# The Frobishers/Chapter 14

AN OBSTINATE WOMAN
Joan Frobisher was warmly received at the parsonage by the rector and his wife, for with them she had ever been a prime favourite. Sibyll they endured and made allowances for; but Joan they loved.
She was in time for their early dinner, which had been postponed for half an hour on that day, so as to enable her to dine with them.
"You have left us in the dark; you disappeared into space without informing us whither you were going," said Mrs. Barker. "Now tell us everything about your doings and where you have been, for you know how deeply and warmly we are interested in you. We spent an infinity of trouble and much time over the postmark this morning, when your letter reached us. The rector got out his magnifying glass—he looked, I looked, so did Mr. Prendergast and Sibyll, but failed to make out anything."
"Joan," said the younger of the sisters, striking in before the other could answer, "Joan has been engaged scouring the country in quest of a house, and has at length discovered one near the moors, that she thinks will suit us."
"Where? Which moors? What is the name of the parish?" asked the rector.
"That is, unfortunately, what I am obliged to leave you in ignorance about," said Joan.
"You see," put in Sibyll, "till we are established in our new quarters, and till I know that the air and the neighbourhood will agree with me, we do not wish to be regarded as permanently settled."
"And," added Joan, "we desire to be very, very quiet this winter."
"That could not well happen," said Sibyll, "if it were known where we were. Our many friends about Pendabury are certain to have relations and acquaintances in that part, and would impress on them the obligation to call on us. So Joan and I have put our heads together, and have agreed to keep dark as to where we shall perch, till we have quite made up our minds to nest there."
"Well, you know best," said Mrs. Barker. "But consider that everyone will be inquiring about you, and that of us; and it seems strange, and it will be embarrassing to have to reply to querists that we do not know where you are. Ask people will, for you are general favourites, and much sympathy has been felt for you."
"Dear Mrs. Barker," said Joan, "none can appreciate this sympathy more than do my sister and myself. We have undergone a great shock—the sudden death of our father—and before we had recovered from that, there came a second—the loss of all that he had laid by for our maintenance in comfort. We have been called upon to quit our old home, to break old ties, relax old associations, and we need quiet in which to fit ourselves to our altered circumstances, and form our habits to the new mode of life to which Providence calls us. Put yourself in our place. When you have received a stunning blow, is it not the best of all medicines to be left absolutely undisturbed?"
"I daresay that you are right," said the rector, "but you will be beset by inquirers so long as you are here. Every old tenant on the estate, every poor cottager in the parish, will ask, 'Well, miss, and where to be you going?' You will find it a hard matter to put them off."
"But, Mr. Barker, I do not propose to remain here and trespass on your hospitality more than three nights—allowing myself just sufficient time to run round and say good-bye to our village friends. I shall manage somehow to put them off as to our destination. Their acquaintance with geography is not so extensive but that it will enable me to puzzle them."
Both the rector and his wife exclaimed against so early a departure, but Joan persisted in her determination.
"I have taken a cottage and furnished it," she said, "and have left it vacant."
"But have you not engaged a servant?" asked Sibylla, somewhat taken aback.
"If I had I could not have left her alone. But I have not; and so, as my house is empty and all my new things are unprotected, I must return as soon as I possibly can."
"Now, look here," said the rector, "we give you till March as a close season; after that we shall insist on knowing where you are, and as you hinted the moors, I have no doubt there are trout-streams near you. I will then insist on looking you up, and provide you with a dish of silver trout. Bless me! The moors! What a place for bee-keeping. You must let me rig you up a row of patent hives."
After the early dinner, leaving her sister to pack up her clothes and small treasures, Joan started for the home farm, to see Mrs. Truslove, and to order from her twelve pounds of butter, to be packed, each pound separately, but all together in one hamper.
The shortest, cleanest, and most pleasant way to the farms was through the park, but Joan purposely did not select this. She preferred to take the more circuitous high road, that for a portion of the way skirted the grounds of Pendabury. The chosen road was not a little dirty, and where not dirty was stony, as the road makers had been spreading tracts of broken metalling, at that time of the year most suitable for being worked into the bed of the highway.
Mrs. Truslove, of the farm, was very pleased to see Joan, and detained her some time talking over old times, and expressing her desire to know where the young ladies intended to settle, as also, that they should remember and have their butter from her.
She was a warm-hearted woman, but behind all feeling for those who were leaving lurked anxiety lest the new squire should not consume as much butter and milk and cream as had the old household. Folk did say he had a house near Lichfield, and that he would spend most of his time there; and if Pendabury were to be shut up, it would be a bad thing for the tenant of the home farm. Finally, Joan got away, and Mrs. Truslove undertook to send to the rectory the butter that was ordered, the evening before Joan's departure.
Barely had Joan left the farm before she encountered Hector Beaudessart issuing from the gates of the park, apparently on his way to the farm she had just quitted.
At once he saluted, and that with warmth.
Seeing that she was about to turn down the road, he threw open the gate to Pendabury grounds and said—
"No, indeed, Miss Frobisher, you are not to be allowed to wade in red mud, or turn your ankles on the stones. I know that you intend returning to the rectory, and, with your permission, I will accompany you part of the way thither, over the dry and gravelled path through the grounds. I passed you this morning, and have been wishing and purposing to speak with you a few words. Are you at leisure to listen to them now?"
