AN APPEAL TO A MAN’S HONOUR.

Jane Prior was as unsuspicious as Mat Crabtree was fit to be. Like all busy women whose lives are not engrossed by the merest trifles of social intercourse, she had not time for prying, or even for collecting evidence with regard to humanity and sifting it for her mental satisfaction. This lack of leisure, with a certain constitutional abstraction of mind, impaired her power of sympathy, but it rendered her in another sense easy to live with, and gave her the appearance of larger toleration than she actually possessed. But there are incidents which rouse the most unwary and the most charitable. Something is said or done by the member of a circle totally different from what might have been expected, unaccountable, except in one light. It points so plainly--however reluctant those who run may be to read the sign--to a course of deception and to a secret probably not too creditable to the person it concerns, that the disturbed witnesses would be more than blind dolts if they refused to believe the evidence of their senses and their reason.

Miss Gray had looked and spoken--or rather had not spoken--so strangely, had been so unlike an open, upright woman who has nothing to conceal, and had grown so agitated under Mr. Crabtree’s _mal-apropos_ cross-questioning in the Kershaw class-room, that a distinctly uncomfortable impression had been made on those present. The exception had been Mr. Haynes, who had not been attending part of the time, whose mind, long accustomed to run in one meritorious groove, seldom ranged beyond sermon-writing and parish work, and who had coined a word for the benefit of young ladies, that word being ‘vagarious.’

But already Mat Crabtree, who had been full of his own idea, and noticed little at the moment, on thinking the matter over in his house at Haybridge, was taking himself severely to task, and telling himself he had been an inquisitive, inconsiderate old idiot, who had put his foot into it, and made a fine mess. Something was out of joint, though he could not pretend to say what. He did not believe he had been mistaken in his recognition of Miss Gray. The fine face was not only remarkable for its bloom of womanly beauty, there were too many points of resemblance to make error probable. Why she should be the governess at Redcot under a cloud, as it appeared, he could not conjecture. Nobody might be much to blame, or the wrong-doer might be sorry for the past and striving to retrieve it. And there had he gone, like an intolerable meddler and hunter after game, prowling and scenting and raising a timid persecuted creature for ought that he knew. The mischief he had done might be irreparable and far-reaching. Serve him right for his stupid folly--a man of his age! And his prey was worthy of him--a girl, an orphan by her own account, no older than Jane Prior--a girl out in the world, though it might be by her own choice or fault and not of necessity, making her way for herself, and so practically defenceless--a girl seemingly full of gifts and attractions, while he had contrived to affront and disgrace her.

At Redcot Jane Prior was struggling ineffectually to put the whole scene out of her mind. She was the more perplexed and worried because she was so unaccustomed to the process--the doubt in the first place, the effort to shake off the doubt in the second. She was furious with herself for thinking anything could be wrong where Miss Gray was in question. Of course, she might have often gone to Berkshire if she thought fit to do so, and Mr. Crabtree might or might not have seen her there, and might have elected to call her ‘The Berkshire Miss Gray,’ though she was, in point of fact, a Londoner. Or he might, as was more likely, be entirely wrong, confusing her with some namesake of hers, whom he fancied she resembled, of whom and of whose relatives she knew nothing. What did it matter? Who need care? Yet Miss Gray, for some occult reason known only to herself, had cared, and cared very much. Jane could not deny it to herself. What of that again? Some people were so much more sensitive than others. Miss Gray had not looked like one of these thin-skinned folk, but most of us have--say one vulnerable spot in our armour. Miss Gray might have poor relations in Berkshire, or she might be so unfortunate as to own kindred who were worse than poor--disreputable. Jane believed stoutly that if she had poor relations or disreputable kindred she would own the one and disown the other with the stern intrepidity of a Brutus, still she could forgive Miss Gray if her pride was more foolish, or her self-respect less vigorous.

But do as Jane would--candid, confiding soul as she was--with all her panoply of philosophy and learning, she could not get rid of the conviction that there had been something personal at the root of Miss Gray’s distress--that her trouble, if she had a trouble, was an individual affair. In opposition to Jane’s lofty principles, and strong prepossessions--in spite of her reverence for knowledge in any shape, and the common cause she was disposed to make with every woman intellectually engaged--against Jane’s very will, she began to look on Miss Gray with other eyes, to see her in a different light, to watch and make a record of all the small particulars of her behaviour, and give them a new meaning. Jane hated herself, but she could not help what she was doing.

