In the early Morning of the third Daye after Jane’s Wedding, I was awakened by a strange Sound stealing into my Chamber thro’ the opened Window: the loud, shrill Note of an hunting-Horn. I sate at once bolt upright in my Bed, as if it had been an Alarum, and listened hard lest the Blast be repeated; but I heard nothing but the Twittering of the morning Birds and the Chatter of a Magpie from beyond the high Hedge. I must have been dreaming. It was not the hunting Season, and unlikely too, I thought, that the Fanfare should have been blown by some Wag in Jest. I laid My Self down again, altho’ mine Heart was racing with the wild Speed of a pursued Deer.
I could not easily fall back to Sleep, and so I rose, dresst, and betook My Self to my Study to read awhile before breakfast Time. The Sound of the Horn had caused me to ponder once more on Nathaniel.
Over Breakfast, I received into mine Hand a pressing Invitation from my Sister to call upon Withy Grange that very Afternoon. She seemed concerned that if I did not come, I should return to London without seeing her again, or visiting her brave and beauteous new Estate; and that I would not be in Berkshire again before Christmas. Feeling that Jane was in all Probability quite right in this Estimation, I quit my Studies for the nonce, and headed out to the Stables. It had been Months since I had ridden my Chestnut, and I was anxious to see whether he had been improved or spoiled in mine Absence. If spoiled, I thought, I should have stern Words with the head Groom, for he was not a Horse with which I would have been willing to part. He was an handsome Animal, and elegant in his Paces. He went, however, like a Swallow. I was doubly glad of this, for altho’ it did mine Heart joy to wander betwixt the Colours of the Meadows and thro’ the lively Woods, I could not help but be mindful of Viviane, and of the fact that the Valley of the Horse was her Domain. I did not believe that it were safe for me to be without mine own Lands for too long. After about three Miles, the Road grew stony, so I chose to abandon it and traced instead the winding Ribband of the River, which would take me at a Gallop all the Way to Withy Grange.
The House appeared all of a sudden as I rounded a Bend, atop a long grassy Slope that led down towards the Water. I perceived at once the open Prospect about which Jane had spoken with Enthusiasm; a full half-Mile of unbroken Green extending in a steady Declivity to the very Edge of the River, which here, she said, ran thick with Trout. Only one Obstacle stood between the River and the Grange: a tangled Stand of Willows and other Trees, extending an hundred Feet or more hard by the rushy Bank; the last Survivors, perhaps, of those old Withies that had given the Place its Name. Jane had told me much of Barnaby’s planned Improvements, which being in the modern Stile, required the Laying of bland Lawns where once there had been complex formal Gardens, and the Substitution by its tame Reflection of wild, unfettered Nature. I supposed that these must be the Willows he intended to uproot, so that the View from the drawing Room should not be interrupted.
Seeing the Stand now, I felt a sudden Anger at what appeared a brutal Act upon Barnaby’s Part. Verily, there is no Need, I thought, to ruin an whole Grove of Willows, that mayhap stood there before the House was built, purely for Barnaby to have a fashionably unobstructed View. It is senseless; moreover, ’tis petty; and that bodes ill for Jane.
I reined in mine Horse, and stood still for a Moment by the quiet Water. About mine Ears wavered the noiseless Wings of Butterflies, and the low Murmuring of Bees. From his hidden Nest within the Reeds, a Warbler burst his Breast in tumbling Song. I drew in a long, slow, deep Breath, drinking in the summer Aire as if it were sweet Wine, and closed mine Eyes. The golden morning Sunne was honey warm upon my Face.
The Warbler by the Stream was almost friendly; tho’ how he would sing to me when he had got Intelligence of who I was, I did not like to guess. I dug mine Heels into my Chestnut’s Flanks and cantered toward the willow Trees. I remembered how I had seen Katherine in the Churchyard, the Sunnelight dappling her pale Features thro’ the flickering Leaves.
