# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Harvest/Chapter 11

CHAPTER XI.
"George!" I say, in a muffled voice.
"Yes!" he answers in another.
"Supposing somebody comes and sits down on us?"
"A little more or less could not make much difference?"
"I wish we had not let them do it. Does not your nose tickle horribly?"
"Rather. That's your fifteenth sneeze, Nell."
"Yes, you ought to condole with me over them, as the ancients did with each other when they were convulsed in like manner."
"I would if it prevented the repetition."
"I wonder when Dolly and Basan will come back. Supposing they forget us altogether?"
"We should become meat for pitchforks."
George and I have the use of our ears, but of our faculties not at all; although we are out in a field in broad daylight, we cannot see an inch beyond our noses, and nobody can see us, unless indeed the two mounds that represent us may be supposed to give some grotesque outlines of our shapes. In point of fact we are snugly buried in the hay, Dolly and Basan having officiated as sextons, and we are weighed down almost as securely as though solid earth, and not heaps of dried grass, were piled above us. Hay by the handful is one thing, hay in the lump is another; and with our arms and legs laid out straight and flat, and an unlimited quantity of the material heaped upon us, we can move about as easily as though we were in a vice. Not to kill us, however, by too much cherishing, they have put a light covering over our faces, so that, ​full as our eyes, noses, and mouths are with the pricking, irritating hay-dust, we are still able to draw breath and make ourselves heard.
In the distance are faintly audible the shouts of the hay-makers and the voices of the maid-servants, with which latter this period appears to be one of flirtation and pleasure; shaking grass at the men's heels seeming to please them infinitely better than shaking carpets in each other's faces.
"It is not very comfortable," says George, "but I am glad weare buried, because I shall be able to talk to you."
"If you are going to take advantage of my not being able to run away from you, to say things I don't want to hear," I say, with a dignity that is much marred by a tremendous sneeze in its middle, "I consider it mean of you."
"I don't think I have bothered you much lately," he says, and through all the hay his voice has a hurt ring in it.
"Indeed you have not," I say, compunctiously; and indeed, since I gave him a certain answer to a certain question, asked doubtfully a year ago, he has not troubled me with one word of love, entreaty, or anything else but real friendliness; "only you have looked so sober lately, George, as though you were going to read me a lecture———"
"Would it do you any good if I did?"
"I don't know. One thing I can tell you though, you will never get a better chance of making me listen to you than you have now."
There is a pause and a faint windy murmur; I think George is sighing.
"Nell," he says presently, and something in his voice informs me that he is going to disburthen himself of the matter that has been oppressing him lately, "I wish you would not have anything to do with Mrs. Vasher."
​"I can't help it; I promised, you know."
"It was a great pity."
"I think so too. But supposing you had an enemy whom you believed to be dying, and he asked your forgiveness—wretched, cast down, broken, punished heavily of God—would you refuse your tithe of mercy?"
"If I was quite sure that he meant dying I might, but I don't think it's very likely. Like Dolly, I am a good hater. If any man had behaved to me as that woman behaved to you, I should hate him as long as I had a kick left in me. Besides, she is well enough."
"She is not; she may die at any minute, and that was why I forgave her" ("and for Wattie's sake," I add to myself).
"Creaking doors hang longest," says George, sceptically. "There's nothing like a bad complaint to go upon for a long lease of life. She may outlive us all."
"I wonder if you and I will live to be very old," I say, thoughtfully. "How droll it would be if you were a dried-up old bachelor at The Chace, I a dried-up old maid at the Manor House. You would be able to come and see me every evening, and we could play double dummy whist, or draughts, if we were weak in our heads. It would be quite proper for you to come when we are both seventy or thereabouts. We shall wear spectacles, of course, but I do hope that never, never shall we stoop to the degrading practice of taking snuff."
"Don't be premature," says George. "You may love it when you come to that age."
"Don't be nasty! And we shall go to church every Sunday in Bath chairs, as grandpapa and grandmamma did, side by side, only they went so slowly; we will run races. Perhaps we shall live to an enormous age and be put in the Lancet as 'cases.'"
"I hope not," says George, with a vague rustle of hay that sounds ​like shuddering. "The gradual decay, the loss first of one sense then another, the tastelessness and weariness of everything, the incessant craving for rest must be terrible. . . . . I would die swiftly, at my best, with my powers in full vigour, be remembered, not dawdle out of existence to the tune of folks' pity; so that when I really went I should be missed. . . . The liveliest sensation one should experience on hearing of the death of a man should be that you are violently shocked—grief should follow in due course."
"I think it would be very selfish of you if you died before me," say, foolishly enough, "for if there is anything I should hate, it would be to leave nobody behind to make a great howl over me. All my brothers and sisters would be married, of course, and have their own selves and families to weep about. It must be unpleasant to live so long that people think it rather indecent of you to be so long about saying good-bye, must it not?"
"Very. I don't think you and I will ever sit down to double dummy whist though, Nell. I don't mean to rust all my life out here; I mean to try to do something, be somebody."