The first thing which struck Jane Prior was that Miss Gray did not wish to go with the children to Haybridge, as it had been arranged they should go. Miss Gray had not hitherto shown any disinclination to encounter visitors or pay visits. For Jane had been wonderfully wide-awake on one social point. She had taken pains to show the public how she regarded Miss Gray, and how she desired it to regard her; and as Mrs. Prior was of the same mind as her daughter in the matter, the public had responded civilly, as it generally will in such a case. Miss Gray had paid occasional visits with Jane, and more rarely with Mrs. Prior. Miss Gray had helped the family to receive visitors at home, and she had been treated by others as the Priors treated her--as it would have been an offence to them, if, when so doing, their neighbours had done otherwise--like any other young lady, not a governess, living at Redcot. The exception had been with the Lambert Crabtree’s. Free and easy as his manner was, caressing and bland as hers never failed to be, with her profuse general invitations, her ready offers of things which were not wanted, and her ‘dear Miss Gray’s,’ husband and wife, in their quite different lines, were neither of them by any means free from the vulgar vice of affability. And in their very carelessness the couple always indicated a line of demarcation, and showed that to them, though they might hail her familiarly or propose to pet her, as their varying humours moved them, Miss Gray was, after all, the governess at Redcot, no more and no less.

Miss Gray had grown up under the new light cast on those who rear the future women of England, but it might be that she had not always found the light set on a candlestick and not hid in a bushel, or else there was something in her relations to the Priors which stirred her to grateful affection. She had till now welcomed the occasional visiting in the happy, cordial spirit with which any other perfectly natural, well-balanced young woman more than content to work will keenly relish a little play. She had displayed the same lively interest in the Redcot neighbours, the same intuitive perception of their characters and histories that she had evinced with regard to the place itself and its surroundings. This sympathetic identification of herself with the Priors in reference to their home and their friends had been one of Bennet Gray’s crowning graces, especially in the eyes of Mrs. Prior, who, though retiring in her habits, was very friendly in her nature. But the identification broke down inexplicably when the invitation to Haybridge came on the _tapis_.

It was clear to any observer whose eyes were opened that Miss Gray’s instant instinct was to shrink from going to Mr. Crabtree’s, and that she was ready to urge any plea which might obviate the necessity. In ordinary circumstances an excuse on the ground of health would have been too glaringly preposterous. Bennet Gray, in spite of her studies, was like the most illiterate of hunting, shooting, fishing, racing, flirting-in-the-open-air, flirting-in-the-ballroom, dancing-till-break-of-day women. She was, like Miss Austen’s ‘Emma,’ or a milkmaid, ‘the picture of health.’ Bennet Gray was a glowing, rosy, loving-exercise, laughing-at-fatigue girl. An apology which would have been usually so broad a contradiction must have struck herself in that light, and shamed her ingenuity in this direction. Yet she had been so unlike herself, ill at ease and nervous since that encounter in the Kershaw class-room, that she might even have posed as an invalid without imposing too great a strain on the credulity of her audience.

But Bennet had not the courage, though she stuck to as piteously transparent _ruses_. She would be one too many in the phaeton--her presence must incommode Miss Prior. The little Woods would be happier away from her--Miss Gray--for a day. At least if they had grown so accustomed to her that her being there had ceased to be a restraint, their cousins, the small Crabtrees, would wish for her absence. Her company could not fail to be an intrusion when Mr. Crabtree had particularly invited Miss Prior to meet her sister, and the party was to be a family party. Mrs. Prior would be lonely left all day by herself, when Mr. Prior had so many engagements. At last the ominously numerous excuses resolved themselves into the desperate assertion that she--Bennet Gray--had nothing suitable to wear.

There was only one response. Jane maintained inflexibly that she would not be incommoded; on the contrary, there was plenty of room for Miss Gray in the phaeton. Tom or Sam could go on the box with the driver, the child would like nothing better, and the two other children could sit together perfectly well on the back seat. She would like Miss Gray’s company, of course, if she did not object to go on any other account--and here, to Jane’s dismay, her own voice took a perceptibly distant, aggrieved tone before she knew or could help it. She hastened to add that she would be glad of Miss Gray to help her with the children. She had nothing to say to Mrs. Crabtree which all the world might not hear. Mr. Crabtree’s invitation to Miss Gray was sufficient proof that the party was not limited to near relatives or family connections.

The children cried clamorously that Miss Gray must go and see Mr. Crabtree’s lambs and calves. Haybridge was far better than the Bank House, and they liked Mr. Crabtree ever so much more than they liked Uncle Lambert. Mr. Crabtree never plagued them, or if he did he made up for it by showing them things which they liked to see, and letting them do what they pleased, so long as the little boys were not rough to their sister, or did not quarrel, or trouble Aunt Jane. Aunt Susie would be there, and though she did not take much notice of them, when she did it was to praise them, to forbid their being contradicted, and to give them all the good things on the table. Aunt Susie was so pretty, and had such beautiful clothes, that Ally constantly got ideas for Anna Maria Constance’s wardrobe from her aunt’s toilet. Molly and Piers liked Mr. Crabtree and Haybridge also, and were not half so wild and given to wanting everything their own way as when they were at home.