The Wood was more extensive than I had first thought, and as I approached it I saw that it was comprised of several hundred Trees. Near the Water, as I had expected, the Willows were most numerous, reaching out over the Stream with white Fingers, but away from the River grew Hawthorns in a tight Covert. I cantered along the Edge of the Woodland for some Distance before turning my Chestnut to begin the long Ascent toward the Grange. It was then, to mine Astonishment, that I saw Katherine Montague.
She was running down the Slope, in my Direction, very fast. The pale Calico of her Skirts billowed about her like a wind tosst Cloud, and her white linen Cap had all but slippt from her Head. I stoppt mine Horse and without any second Thought jumped down upon the Sward. “Is it you?” I called, uncertain whether my Senses were playing upon me the cruellest Trick.
“Yes!” she cried, tho’ she was breathless with Running. “Yes!”
I looped the Horse’s Reins over mine Arm and hurried up the Slope to meet her. I half expected, or half hoped, that she would throw herself into mine Arms, for which I should have had to punish her, but when we were about five Yards apart, she drew to a polite Halt. Her Ribcage heaved with the Effort of her Exertion; her Eyes sparkled with its vivid Satisfaction. Her Hair, now loosened from its Constraints, shook in wild golden Ringlets about her delicate Neck. Yet again I cursed the long View from Withy Grange, which meant that we were even now most likely overlooked; had it not been so I should have carried her off then and there beneath the Willows.
“I saw you coming from the House,” she gasped. “I ran—all the Way.”
“You looked as if you were flying,” I said.
“I felt as if I were! I thought I should fall, but something held me up. I am under Instruction never to run lest some Bone come out of place, but I do not care!”
I positioned my Chestnut between My Self and the House, and held out mine Hand to Katherine. “Come here,” I said. “I must satisfy My Self that you really exist. Whatever are you doing here?”
Katherine steppt up beside me and I took her small Hands in mine. She was warm and solid, living and real, and she smelled lightly of Sweat and fresh mown Grasses.
“Jane—Mrs Barnaby—sent Sophy an Invitation, and I guessed—I hoped—so I made her bring me too.”
“Stand still until you have caught your Breath,” I said. “So, ’tis a Mixture of Luck and Design. I shall not ask what vile Means you employed upon Miss Ravenscroft, as they have brought you to me; whom I expected least, and am happiest to see.”
“Oh,” she answered lightly, “I did nothing unkind or even unseemly. I told Sophy that I wished to thank Mrs Barnaby for allowing me to attend her Wedding, and Aunt Ravenscroft thought this shewed such Promise that she told Sophy she must agree.”
“Is your Aunt here too, then?”
“No, no; ’tis only me and Sophy.”
“Sophy and My Self,” I said.
“I think not!” Katherine said. “I am certain Mrs B. is match-making; but she will make nothing there, if I have aught to do about the Business.”
“Nor I,” I said. I kissed her Hands and then, reluctantly, released her. “My Sister will be watching, from the House.”
We turned back towards the long Ascent, and resumed our long, slow Climb out of the Valley.
As we walked, I remembered Nathaniel again. I stoppt, not wanting my Words to be overheard by anyone upon the front Lawn of the House, altho’ it was unlikely that my Voice should carry so far. “Will you tell me,” I said, “what hath happened to Nathaniel? I am sure that something is very wrong, but no one will speak of him.”
Katherine ceased walking, and her Features momentarily fell into Shaddowe. She droppt her Gaze to the daiseyed Green beneath her Feet, and then, turning her Back upon the Grange, she looked up and stared out over the Valley. “Nathaniel—” Again that Hesitation on his Name. “Hath run away,” she said.
“What? Impossible!”
“Not impossible. His Father is telling he hath gone into the Army.”
“Nathaniel would never do that,” I said. “What, gone? Intirely gone? He hath sent no Word?”
“None.”
“Egad!” I cried. “When was this? Why would nobody tell me?”
“I don’t know. My Uncle says that he disappeared, last Yeare, in May.”
