Bulldog And Butterfly Part 3

Protheroe.'

'Oh yes, you have,' he answered. 'All the right in the world. If you'll take in hand to show me my faults, I'll take in hand to cure 'em so far as a man may.'

'I don't think you're fickle,' said the girl hesitatingly; 'but I do think you're shallow, Mr. Protheroe.'

'Not a bit of it, dear,' he protested. 'I'm as deep as Gamck. As for your still waters running deep, it'd be a better proverb to my mind to say deep waters run still--at times. Niagara's deepish, folks say that have seen it. That's not to say that I even myself with Niagara, you'll understand, though 'tis in my nature to splash about a good deal. But all that apart, Bertha dear, try to make up your mind to take me as I am, and help me to make a man o' myself.'

At this point back came the farmer's wife with a clatter of pails in the back kitchen to indicate her arrival in advance. Lane took his leave with a reluctant air, going away much more gravely than he had arrived.

'Well,' said Mrs. Fellowes, drawing her knitting from a capacious pocket and falling to work upon it at once, 'hast sent Number Two about his business?'

Bertha cast an embarra.s.sed look at her and blushed.

'Mother,' she said, 'you seem to find out everything.'

'Can find my way to the parish church by daylight,' the elder woman answered with complacency. 'But you tek care, my wench, whilst thee beest throwin' all the straight sticks aside, as thee doesn't pick up a crooked 'un at the last. Thee hast a fancy for the lad, too, that's as plain to be seen as the Beacon.'

'Oh!' cried Bertha, reddening again. 'I hope not.'

'For me, my gell,' said her mother. 'For me. And it's outside my thinkin' why a maid shouldn't tek a fancy to him. A lad as is stiddy an' handsome, and as blithe as sunshine! He's as fond as a calf into the bargain.'

She liked to hear him praised, and, woman-like, began to depreciate him faintly.

'I don't think he's very solid, mother,' she said.

The elder woman smiled at the transparent artifice, and refused to be entrapped by it.

'No,' she answered. 'Lane's a bit of a b.u.t.terfly, I will say. And Jack Thistlewood's a bulldog. Mek your ch'ice betwixt 'em while they'm there to be chose from. Which is it to be? b.u.t.terfly or bulldog?'

But Bertha answered nothing.

II

Things may have changed of late years, but in those days the parish churchyard was the great meeting-place for lovers who as yet were undeclared or unaccepted. The youth and the maid were both there for a purpose altogether removed from love-making--the meeting had the advantage of being accidental and certain. It was a tacit a.s.signation which was almost certain to be kept, and even the shyest of sweethearts would dare to walk homewards together a little of the way even in the lightest of summer evenings.

When Sunday morning came, and the one musical bell began to tinkle, Bertha stood before her open bedroom window, tying her bonnet-ribbons at the gla.s.s, in the embarra.s.sing certainty that both her lovers would be waiting outside the church to meet her. This certainty was the less to be endured, because Bertha had the sincerest desire to close with heavenly rather than with earthly meditations on a Sunday, but she could no more help being fl.u.s.tered by the thought of Lane Protheroe, and being chilled by the antic.i.p.ation of Thistlewood's look of bulldog fidelity, than she could help breathing. The girl's trouble was that she could not give her heart to the man who commanded her respect, whilst it was drawn fluttering with all manner of electric palpitations towards another whom she thought infinitely less worthy.

There was nothing in the world against Lane Protheroe in any serious sense. n.o.body spoke or thought ill of him, or had ground for ill speaking or thinking. But it was generally conceded that he _was_ a b.u.t.terfly kind of young fellow, and there was a general opinion that he wanted ballast. Rural human nature is full of candour of a sort, and Lane was accustomed to criticism. He took it with a bright carelessness, and in respect to the charge of wanting ballast was apt to answer that ballast was a necessary thing for boats that carried no cargo.

Thistlewood was generally admitted to be a well-ballasted personage--a man steady, resolved, serious, entirely trustworthy.

'John Thistlewood's word is as good as his bond,' said one of his admirers one day in his presence.

'John Thistlewood's word _is_ his bond,' said John Thistlewood, 'as any man's ought to be.'

People remembered the saying, and quoted it as being characteristic of the man,--a man cut roughly out of the very granite of fidelity.

Surely, thought Bertha, a girl ought to esteem herself happy in being singled out by such a man. The cold surface covered so steady, so lasting a glow. And as for Lane--well, Lane's heats seemed the merest flashes, intense enough to heat what was near them, but by no means enduring. There was danger that anything which was of a nature to keep on burning might catch fire at him, and when well lit might find that the creating heat had gone out, or had withdrawn itself. She knew herself, by instinct, faithful to the core, and if once she consented to love the man, she would have to go on doing it. That looked likely to be terrible, and she fought against herself continually. And she not only tried not to love the b.u.t.terfly, but had tried her loyal hardest to love the bulldog. The last chance of success in the second enterprise went out finally when Thistlewood had once so far conquered his clumsy reticence of manner as actually to put his arm about her waist. Then every fibre of her body cried out against him, and she escaped him, shivering and thrilling with a repulsion so strong that it seemed like a crime to her. How dared she feel the touch of so estimable a man to be so hateful? But from that moment the thing was settled beyond a doubt.