Chubby Sam went so far as to say Haybridge would not be worth while without Miss Gray; and perhaps he and she might go in search of peacocks’ feathers instead of turkeys’ feathers, like Tom’s, for Mr. Crabtree kept peacocks. Or the couple might be so fortunate as to find the thrashing-mill going, for Mr. Crabtree’s mill did not stand always like their old thing, then he and she might stand and watch the corn running through.

If Miss Gray did not yield to these allurements, the obstacle was not to be found in Mrs. Prior. She held to it with smiling determination that nothing warranted her in keeping Miss Gray from making acquaintance with Haybridge. Mrs. Prior was partial enough to think that Miss Gray would not like it so well as Redcot. Still, almost every country place had its advantages; Haybridge was not without them; while Mr. Crabtree was a kind host as well as an excellent man. She herself had often enjoyed going over there, and her familiarity with the spot would render her the better able to appreciate what she hoped Miss Gray would tell her of first impressions. In the interval she would do very well with the quilt she had in hand, her book, and Tommy. ‘Oh, fie! Tommy, to yawn at the prospect.’ In fact, Tommy did more than yawn as an appropriate commentary on his mistress’s speech, and a symbol of the drowsy day in store for him, he proceeded to transform himself into an inverted curtainless four-post bed--lying on his broad back, with all his thick legs in the air. The performance caused great gratification to the children, who were alternately Tommy’s delight and his torment.

Then Mrs. Prior went out of her way, as it sounded to Bennet, to range herself on the side of the enemy, and gratuitously give an opinion which would have been agreeable to hear at any other time. Miss Gray need not trouble about dress; she always looked nice. That serge she was wearing would do capitally, if she did not grudge it, for sauntering about the fields and garden, being pulled about by the children, and sharing their dinner and high tea.

It was within a day of Thursday’s visit that Bennet’s last defence was thus placidly bowled over. And it was on the Wednesday afternoon that Jane Prior, going into the schoolroom, found Miss Gray so busy writing a letter that she was standing in her bonnet and jacket at the desk with her pen flying over the page. In the meantime Tom and Sam were building houses with a pile of lesson books, and Ally was dressing a reluctant kitten in some of Anna Maria Constance’s cast-off finery.

‘I am afraid you are too late with your letter, Miss Gray,’ said Jane, on the impulse of the moment, ‘the post-bag left ten minutes ago.’

‘Thanks for telling me,’ answered Bennet, not looking up, and hastily scribbling her signature, ‘but I mean to walk across to the post-office, and the children are coming with me. Run away, Ally, with Tom and Sam to Nursie, and get your hats and coats, or I shall not be able to wait for you.’

There was a little post-office at a toll-bar about a mile from Redcot, but the Priors’ letters rarely went there; they were sent direct to Newton. The walk to the post-office was not a favourite one. It was along a rough by-road full of miry ruts in early spring, within thin straggling hedgerows, dividing poor fields that had not been long brought in from a corner of Kershaw Moor. The landscape would present a dreary outlook under the watery sinking sun, which conveyed little or no warmth so late in the afternoon. The celandines and daisies which had been budding and bursting open in the morning would be either closed tightly again, or presenting a frost-bitten, pinched look to the approaching raw chill of the evening.

Miss Gray was allowing herself scanty time to reach Cross-Trees Post-Office and get back with the children before dusk. Hardly a moment after the thought had crossed Jane’s mind, she saw from the staircase window, which she was passing in order to go up to her room, Bennet Gray and the children going down the avenue, posting as for a wager, or on an errand of life and death, to traverse the unattractive road to and from Cross-Trees.

Jane Prior was not a martinet--a finicking intermeddler with those under her supervision. But she could not help asking herself where was the need of this hurry to the post-office at an ungenial hour by an unattractive road? Why could Miss Gray not send her letters, like other people, in the post-bag, which would carry them, without trouble on her part, to Newton? If her letter was not written in time, what important correspondence had she in which the delay of a single post was of vital consequence?

Jane told herself she had no business to ask this even of herself; it was no concern of hers. It was mean of her to speculate in this manner.