"'Be good, my child, and let who will be clever,'" I quote; "though if you do succeed in doing anything remarkable, which I doubt, you must run back to Silverbridge and tell me all about it, for oh, I shall find it so dull here!"
"Well," says George, "you have more spirit than any girl I ever saw or heard of. Here you are, at the age of twenty-two, making up your mind calmly to a long life in this wretched little village, with nothing to break the monotony of it, save the deaths and marriages in your family. I tell you it's monstrous, Nell, and you'll never do it."
"I don't know what all the other young women do who have been crossed in love, and aren't lucky enough to catch a fever or be run over by a postchaise or a railway train; they must live somewhere, must they not? And one place is as good to live in ​as another. And I have memory too; if I can't look forward I can look back, and Wattie will be growing older every year, you know."
"Good Heavens!" he bursts out, "and that is the life you promise yourself?"
Here he breaks off, and indistinct mutterings follow, that the hay does not faithfully transmit.
"If you loved him as I do———" I begin, but a succession of violent sneezes completes the sentence.
A rather loud mutter from George seems to announce the fact that he "can't understand" something.
Presently—"Nell!"
"Yes."
"You and I never talk about Paul Vasher."
"No."
"But I want to talk to you about him now—may I?"
I do not answer for a moment, it is like stabbing a fresh wound to speak of him to any one who knows; but George was so good to me in that terrible time years ago . . so good.
"Yes, you may—only say it as quickly as you can, George."
"Then, Nell, can you tell me why he ever came back?"
"Surely he had a right to come if he chose?"
"I don't think he ought to have done it."
"If I do not mind it I think you need not," I say, proudly; a man may be permitted to manage his own affairs, may he not?"
Having made this speech, I instantly repent me of it, as is so often the way with us foolish women. If only we could learn to think first and speak after! . . .
"I did not mean that, George. I know you only say it for my good . . . but why should he not come back?"
​"Because you love each other far too well," says George, sadly; "because you ought never to have met again, never."
"Are you afraid for me?" I ask, so low that surely his ears cannot catch my words, while the blood leaps into my cheeks like a living thing and shames me.
"Not exactly afraid, Nell—but both you and he have had more laid upon your shoulders than mortals can well bear, and—be angry with me if you will, but I must dare to speak the truth—there is danger," he says, slowly and reluctantly. If it is bitter to me to listen, it is bitterer still to him to speak.
"Do you think," I say, trembling under all the weight that binds me down," that we are so sinful, so weak, so worthless? Do you think that I ever for one moment forget that he is another woman's husband?"
"I know you do not," says George, "your behaviour has always been perfect; but can you tell me from the bottom of your heart that the mere sound of his voice, the merest chance look at his face, is not the greatest good this world contains for you? True, you never forget he is another woman's husband, but do you ever forget that he was once your lover—that he is your lover still?"
He pauses a moment; but I do not answer, and he goes on—
"Can any one help seeing that you are his idol, the very core of his heart; that his eyes follow your every movement and step, his ears wait on your every word; that he breaks off in the midst of a conversation if you speak, and loses himself in what you are saying?"
"And do you know," I say, slowly, "that since he came back, three months ago, we have not so much as touched each other's hands?"
"It would be far better if you did," says George, with an impatient sigh—"far better if you could, I mean. It is dangerous ​work, Nell; you are walking on thin ice—some day he will break down, and then———"
'Hush!" I say, pale as death; "do you know what it is that you are saying—do you know that he loves me? You do not know Paul, or me. We might meet each other for years and years, just as we do now, content with having a glimpse of each other now and then (I don't deny that it is my greatest happiness on earth to see him, to hear his voice; it is sinful, I dare say, but it is human nature), and never ask, never dream, of being any more to each other—how can we ever be anything to each other all our life long? And if this one consolation were taken from me, if I never saw his face . . . I could not bear my life. Paul! . . . Paul! . . . and that is why I love the child so passionately. . . . I may not give a sign of the love I bear the father, there is no sin in loving the child. When Paul came back, George, I was afraid, just as you are now; I seemed to see all the danger of our meeting . . . and I tried so hard to make myself cold, indifferent, uncaring; but I could not—only after the first meeting was over, I found it so much more easy than I had thought it would be . . . and I gradually got to feel quite safe; and now, do you know, that I am not afraid of seeing him, I am almost happy sometimes."
'Happy!" cries George, with a deep, strong urgency in his voice, "ay! as happy as the man who lies down in the snow and, abandoning himself to the exquisite slumber that creeps over him, perishes miserably. . . . Far better and more wholesome for you were your keen sharp fears, your consciousness of danger, than your present easy sense of security."
"George!" I say, sharply and suddenly, "what is it that you are afraid of—what do you mean?"
There is the silence of a few seconds; brave man, true friend ​that he is, he pauses before he speaks words that may never be forgiven him.
"I fear," he says, slowly, "that some day this existence will become so intolerable, that his love for you will break all bounds . . . and he will ask you to go away with him."
Dead silence.
"And this is your opinion of my true lover?" I ask; "and do you think I should go with him, pray?"
He does not answer.
"Oh, heavens!" I cry, with a tearless sob, "that I should have fallen so low as for you to think this of me!"
