# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Harvest/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III.
George's prophecies prove as fallacious as those of most other people here on earth, and the night after his assurances of dirty weather the snow comes down, silently and delicately covering the face of the earth with a gleaming white mantle, that makes my eyes prick and burn with its exceeding purity, as I look out at it from the dining-room window. The postman is coming up the carriage drive. How slowly he walks, and what ugly marks he makes on our soilless, dazzling carpet! I do not watch him with any interest; for it is not a letter I am looking for now, but the sound of a step in the hall, the sound of a voice in my ear. Will they not be better a hundred-fold than a few hasty words on paper? And yet 1 should have loved to have a love-letter from him. I have flung all my foolish fears away in a bundle; smiles have crept back to my mouth, lightness to my footfall. Does Lot ​George say that Paul may come in any day, and would he like to find me pale and wretched-looking?
For the first time since he went away I have made myself look smart. I have put on the gown he liked me in best—Quaker grey, with crimson ribbons; and a cap which he liked too, though it never was straight when he was with me: and one day (we had both forgotten it) I gave Simpkins some orders with it perched rakishly on one side, and, alas! his breeding was not equal to the occasion, and he disgraced himself by a smile.
At present it is straight enough, but when he comes back——— I am laughing softly to myself, when Simpkins comes in, bringing my breakfast, the post-bag, and the Times.
There are two letters, one from Alice, one from Dolly, both for mother. I send them upstairs, and begin my breakfast. Then—for I have fallen into bad ways during my lonely morning meal, day after day—I open the paper, and proceed to look at the "Births, Marriages, and Deaths;" not that I know anybody who is likely to be married or dead, but because they interest me. Many a sad story is told here in three lines; many a bitter tragedy chronicled that moves me far more than the fictitious woes of an imaginary man and woman, whose misery lasts through the regulation three volumes of a novel.
"Nothing in the papers," folks cry, and perhaps they are right; there is nothing new. Newspapers are but a faithful transcript of human nature, with its vices, sins, faults, and follies, and human nature is pretty much the same to-day as it was yesterday, and will be to-morrow.
I glance through the agony column, and find it in my heart to smile at its fustian pathos. I wonder is it true that most of these heart-broken maunderings are signals from the greatest thieves in London to each other? My eye travelling downwards is caught by the announcement of the death of a Mrs. Waddell, who, after ​surviving her beloved spouse Thomas forty years, has gone to join him where he dwells, let us hope in comfort. Thomas must have been about making up his mind that she had gone somewhere else. A poor young wife of nineteen is dead, "passionately regretted." Another announcement says three little children, aged two, four, and six, respectively, are dead of scarlet fever, all within one short week. An elderly gentleman of ninety is "deeply lamented," and has R.I.P. placed at the end, though surely if any one deserves to rest in peace he does.
Turning to the births (for I am reading in a purposeless, desultory fashion), I see that Lady Fatacres has a daughter, and the Rev. James Poorman a son. I observe that most of the happy fathers are either clergymen or officers, and I wonder for the fiftieth time why Providence sends such an abundance of children to the men who can barely fill their own mouths, and withholds them altogether from those who could bring up a dozen handsomely and never feel the shoe pinch.
Now for the marriages. How jolly that first one looks—two sisters married on the same day to two brothers. Douglas marries Ruby, and Donald marries Violet. What a big wedding it must have made, and what fun the four young people will have when they meet (as I dare say they will) on their wedding tour! Rather awkward, though, if the sisters ever quarrel; there will be a scrimmage, husbands and wives, all of a lump. This one looks more sober: plain John James marries Eliza Ann, her name is Prodgers, his Trimmins. I can fancy that they make a very decorous couple, she in a grey satin gown, he in a brown coat and a blue stock, and that the festivities are more of a funereal than a jovial character. (I wonder what my wedding dress will be? It is odd, but I never thought of it till to-day. All things must be pretty much alike, though, on that day, when every woman who has a heart looks her worst.) Here is a male Brown married to a ​female Brown, which must have been very convenient in the matter of marking her clothes, though one would have thought that when she did change her name, she would take a prettier one. In that respect we have a great advantage over the other sex, who if they are born plain Higgins, Hodge, or Stubbs, must remain so to the end of their days, unless indeed they are guilty of the snobbery of being re-christened through the columns of the Times; while their sisters and daughters, if they are lucky or good-looking, may be metamorphozed by marriage into Fitz Jameses, Fortescues, Sutherlands, and the Lord knows what.
