie’s eyes began to fall over the flower. “But now Father would not hear of it; and it can’t be. And I’ve tried to care for some one else, and I can’t, and that’s the truth.”
“But why? Has he turned out ill?—taken to poaching or drink?”
“No, no, no; he’s as steady and good a lad as ever lived. But—but—”
“Yes; but—”
“He is a cripple now; and I love him all the better for it.” Here Jessie fairly sobbed.
Kenelm was greatly moved, and prudently held his peace till she had a little recovered herself; then, in answer to his gentle questionings, he learned that Will Somers—till then a healthy and strong lad—had fallen from the height of a scaffolding, at the age of sixteen, and been so seriously injured that he was moved at once to the hospital. When he came out of it—what with the fall, and what with the long illness which had followed the effects of the accident—he was not only crippled for life, but of health so delicate and weakly that he was no longer fit for outdoor labour and the hard life of a peasant. He was an only son of a widowed mother, and his sole mode of assisting her was a very precarious one. He had taught himself basket-making; and though, Jessie said, his work was very ingenious and clever, still there were but few customers for it in that neighbourhood. And, alas! even if Jessie’s father would consent to give his daughter to the poor cripple, how could the poor cripple earn enough to maintain a wife?
“And,” said Jessie, “still I was happy, walking out with him on Sunday evenings, or going to sit with him and his mother; for we are both young, and can wait. But I dare n’t do it any more now: for Tom Bowles has sworn that if I do he will beat him before my eyes; and Will has a high spirit, and I should break my heart if any harm happened to him on my account.”
“As for Mr. Bowles, we’ll not think of him at present. But if Will could maintain himself and you, your father would not object nor you either to a marriage with the poor cripple?”
“Father would not; and as for me, if it weren’t for disobeying Father, I’d marry him to-morrow. I can work.”
“They are going back to the hay now; but after that task is over, let me walk home with you, and show me Will’s cottage and Mr. Bowles’s shop or forge.”
“But you’ll not say anything to Mr. Bowles. He would n’t mind your being a gentleman, as I now see you are, sir; and he’s dangerous,—oh, so dangerous!—and so strong.”
“Never fear,” answered Kenelm, with the nearest approach to a laugh he had ever made since childhood; “but when we are relieved, wait for me a few minutes at yon gate.”
CHAPTER XII
KENELM spoke no more to his new friend in the hayfields; but when the day’s work was over he looked round for the farmer to make an excuse for not immediately joining the family supper. However, he did not see either Mr. Saunderson or his son. Both were busied in the stackyard. Well pleased to escape excuse and the questions it might provoke, Kenelm therefore put on the coat he had laid aside and joined Jessie, who had waited for him at the gate. They entered the lane side by side, following the stream of villagers who were slowly wending their homeward way. It was a primitive English village, not adorned on the one hand with fancy or model cottages, nor on the other hand indicating penury and squalor. The church rose before them gray and Gothic, backed by the red clouds in which the sun had set, and bordered by the glebe-land of the half-seen parsonage. Then came the village green, with a pretty schoolhouse; and to this succeeded a long street of scattered whitewashed cottages, in the midst of their own little gardens.
As they walked the moon rose in full splendour, silvering the road before them.
“Who is the Squire here?” asked Kenelm. “I should guess him to be a good sort of man, and well off.”
“Yes, Squire Travers; he is a great gentleman, and they say very rich. But his place is a good way from this village. You can see it if you stay, for he gives a harvest-home supper on Saturday, and Mr. Saunderson and all his tenants are going. It is a beautiful park, and Miss Travers is a sight to look at. Oh, she is lovely!” continued Jessie, with an unaffected burst of admiration; for women are more sensible of the charm of each other’s beauty than men give them credit for.
“As pretty as yourself?”
“Oh, pretty is not the word. She is a thousand times handsomer!”
“Humph!” said Kenelm, incredulously.
There was a pause, broken by a quick sigh from Jessie.
“What are you sighing for?—tell me.”
“I was thinking