"Have I thought it?" he cries, swiftly. "God knows that in my eyes you are the most innocent of His creatures; but, Nell. . . Nell, are you so strong, is he so strong, that you should fare better than many a woman as fair and pure and proud as you? I don't speak to you in fear, but in warning. I am your brother now—I have taken care of you for a long while past, and if ever any words of mine will keep you from sorrow, I will speak them, though you grow to hate me for speaking them to you."
There is a long silence; then I say—
"George, I thank you."
"God bless you, darling!" he says, so impulsively, that he seems to be flying straight through the impedimenta of hay that divided us; "you are as plucky as you are good—not one woman in a thousand would take it as beautifully as you have done."
"George!"
"Yes, dear."
"I don't think there was ever any fear—not much. But I had never thought of such a thing, never; and, perhaps, if it had really come to that dreadful pass, I should have been so astonished—I might have lost my head and done something wicked . . . but I ​don't think I should. However, there is no fear now. . . . Are you always to be doing me good, dear, and am I never to do you any?"
"You have done me good all my life," he says, heartily; "you have been the one flower to brighten my dull grey garden."
A bitter, bitter pain runs through my heart at his words; is it not hard for him, hard? There he is, free and young, loving me; here am I, free and young, living somebody else, who is not free to love me. Oh! why cannot I pluck that other love out of my heart, and putting my hand in his, make his imperfect, spoiled life a completed, happy one? And I cannot.
"Nell," he says, presently, "do you remember how I have always warned you against Mrs. Vasher—after she tried to make friends with you, I mean?"
"I remember."
"Well, she has been a worse enemy to you lately than she ever was before; and that is saying a good deal."
"How can she be that?" I ask, startled; "surely there is no other misfortune left for her to work me?"
"She has tried, Nell. If ever a woman put another in the way of temptation, Mrs. Vasher has tried to put you. Not an opportunity does she ever miss of bringing you and her husband together; over and over again I have watched her manoeuvres to have you alone, and smiled at the unconscious way in which you have foiled her—she has been acting a black and wicked part to you both, though neither of you knew it."
"Let me think," I say, slowly; "yes, I remember now. Rarely as I have been to The Towers, she has always contrived some excuse for sending us off together. . . . But what should she do it for—what object could she have had?"
"God knows! To take your good name, perhaps."
"Yes," I say, recalling her evil threat three months ago, that "she would have my good name, too." "But I can't believe it. ​George—I did not know any woman living could be as bad as that."
"You remember the day of the garden party at The Towers, when she took us into her rose garden?"
"Yes."
"She hurried me away with her, leaving you and Vasher there alone, and when we got back to the lawn she got rid of me cavalierly enough, and I lost sight of her. I should have liked to go back and fetch you, but I was not sure that you would not consider it an interference, so I walked up and down in the outer garden leading to where you were, the two being divided by a thick clump of trees. Any one inside these trees could see what was going on in the rose garden, but not from where I was, and as I strolled past I saw a bit of pale yellow silk, about the size of a shilling, shining through the thick leaves, and it told me that Madam Silvia was hidden inside, watching you."
"And you really believe that she means me evil?"
"I am sure of it."
"But what harm can she do me?" I ask, persistently. "I don't see how she can do any more."
"Shall I tell you?" asks George, hesitating.
"Yes."
"She would lead you and her husband into evil, she would shame you to the dust: she could half forgive you for being the girl Paul Vasher has loved so long and faithfully, if she could degrade you in his eyes and your own. . . ."
"And this is the woman I forgave!" I say, below my breath; "this is the mother of my little angel Wattie! You were right, George, to say I was like a man who has been asleep in the snow . . . I have been asleep, but I am broad awake now. When do the Vashers go away?"
"The middle of July."
​"When they come back," I say, slowly, "I will go away to Alice or Jack. . . . I will never meet Paul again of my own free will. George! George! how shall I ever get through my life without a sight of him now and then?"
He does not answer, for what can he say? Real comfort he has none to give me, false he will not offer, so he says nothing.
"I am afraid you will be very lonely in August, Nell," he says, presently; "everybody seems to be going away but you."
"I do not mind. It seems so odd papa's going to Scotland with you; he has not been anywhere since he came back from New Zealand."
"No. Dolly and your mother are going to the Lovelaces', are they not?"
"Yes; and I am to keep house here. What a muddle it will be! I wish Jack were coming home for August, not September."
"Ah! you'll not speak to me when he is here."
"Wait and see."
"They're not dead," says Basan's voice, sounding immediately over our bodies, "for I heard one of them speak."
"We forgot all about you!" says Dolly's fresh voice, with some dismay in it, as she, too, leans over our mounds. "The fact is, we have been eating strawberries, and it does pass the time so quickly."
And, alas! when we are disinterred, and sit up on end, thirsty, scratched, blinking, dishevelled, with our heads stuck as full of wisps of hay as a pin-cushion is full of pins, we find that Dolly and Basan have, with a greediness that has no parallel in these modern times, very literally confined their attention to eating them, for they have not brought one berry with which to cool our parched, and dry, and dusty throats.