I wonder why a familiar word, lying before one in a newspaper always catches the eye so smartly, seeming to leap up into one's face. Thus, "Silverbridge," and the "Rev. Thomas Skipworth," look up at me in larger type, seemingly, than any of the other words. Who on earth could have been married in Silverbridge without my knowing it, or considered their admission into the holy state of matrimony sufficiently important to demand an advertisement of the same?
A scuffle in the court outside makes me turn my head. Larry and Walter are snowballing each other with admirable vigour and skill. No quarter is given or taken, and I watch them for some time with keen interest, remembering the days when Jack and I indulged in the same recreation, although we were not so fortunate in getting the court: we had to walk a mile or more before we got a nice quiet corner to shout in to our hearts' content. Presently they vanish in a whirlwind of snow and laughter, and I pick up my paper and sit down to read this marriage comfortably. It was near the Browns'. Here it is: "On the 16th inst., at the Parish Church, Silverbridge, ———shire, by the Rev. Thomas Skipworth, George Dalrymple Tempest, only son of Laurence Tempest, Esq., of the Chace, to Helen, third daughter of Colonel Adair, of the Manor House, Silverbridge, ———shire."
​Yes, there it is, word for word, line for line, and for a full minute I sit staring at the paper. The words are there, but my brain does not seem to be able to grasp their meaning; no, not even when my tongue repeats the announcement aloud, as though the sound of my voice might reassure and convince me. I am married, married! and here I give my head an impressive little nod, as much as to say, "You are a poor creature, Helen Adair, and you don't seem to know exactly what you are about: but one thing you may be sure of—you are married." I feel something like the old woman who left it to her little dog to decide whether she was herself or somebody else. The little dog decided against her; the paper decides against me. Here I sit, without the ghost of a wedding-ring on my finger, and yet I am George Tempest's wife; clearly there must be a slight hitch somewhere. My stiff hand relaxes, and the paper flutters to the ground. If it were only out of sight I might get my breath back, but with its respectable, commonplace front facing mine, how can I possibly treat it as a myth? I take my eyes away from it, and glance round the room. There is the breakfast-table: there are the canaries pecking at each other from contiguous cages: there is the old family Prayer-book, high and dry, among Blair's sermons, on the book-case; there is the cat asleep on the hearth-rug. It all looks familiar and real enough, but nevertheless I am asleep, and I know it, just as one may have a dream within a dream, and in the last one believe that one is awake. I lift my sleeve, and give my arm a good nipping, rousing pinch (not that people under the influence of bad dreams usually have the sense to bethink themselves of that homely remedy), and expect to see all my surroundings dissolve, but no, there they are still, and here am I, in a grey gown, not a robe de nuit. That I am broad awake there can be no reasonable doubt, and that the paper is a very evident fact there can be no doubt either. Oddly enough the first idea that now enters my head is, "What will the governor ​say?" The Times is read in New Zealand, I suppose; and a vision of his dumbfounded face, as he comes across the intelligence, tickles me into sudden laughter. I have heard of such tricks being played before, practical jokes people call them, but I never believed any one could do anything so foolish; where could be the good of it? Why did they do it, these other people? For fun? A sorrier jest, surely, neither man nor woman ever perpetrated. For mischief? It could not work any.