She could respect John Thistlewood, she could admire the solidity and faithfulness of his character--but, marry him? That was asking for more than nature could agree to.

If Lane had only resembled John a little--ah! there was a glow of certainty called up by that fancy which might have been altogether delicious had the fancy been well grounded. If John had only been a little more like Lane? She was hardly so sure. Obviously, John was not the man for this girl to warm her heart at.

The worst of it was that he would never find or look for another girl, and his long courtship, though it could never endear him, or even make him tolerable as a lover, served at least to have established a sort of claim upon her. The great faithful heart might break if she should throw herself away. The depth of his affection, as she realised it for herself, could only be understood by one capable of an equal pa.s.sion.

She never guessed, or came near to guessing, that her conception of him was the realisation of herself; but it is only great hearts which truly know what great hearts can be, and her profound conception of Thistle-wood's fidelity was her own best certificate to faithfulness.

The little musical bell went on tinkling as she walked across the fields. It had various rates of movement to indicate to distant worshippers the progress of the time, and she gave a careful ear to its warnings, so regulating her steps as only to enter the churchyard at the last minute.

There sure enough were both John and Lane waiting to pay their morning salutation. Happily, to her own mind, there was time for no more than a mere hand-shaking and a good-morning, and she walked into the church, beautifully tranquil to look at, though she could hardly believe that all the congregation could not guess with what a startled feeling her heart had begun to beat. By and by the influences of the place and the service began to soothe her, though she only succeeded in excluding her lovers by a conscious process of forgetfulness which was not so far removed from memory as it might have been.

The Thistlewood pew was a little to the front on her right, and the Protheroe pew a little to her front on the left, but she kept her eyes so studiously downcast that she got no glimpse of either, until a strange and altogether remarkable feeling of something missing surprised her into looking up. Her eyes went first to the Protheroe pew, and Lane was not there. Then in spite of herself she listened for Thistlewood's voice in the Responses, and not detecting it, was impelled to look for him. He also was absent, and she began to quake a little. Was it possible they had stayed outside to quarrel? This fear would have been sufficiently serious at any time, but on a Sunday, during church hours, it magnified itself, which fact is in itself enough to prove that though the idea perturbed her she foresaw no very terrible consequences. It would be hateful to be quarrelled over, but both the combatants--if combatants they were to be--would respect her too much to proceed to extremities, and thereby make the quarrel public, and her a target for all tongues.

John and Lane had met in the churchyard pretty early, and whilst there were friends to greet, and to pa.s.s the time of day with, things went smoothly enough. But as the churchgoers filed by ones and twos into the building, each began to be aware of a solitude which was peopled only by the disagreeable presence of the other. John, ostentatiously disregardful of his adversary, planted himself at the gate, so as to be before him in his greeting. Lane, rather unusually erect and martial in his walk, marched past him into the village roadway, and there loitered for the same intent. Thistlewood, recognising the meaning of this manouvre, strolled into the roadway, and doggedly planted himself a yard or two beyond the spot where his rival had halted. Lane, with an air to the full as ostentatiously and offensively dis-regardful as the other's, marched past Thistlewood with half a dozen soldierly-looking strides, and bringing himself to an abrupt halt made a disdainful back at him.

Again Thistlewood advanced, but this time he drew himself up a trifle behind his rival, and laid a finger on his shoulder.

'Well?' said Protheroe, without turning his head.

'I shall want a word with thee by and by, my lad,' Thistlewood said quietly.

'Have it now,' replied Lane, settling his shoulders jauntily.

'There's time in plenty afore us,' Thistlewood answered, regarding him with supreme disfavour.

The younger man looked straight before him with an exasperating aspect of indifference.

'When you like,' he said.

'Very well,' replied Thistlewood. 'In five minutes' time from now.'

'Church time,' said Lane smilingly, surveying the landscape.

'Beest that keen set on the sermon?' John inquired.

'Don't know that I am,' replied the enemy, rising a little on his toes, and then settling his shoulders anew.

'Five minutes' time from now.'

The jaunty airs and scornful disregard began to warm Thistlewood's blood a little.

'Canst look a man i' the face when thee talk'st to him? 'he asked.

'Yes, bless your heart and soul alive!' cried Lane, swaggering round and beaming on him.

For half a minute they looked at each other, the one angry, resolute, and lowering, with head bent a little forward, his glance directed upward past his down-drawn brows, the other smiling with seeming sweetness and gaiety.

Thistlewood seemed to restrain himself with something of an effort.

'We'll talk together by and by,' he said, and turning, deliberately walked back into the churchyard.