“But I was with him on May Morning! I—” My Voice failed me. Suddenly, Nathaniel’s extraordinary Manner and Actions at the Bull, and at our Parting, made compleat Sense. He had planned to leave that Night; and he had not run away to join the Army, but his beloved Gypsies. “Oh, Lord,” I said, slowly. “Now I conceive it. He wanted me to go with him, but I—” Again, I stoppt. Suppose I had lain down with Viviane, as both she and Nathaniel had desired; would I have followed them, Over the Hills and Far Away, as the Song hath it? I might. Truly, I might.
“What Attempt do they make to find him?” I asked.
Katherine did not appear to know. “My Uncle is so angry,” she said, “that I think they make none. He wanted Nathaniel to go into the Church.”
“Aye, so he did.” I began to laugh, altho’ I felt like weeping. “Canst imagine it? Nat, in Churchman’s Weeds?”
Katherine produced a feeble Simulacrum of a Smile, but her Eyes were hollow.
“’Tis anyway certain,” I said, taking her Arm thro’ mine own in an Effort at Comfort, and bending yet again toward Withy Grange, “that Nat will return sometime when we do not expect him. Have no Fears for your Cousin, Katherine; I know him exceeding well, and he doth not readily fall into Trouble.”
“No,” she said. “That is true. He was always the one to bring Trouble upon others.”
Thus linked, we continued climbing the Valley. Altho’ I had sought to pacify Katherine, mine Head was now full, and mine Heart also, with fearfull Thoughts and Sentiments generated by this new Intelligence. Plainly, I had been the last Person to have seen Nathaniel Ravenscroft. Excepting possibly the stable-Boy—and Viviane.
A Thought broke in upon me, horrible in its Array: Perhaps Nathaniel is dead. Perhaps the Gypsies murdered him. Perhaps, even as I was racing back along the Road towards the Bull, Viviane’s Brothers were slitting Nathaniel’s white Throat in some green Meadow hard by.
I pushed the Thought away, for altho’ it frightened me greatly, I could perceive that it was neither wholly rational nor likely. Whatever Revenge Viviane sought against me, she would never have taken it out upon Nathaniel. Never once in his Life had he suffered any Punishment for his own Misdemeanours, let alone mine. The Course of things had altogether run the other Way.
No, no, I thought. Nathaniel and Viviane are together, wherever they are. They were perhaps—I caught my Breath—even in London last Christmas-tide.
Was it Nathaniel who sent me my Bat? By Owl, or Cat, or Hare, he said. Is not a Bat a wild Creature, too?
Katherine Montague, at my Side, caught unexpectedly a tight Hold of mine Hand, and her thin Fingers twined about mine own. “Mr Hart?”
I feared lest I had spoke aloud. I paused mid-Step, and looked down into her clear grey Eyes. Slowly, my dreadful Apprehensions drained away, like falling flood-Waters.
She was an Human Child, I thought.
“What is it?” I said.
“I do not truly believe your Sister is Match-making. I said it as a Joke. You would frighten Sophy to Death, and a long Way beyond it.”
We proceeded up-Hill for a few Yards intimately connected; then we parted, as we were almost come upon the House.
Withy Grange was a tall, upright Building that seemed to me upon mine Approach to be more of a Means of Support for its high Gables and steeply pitched Roofs than a House to shelter Human Beings. The Walls were of white Stone interspaced with blackleaded Windows, and dark Woodwork that weaved across the Front of the Place in a Lattice. I judged it to be no more than two Centuries in Age, and therefore definitely younger than the willow Wood. I began to ask My Self whether Jane could be prevailed upon to disagree with Barnaby about his unobstructed View, and to fight for the Willows. It was a Pity she had such a gentle Nature.