Let me try and think. I do not seem to be able to follow up any one thought. Did those other people ever do it not in senseless wantonness of folly, but to try and work a girl harm? When her lover was away from her, was it ever done that he might see the paper, and believe her false to him? He would only laugh at it it looks like a lie; he would know it is a lie. He would be angry at my name being coupled with George's, but of course he could not believe it. I wonder who wrote it? We have no friends we Adairs, to trouble themselves about our affairs, or play us tricks, and no enemies, that I know of, who hate us heartily enough to try and do us a mischief.
A thought suddenly strikes me: Silvia! And yet, why should she? How can this absurd ruse benefit her in any way? My being married to George, even if it were true, could bring her no nearer to Paul. And yet how can it be Silvia, who has never been here in her life? How does she know about George Tempest, or Mr. Skipworth, and all the names? The traitor must be some one in our midst.
Well, I must go and tell mother; and I have just reached the door, when it opens, and George comes in.
"Good morning!" I say, making him a courtesy. "And do you know that you are my bridegroom?"
But he does not smile: he looks very grave. He does not seem to see the joke in quite the same light that I do.
​"Nell," he says, quickly, "this is a very serious matter. Can you guess at all who is at the bottom of it?"
"Serious!" I echo. "Pray how can it be that? Some one has taken a most insolent liberty with our names; but serious———"
"Vasher will probably see it," says George, uneasily. "and———"
"I thought," I say, indignantly, "that you said he was sure to be on his way home—that he might walk in any minute. He may come this morning, even, and probably he won't see the paper until I show it to him!"
"I did think he was on his way back; I think so still," says George; "but supposing that he has been delayed, and he does see this announcement, of course he will believe it."
"You mean to say, George, that he would really suppose you and I had got married the minute his back was turned?"
"I don't know. Tell me, Nell, was Vasher ever in the least jealous of me? God knows he need not have been!" he adds, half to himself.
"Yes, he was," I say promptly; "and I always laughed at the idea!"
"Did you?"
There is a pause, in which my short, blessed span of one day's content slips away from me, and the old presentiments, doubts, and fears, creep upon me like living cruel shapes, grown rational by the sustenance of fact—for he has been gone nearly ten days, he has sent me no word of tidings, good or bad, since he set out; if he were alive and well and my own true lover, he would never have left me to watch and wait like this. God only knows what treachery has been worked between us. . . . Yes, I see it all now; it is Silvia's doing.
"Do you remember my telling you that he would never come back?" I say, trembling violently. "He never will!"
"Nonsense," says George, hastily. "In all probability he is on ​his way back; but in case he has been detained in Rome, I shall set out at once-or at least as soon as I can get off."
"You will go?" I ask, taking his hand between both mine. "Oh! George, but you will be too late. Something tells me that it is all over now. If you do find him, and he asks who did it all, tell him 'Silvia.'"
"Impossible!" exclaims George, starting. "Can she be such a wretch as that?"
"She loves him. Women will do a great deal to get a man they love, will they not?"
"Of a very different sort to you, dear. Will you give me Vasher's address?"
I write it down for him—yes, I can actually write—and in no hour of my life have I known the breathless agony that I know in this one.
"If he arrives here within the next three days you will telegraph to me, Nell?"
"Yes. And if you come back—if you both come back, I mean—when will it be?"
"I cannot be quite sure, but I should think about Christmas morning."
"Do not come back without him," I say, in my selfish misery; "only if he is dead you cannot bring him. . . . ."
"Only he is nothing of the kind," says George, cheerfully. "Keep up your spirits, dear, and put all these fancies out of your head. As to that Silvia, he's no more likely to fall in love with her than I am."
In another minute he is gone, and I am standing at the window looking after him as he strides over the snow. This is his departure: I wonder what will his return be?