Still the knowledge remained that Jane was aware Miss Gray had no near relations. No doubt many women in her position seek to indemnify themselves for the absence of close domestic ties by a kind of artificial circle of complaisant acquaintances, with whom the solitary woman is ready to correspond on any or no pretext, deluding herself into the belief that she has as many friends as other women possess. But Miss Gray was not one of these women of many facile, spurious friendships, always in a state of active effervescence on paper. She had not found time in the course of her busy life to do more than make a few strong, lasting friendships. These were mostly among young women like herself, earning an honest, honourable independence, as Mat Crabtree had put it, making their way in the world. Or else the correspondents were the parents and guardians of these young women, who took a cordial, reflected interest in her. To them she was content, as she had told Jane, to write at the rate of once a month, or once in the three months, according to the degrees of intimacy.

Jane fought against such idle, unworthy suspicions, which had been making her unhappy of late; when in an inconceivably short time, as it seemed, little Alice Wood tapped at her aunt’s room door to tell her the walking party were back. They had come in to grandmamma’s afternoon tea.

‘Have you run the whole way, Ally?’ Jane was driven to inquire.

‘No, Aunt Jane, we only walked very fast not to be benighted. Miss Gray carried Sam over the rough bits. It was rather fun to make such haste. But Sam was very naughty. I don’t know that he quite deserves to go to Haybridge to-morrow,’ announced the little girl, who was disposed to be a strict disciplinarian to her younger brothers. ‘Do you know what he did? He had asked Miss Gray to let him put his hands into her muff, and when we were near the post-office he pulled out her letter and ran away with it, to put it into the slit, though it takes me to get up to the slit, Aunt Jane. Miss Gray was very angry, and frightened for her letter. I am sure if she had caught him she would have boxed his ears. But she started so quickly after him that she slipped in the mud. She might have broken her leg, you know, but she only dirtied her dress; and Sam let fall the letter, so it was in the dirt, and all in a mess too. The woman at the post-office came out of her house and picked up the letter before Miss Gray could reach it. And the woman said to Sam, “Little master, you never oughtn’t to play such tricks with letters.” So she looked at the outside of this one to see if the postman could read what was on it, after she had wiped off the dirt. Then she said it was all right, only no thanks to Sam; and she asked him what Mr. Crabtree, of Haybridge, would have done to him if he had not got his letter? I think Miss Gray had been writing to Mr. Crabtree to say we are all coming to-morrow--don’t you?--though she did not tell me or ask if we had any message. Now, was it not naughty of Sam, Aunt Jane?’

‘Yes, Ally; but you are naughty too to tell tales on Sam, and chatter so much,’ cried Jane. ‘Go away and ask Miss Gray to pour out tea for granny. I am not coming down.’

Jane could not face Miss Gray at once. She could not digest what she had heard in a moment. She must think it over, though the matter had come to her ears in an irregular manner, and as it was not bound to do, thanks to Ally.

Miss Gray writing to Mr. Crabtree! What could cause her to do such a thing? The child might be somehow mistaken, or the old woman might have misread the address. But that was unlikely, and if it had been so, surely Miss Gray, knowing that little pitchers have ears, would have corrected the mistake, and Ally, so ready with her tongue, would have repeated the correction, along with what had gone before it. No; there is such a thing as taking probabilities into account, and a logical mind can hardly avoid doing so.

Miss Gray had not written to Mr. Crabtree to say that though she had done her best not to accept his invitation she was to be at Haybridge with the others after all. Miss Gray, according to her own statement, had only seen Mr. Crabtree once in her life, and even if he was right and they had met before in Berkshire, they had not been introduced or spoken to each other--of that Jane was absolutely certain, she could never doubt Mat Crabtree’s perfect honesty. Did Miss Gray write to him before their next encounter to ask his forbearance--to beg him to refrain from the embarrassing discussion of north-country and south-country Grays, and from investigating further as he had seemed bent on doing the extraordinary case of resemblance which had come to light? Was her letter an appeal to his honour to preserve silence on such of her antecedents as she did not choose to make public? Strange as it sounded it looked alarmingly like it. Again, if this were so, why did Miss Gray select Mr. Crabtree for her confidant? Would it not have been franker, more womanly, more worthy of her in every way, if she had trusted her--Jane--who had been so willing to receive Miss Gray as a friend, and either told her all there was to tell, or else bidden Jane have faith in her friend? Jane knew in that case she would not have failed in faith, however it might have been tried; and then Miss Gray might have commissioned Jane to bespeak Mr. Crabtree’s consideration and good feeling to refer no more to what had impressed him; which he was not to mention.

Jane Prior felt wounded in the sisterly regard she had prized so highly. She was miserably uncomfortable in her straightforward character, with regard to the amount of secrecy and stratagem which she was forced to admit had come unexpectedly under her eyes. She could not help an undefined apprehension of some unheard-of painful result, when this mystery and manœuvring, so hateful and sickening to Jane, were in their cause and effect more completely exposed.