Between the long Slope and the Lawn itself was a banked stone Wall, invisible from the House, but high enough to prevent Animals from wandering freely into the Gardens. A proper Ha-ha, I thought, unlike the one at Shirelands, which was in Truth nothing but an hedged Ditch. I called loudly for a Groom to come and attend my Chestnut, and then, he being taken off mine Hands, I headed with Katherine thro’ the wrought iron Gateway that led up to Withy Grange.
The Grass here, as we climbed the wall Steps, was new mown and somewhat dampe. Katherine pointed to the Hem of her Petticoat, which had grown bright green from the spilt Juice, and laughed. The Sound sparkled. I wished I could capture it in a Flask.
We crosst the Lawn together, yet apart, right up to the front Door, where we were met by Barnaby’s Footman. He conveyed us to my Sister’s morning Room, where she sate with Sophia.
“Allow me to restore to you someone you had lost,” I said to Jane at once upon entering the Room, to allay her Suspicion. “Miss Montague, who was wandering the Grounds. Dear Sister, Withy Grange doth indeed possess the most enchanting Views.”
Katherine sate down upon the window Seat, and feigning a compleat Lack of Interest in me, took up a slender Volume of Sidney’s Astrophel and concentrated all her Attention upon it. Her Dissemblance is masterly, I thought.
Jane’s sitting Room was in its Furnishings as delicate and light as she was. The smooth Walls were painted in a faint Shade of green that was echoed in the Upholstery of the Chairs and high backed Sophas. The main Colour was provided by the Curtains, which were an hopeful and enduring pea Hue that turned the silver tea-Stove copper green, and cast a sickly wash upon the leaded Countenances of the Ladies. I imagined that Jane, in ordering the Curtains, had not made any Allowance for the Quality of morning Light thro’ her Windows. Nevertheless, the Room was pleasant enough, and I smiled to see Jane so happily enthroned Mistress of it.
“Oh, I am so glad that you approve of Withy Grange!” Jane said. “For then you will visit often. And thank you for bringing Miss Montague up, as Miss Ravenscroft is upon the Point of Leaving and would have been delayed.”
I took this as my Cue to pay my Compliments to Sophia. Her Response seemed cold; I feared that perhaps she had seen too much of mine Encounter with Katherine. She had Cause, I supposed, to feel badly used.
“How doth Mr Barnaby?” I asked my Sister, quitting Sophia with a shallow Bow.
“Very well. He is presently inspecting the Work we are having done about the old Orchard.”
What? I thought. Is he to grub that up, too? But I said: “You did not mention anything to me of any Orchard.”
Jane looked puzzled. “I did, Brother. When I wrote to you at Christmas I told you all about it. Do you not recall the Trouble poor Mr B. had in evicting those Vagabonds who had taken up home in it?”
“Why, no,” I said.
“Did not you read my Letter, Tristan?” Jane said.
“I did, Madam,” I answered; tho’ ’twas another Lie, for I knew well that I had not.
“Then you will know,” Jane continued, somewhat crossly, “that Mr B. was forced to call in the Constable, and have the whole Tribe threatened with Arrest for Vagrancy; and that in the End ’twas only fear of Hanging that caused them to remove.”
All of a sudden I apprehended her Meaning—more than her Meaning, in truth, for in my Sister’s honest Eyes I could discern no Sign of any secret Intimation. Yet the Event stood now to me as clear as Dayelight. Barnaby, in his Strivings to improve Withy Grange, had evicted Nathaniel Ravenscroft.
“Did this all take place last Summer?” I asked.
“You did not read my Letter, did you?”
“I did,” I said. “Truly, I did. Tho’ I may not have read all of it.”
Jane sighed.
“It is Time for us to go,” Sophia said, rising to her Feet with great Abruptness. “Thank you, my dear Mrs Barnaby, for shewing me around your beautifull House.”
I realised that this must be my Parting from Katherine, and my Ribcage clenched. I knew not when I should see her next; and altho’ this had been the Case two Nights before, the Wrench seemed now the greater for the Morning’s Reassertion of our Closeness.
Katherine looked up, and closed her Poems.