As in a dream, I go and tell mother, hear her exclamations of horror and anger, read the letter she writes to the editor of the ​Times, asking by whose authority the advertisement was inserted, as in a dream, fetch my hat and jacket, and wander out over the fields and meadows, walkling stiffly and slowly through the deep snow-fall, on and on for miles and miles, my feet carrying me where they will. Why did I let him go without a warning? Why was I so mad as to leave him ignorant of Silvia's threats and vow to work him evil? For I know as surely as I am living that it is she who has done this thing. I was so confident, so sure, when he was with me it was so impossible to fear. I should have spoken when he went away. Did not my good angel call upon me to speak when I wished him good-bye? Supposing George has an accident on the road! supposing Paul is not at Rome when he gets there! Somehow I feel in my heart that any way he will get there too late. It was sure hand and a strong that struck that bold and open blow through the newspaper. That the same hand has reached him in Rome in some different way I cannot doubt. And Paul was always a little jealous of George. . . . But here I stand still to ask myself if it is likely that he will credit so monstrous a story. Granted that I had played him false, could I be so horribly quick in my treachery? Over hill and dale my feet leave their restless track; by frozen pool and ice-cold rill, by cheerful homestead and farm, through the wood and over the fir plantations I go, and the afternoon is closing in when I stand in my parlour and look up at the frosted trees overhead, and down the familiar walk, longing with an intensity of longing that shakes me like a leaf, to see him coming down the path to meet me, to hear the sound of his step on the snow. But not a sound comes to me—not even the faint chirp of a bird. There is not the ghostliest breath of air to ruffle the clear splendour of the boughs; nature is pulseless, voiceless, without heart, a great glittering shell that estranges and chills me. I cross the field of rye, that was so bare and brown a week ago, and reach home, tired in body, but ​with my misery as keen and vigorous as when I walked out with it in the morning hours. In the drawing-room I find mother, and standing before her with a perturbed countenance is Simpkins.
"You should have told me this before," she is saying, with an unusual severity in her voice; and I sit down idly wondering what that foolish old man has been doing now.
"I know it, ma'am," he stammers. "When I caught the young woman meddling with the post-bag, she said she only wanted to get out a letter of her own that she had written, but did not wish to have posted. I believed the story, ma'am, and did not tell you."
"What is all this about?" I ask. "Mother, who has been tampering with the post-bag?"
"Jane, the under-housemaid," says mother. "It seems she ran away from here this morning without a word, and Simpkins tells me that he caught her meddling———"
"She must have meddled with it more than once," I say, putting my hand to my head. Why did you not speak of this before? I cry, turning upon the man in a fury. "Do you know what you have done? Go out of my sight!"
He stares at me for a moment; then, as I stamp my foot, he turns and flees.
"Mother! mother!" I say, groping my way across the room to her. "I see it all now. He never got my letters; I never got his. That woman was Silvia's spy."
"Poor little daughter!" she says, and her tears fall fast and heavy on my uplifted face. If only I could weep!—if only this terrible tightness about my heart would relax!
"Mr. Skipworth," announces Simpkins, tremblingly, half an hour later; and I escape by one door as he enters by another. He has come to talk about my marriage, no doubt. In my present state of mind his voice would send me straight into Bedlam. I ​wonder, I say to myself, as I go wearily upstairs, why so many good and moral people irritate us so intensely? why we would rather be beaten by some hands than stroked by others? Their very virtues make us feel vicious, and their pious and proper sentiments impel us to flatly contradict every word they say. In my bedroom I stand looking out at the night, that seems to enwrap me like a cold, dark mantle, while the stars draw my soul up to them. I feel not so much a miserable, passionate, struggling speck of humanity, as a disembodied spirit that is wandering abroad, searching after, crying after, Paul, my darling—who will never be my lover any more.
All night long I lie awake, hearing ghostly steps coming up the carriage-drive, hearing ghostly hands beating against my window-pane—ghostly voices that whisper in my ear. My ears are strained to the faintest echo of sound in the world without. Shall I not hear him towards the morning coming lightly over the snow to tell me he has returned? I know that he is not dead, or he would have come to me in that supreme wrenching of soul from body, as I should go to him straight if I died to-night.
The morning breaks, grey and chill.
"How shall I bear it?" I cry aloud, as I sit up in my bed, and rock myself to and fro in my restless agony—"with all these long days and nights to live through before Christmas morning comes!"