"You are very kind," said Joan, "and, as you see, I am disengaged."
She could not without ungraciousness refuse the civility. If he were intent on making to her some communication, it would be as well to have it over at once, and not remain in suspense herself and force him to call at the parsonage. She accordingly passed through the gateway with a slight bow. He stood aside and then followed, and came up with her.
They walked side by side for some little way in silence, he apparently labouring with diffidence, and she wondering what he was about to say. Presently she broke silence with a question.
"Is your mother with you at the Hall?"
"Not yet," he replied; "she is still at Rosewood, and my sister Julie is now leaving. When she is gone, then I suppose my mother will come here. I ride over about every alternate day to see after matters that require to be attended to. I suspect my mother will remove from Rosewood next Saturday, and this brings me to the matter upon which I desire to consult you. We have taken Rosewood for a term of seven years at least, and it hangs upon our hands. It is really a sweet spot, commands a lovely view, stands high, and faces the sun. My dear mother has had the garden well stocked, and the house is fully furnished. Indeed, in it are new plate, china, and linen, everything requisite—and we require none of these things, as there is abundance of all that can be wanted at Pendabury. My mother and Julie have been talking the matter over, and to be plain with you, we are embarrassed what to do with Rosewood. I am commissioned to approach you with a petition, and to supplicate that you and your sister will do us the favour of occupying it. I know that we deserve nothing at your hands—but we have heard enough of you to know that you are charitable. In our dilemma we appeal to that quality for which you are famous in these parts, to extricate us from our difficulties. We do not wish to let the house; at this time of the year it would not be easy to find a tenant, and we do not relish leaving all our new and pretty furniture to be mildewed and moth-eaten. Will you go to Rosewood? There is more," he added hastily, as he saw she was about to speak, and from the look of her face judged that she was about to decline his offer. "There are at Rosewood a cob and a light carriage, harness—everything, in fact, is new, and harness is an article that rapidly deteriorates unless kept in constant use. We shall be forced to retain a man at Rosewood to look to the garden and the cob, whether the latter be employed or not. These also are entirely at your service; and Rosewood is only nine miles from Pendabury, so that your friends will be round you."
"I thank you," said Joan, with a flutter in her voice, for she felt the sincere kindness that prompted the offer, and saw through the excuses that were made to disguise its kindness. "Pray tell your dear mother that I feel her thought for us, and feel it deeply; but I have already rented and furnished a house, suitable for my sister and myself, and made all arrangements for going into it in a couple of days."
"Is it far from this place?"
"Some way."
"In that case you will feel lonely away from your old friends and neighbours."
"That happens to be precisely what my sister and I desire. We do not mean this to be taken as though we were ungrateful for many kindnesses shown us, and as if we had become acrimonious spinsters, snarling at the world, and misinterpreting every courtesy shown us. Far from that—our purpose is to be quiet, and keep to ourselves for a while. We have undergone a sharp trial, and wish to retire till our wounds are healed, away from scenes that remind us of a happy past and keep alive the sense of pain."
"Must it be so indeed?" said the young man, turning his troubled face toward her. "May I return to the charge, and put the matter in another light? On entering and occupying Pendabury we shall labour under a cloud of prejudice. The whole neighbourhood will resent our intrusion and your displacement. You they have loved and admired, and have regarded as the choicest ornament of their district. Pendabury without you or your sister will be placed under taboo. You see, we are selfish people, considering in all this our own convenience, is it really so—that you are inflexible in your determination? Will not you come—one at a time, or, better still, both—and stay with my mother at Pendabury? You shall have your old rooms just as you left them, and your old lady's maid to attend on you; and, with you there, the world of South Staffordshire will witness that we are on good terms, and for your sakes will have mercy upon us strangers and Colonials."
"You put your request in such a way as to make it very difficult for me to refuse. But as I said, we have taken our house. Both cannot abandon it—we should be in the same plight with regard to it as you profess to be about Rosewood; and I am sure you would not like to have one sister eat her heart out in solitude if you carried off the other. I thank your mother, and fully appreciate her goodness, but I cannot accept."
"Well, then," said Hector, with an exclamation of impatience, "if you will not help us, will you graciously allow us to help you?"
"In what way?"
"You are going to a new place, among strangers. You are starting without any man or woman of experience and suitable age to assist you. Is it not so? Difficulties you will meet with, and will not know how to surmount them, and you may become a prey to the designing and selfish. I do entreat you, let Julie accompany you, and place herself at your disposal, for a while. She knows much of the world, and would be invaluable."
"I have settled everything," answered Joan. "As to Julie—if I actually need her, I have only to write, 'Come over and help us,' and she will be with me. She put her hand into mine and promised to answer such an appeal."
"You will not suffer us to do more?"
"Thank you—nothing."
"Upon my word, Miss Frobisher, you are without exception the most obstinate woman I have met in my life. Julie is self-willed—but you are self-will sublimated to an essence."
"You would say that I am ungracious. That I may not be esteemed utterly obstinate in your sight, I will accept of one thing from you—a large hamper of holly with berries. Send it to the station I will designate, to be left till called for, in the week before Christmas. I will manage to have it fetched thence.'
Is that really all?"
"All."