“La! I have lost my Glove,” Sophia said.
The next few Minutes were all perplext in Sophia’s Leaving, and in locating her Glove and pocket-Book, which she had droppt. Katherine stood still, her Gaze threaded tight thro’ mine, and her lower Lip presst white between her crooked Teeth. Neither of us made Attempt to help Sophia.
There was nothing I could do. Nothing. In mine Heart, I should gladly have brought Katherine Montague straight away from the House and carried her to London; but it was not even possible for me to take Hold of her Hand. ’Tis not right, I thought, that we must be parted so! If only I were already of Age! If I but had an Income of mine own!
“I wish you the safest Journey, Miss Montague,” I said.
“Thank you, Sir,” said Katherine.
Sophy, having recovered her Belongings, took her leave of Jane, and wished me well, saying that she hoped to meet again come Christmas-tide. I offered my polite Farewells, and then Sophia departed the Room, taking my darling Girl with her.
The Aire snapped her Absence like a Whip.
I left the Grange at about four o’ the Clock, before Barnaby returned for Dinner, and out of Curiosity rode home by Way of the old Orchard, from where I felt sure he should by now be gone. Mine Head was full of Katherine, but there was yet a little Space for Nathaniel, who, I was certain, had spent his last Weeks in the Parish in that Place. I was desirous to see the Sward upon which he had slept, the Trees beneath which he must have sheltered. Yet I was anxious too, for here, I guessed, Viviane had camped also.
I rode around the outside of the Gardens, keeping by the Wall. The Orchard lay some fifty Yards westward of the Grange. It, too, was walled, but from atop my Chestnut this presented no Barrier to my Sight. The Orchard looked to be very old indeed; older than the House, and even older than the Willows. The Trees grew twisted, and too tall to climb, and very few seemed to be bearing Fruit. Upon a few of the very oldest I could see Mistletoe spindling about the tallest Branches, like green Cobwebs.
The Grass below, where Nathaniel must have lain, was thick with Moss, and had been close cropped by three white Goats the Gardener grazed here for that Purpose. If I had expected to find any Trace of Nat, I was come many Months too late.
I looked to see what Works Barnaby had been inspecting. I soon discovered that the far Wall of the Orchard had been badly crumbled by Rain, and that there had formed a Gap, some thirteen Feet in Width, that had lain open to the outside Fields. This plainly had been Barnaby’s Concern, for the Gap was now all but sealed, and the Men who had laboured the Daye upon it were packing up their Tools and preparing to depart. I wondered that he should have stayed so long about the Supervision of a Task that was suited to neither his Rank nor his Ability, and I imagined that he must have proved a great Annoyance to the Masons.
Trotting closer, I was readying My Self to question the nearest of the Men, when he, who had his Back to me, turned unexpectedly about, and spat deliberately upon the Grass.
To my great Dismay, I perceived that it was Joseph Cox, the Bull’s Manservant. Dismisst, I thought with scorn, and sunk to take daye Labour wherever he could get it.
Immediately, I suffered the violent Recoil in my Gut that had afflicted me that Morning at the Bull. Evil rose from Cox in a Miasma. Even my Chestnut appeared to feel it. Stiffening, he began to prance upon the Spot, his ears pricked forward in a great Alarum as he surveyed the swarthy Goblin who stood swaggering insolent before us.
Cox looked me up and down, and his Lip curled. “Good afternoon,” he said. “Sir.”
“What do you here, Cox?” I demanded.
“I’s buildin’ a Wall, Sir,” Cox answered, adding, again after a Pause, and in the most surly of Tones, “if’n that’s all right wi’ you, Sir.”
“If your Work is finished, then begone with you,” I said. “You are not to loiter here. Do you understand?”
“Oh, I do understand ’ee, Sir,” said Joe Cox, with a low Sneer.
Instinct made me put my Heels to my Chestnut, and riding right upon the Man, I raised my Whip to strike him. The Crescent of my sunnelit Arm loomed stark against the Shaddowes.
Joe Cox fell backwards into the Wall, and lifted both Arms to defend himself against my Blow; but I did not let it fall. “Cross my Path again, Cox, and you shall suffer for’t,” I told him. “Take up your Workman’s Tools, and leave.”
I was prepared to have left the Matter there; I pulled mine Horse up short, and readied mine Heels to have cantered him away. But Cox scrambled to his Feet.
“Take up my Tools?” he growled. “That I shall; an’ if ’ee do come at me again I sh’ll use ’un to crack thy Head open, Squire’s Son or no. I oan never takin’ no Orders off’n you.”
I caught my Breath. “How dare you threaten me? You are in my Brother-in-law’s Employ, Cox! I will see to it that your Insolence costs you your Place.” I drove my Chestnut forward again, and slashed my Whip, as hard and furious as I could, across the pig-Man’s Face.
To mine utter Amazement, Cox did not flinch from the Blow. He merely wiped his Mouth upon the Back of his Hand, as if he had felt nothing at all, and stared up at me, his brutish Visage contorting into a contemptuous Leer. “Aye, Sir,” he said. “You do that, Sir, and see what Answer ’ee do get; there’s Few as’ll work for Mr Barnaby, but there’s Many wantin’ Labour.”
Enraged by his Defiance, I threw up my Whip again, but a sudden Recollection of My Self, and of my Station, stayed mine Hand. It should have been below me to have been arguing thus with such a low Creature as Joseph Cox. Instead, I did what I should have done before, kicked my Chestnut into a Canter, and without another Word to Cox, left him there standing.
My Lungs ached as if I had been breathing Poison. I had to gallop for a Mile or more before the clean Aire washed the Stench away.
Finally, my Passion began to subside; I slowed mine Horse to a walk, and patted his foamy Neck. Had he truly perceived, as I had, that Cox was evil? The Philosophers whose Works I had studied seemed generally to be in Agreement with Descartes that Creatures, being mere Automata, perceived nothing, even Pain. The Reverend Hales’ haemostatick Vivisections had been performed upon Horses.
Yet Dr Hunter had impresst on me the Primacy of mine own Observations; and time after time these had appeared directly to contradict this Assertion. The Creatures upon whom I had performed mine Experiments had often shewn me Signs of extream Suffering, and I did not feel inclined to dismiss mine Observations as mere Fancy. I raised my Whip, in a Spirit of Proof, and brought it down smarting upon mine Horse’s Flank. He broke at once into a Trot. Wherefore? I thought. Surely, he seeketh to escape the Pain. What would occur if I were to continue to beat him, until he reached the Limit of his Speed, and still he suffered it? What occurs in the Perceptions of an Animal in Pain? Is it in any Way akin to that of an Human Being? Verily, he sees, he feels; he hath a Mind, of a Sort.
If ’tis possible, I thought, that he may sense as subtile a thing as Pain, then surely the Creature must perceive Evil, which hath an objective Existence.
He had perceived it. We, both, had perceived it.
The Thought of Pain cast my Mind’s Eye back within my Study, upon Katherine, and her sweet Blood flowing, pure and swift, an Exaltation in my Sight. All at once, Revelation shone, clear as if it wound in front of me: A subtile Chain, Perception itself; communicated intimately from one Mind unto another thro’ the Impulse, the bodily Sensation; Pain. Pain needeth neither Language, nor Reason. It crosseth all Boundaries: betwixt Man and Beast, Monster and Angel, even between Sinner and God. Did not Christ Himself suffer the most enduring Agonies upon the Cross?
’Tis a Species of Love, I thought.
Arriving home, I retired to my Study after Dinner, and abandoning as beneath my Dignity any Idea of writing my Sister about the absurd Behaviour of Joseph Cox, went thence to Bed, where Dreams of Katherine, and Nightmares of Nathaniel and Viviane, delighted and tormented me in equal Measure, till the short midsummer Night was at its End.