# Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Harvest/Chapter 8

CHAPTER VIII.
It is a week since mother, sorely against her will, drove her fat grey ponies over to The Towers, and left cards for Mr. and Mrs. Vasher. For a week we have gone out every afternoon immediately after dinner, lest in the very plenitude of audacity she should elect to return the visit. We might have spared ourselves the trouble, however, for her chariot wheels have not turned in at our gates, and—somewhat to my surprise, I confess—I come to the conclusion that for once in her life her haughty spirit is abashed.
I am going to my pretty woodland this afternoon, alone as usual. Mother is in the village, Dolly invisible, and I am hunting for a basket to bring back my flowers in. Suddenly I bethink me of the one that contains mother's wools, and I cross the hall and enter the drawing-room to fetch it. What a noise those tiresome boys are making! I wish papa was not quite so conspicuous by his absence. It is no use to box their ears, I say to myself with a sigh: they are altogether past that. The wools have got entangled round the handle of the basket, and——— What is that noise in the distance? surely a bell rang? The door opens almost instantly, and Simpkins announces "Mrs. Vasher."
The room is a long one, and as she comes stepping across the space that lies between us I stand still, with my face turned toward her. When she is quite close to me she holds out her hand. I do not stir, but stand looking from her false face to her false hand, from her false hand back again to her face.
​"What!" I say, very low. "You dare offer an honest woman the hand of a forger? Has not even your varied experience taught you the gulf that lies between the two? You do my father's house far too much honour, madam. But, since you are here, I will ask your permission to retire."
As I pass her she lays her hand upon my skirts.
"You shall not go," she says quietly. "I came here to speak to you, and I will."
I cannot struggle with this woman, so I stand still perforce, scornful and silent, while she scans my face with an intentness that I can feel.
"You are very much altered," she says, slowly. "You are not very pretty now. What my husband saw in you I never could imagine."
In spite of my anger I break into a hearty joyous laugh.
"It is very strange, is it not? For you really are a far better looking woman, and yet he preferred me." Some wicked spirit ever waits on me, and informs me how best to irritate Silvia. Her eyes darken and flame under mine like those of a furious animal. I never saw so fair a face so apt at illustrating ugly passions. "If you have anything to say to me," I continue, contemptuously, "release me and say it; it won't trouble me."
For a moment she draws her breath hard, looks at me under her drawn brows, then releases me. "Perhaps you wonder at my coming here?" she asks, sinking into an easy chair.
"Very much," I answer, laconically. (What a nerve the woman has!)
"Your father made a great point of my coming. He does not know the relations that formerly subsisted between you and my husband, I think?"
"No, or your share in the matter. You would not have been ​admitted within his doors if he had. We are honest folk we Adairs."
"Indeed!" she says, with a faint sneer; "then deceit must be rechristened."
"Tell him your worst, madam; and to hear you talk about deceit is about as suitable as if the father of lies took to preaching morality. We know nothing here of such womanly accomplishments as spying, forgery, theft; in our part of the world we do not track men for years and marry them when they are mad. Our neighbourhood should be the better for containing a lady who is so great a proficient in all these branches of a woman's education."
"Don't call the means I made use of to reach my ends by such hard names," she says indifferently; "they served me well enough."
"Such ends as they are!" I say quietly; "and such a reward as they have brought you!"
"Yes," she says, with her old slow smile, the smile of my dream, "they have brought me all I wanted. I was his first love, and now I am his wife, and the mother of his son, and you were never anything but his—sweetheart."
"You were his first love," I say slowly—"true; and he cast you aside like a soiled glove when he found out your real nature, nor could you win him back, though you stooped to the dust to bring him. You are his wife—but did you become a wife in any commonly decent, honourable way? And you are the mother of his child. Yes. Does he love that child? Does he ever look upon him without remembering your immodesty, your perjury, your fraud? Trust me, Silvia, that innocent child will never be any link between you; rather is he a chain to drag you farther and farther away from the man you call husband."
"Yes," she says, deadly pale.
​(Have I touched her at last?)
"But, after all, I have conquered, I am Paul Vasher's wife, and you are only Helen Adair."
"Yes," I say, slowly, "only Helen Adair! but she has a pure heart, an unseared conscience, a fair name, and the entire perfect love of Paul Vasher in the past, in the present, and for ever."
An infinite content fills my voice as I speak, looking up, with happy eyes, at the blue vault of sky beyond us.
"I am husbandless, childless, lonely; but do you think I would change places with you?"
"Take care," she says, with a low wicked laughter lying under her sweet voice: "your good name, did you say? You are very proud and sure of yourself now; but take care, take care you don't lose it some day. All things come to him who waits, you know; and I could wait a long while to see your pride brought low."
"You judge others by yourself," I say, with contempt; "but I know that honour is of small account in your eyes. Here we set some small store by the commodity."
"Are you not afraid of meeting my husband again?" she asks, "It must be very hard upon you, poor thing!"
"We do not find it so, Madam."
"You have seen him?" she exclaims, thrown off her guard.
"Certainly. Is there anything so extraordinary in that?"
"Sooner or later you will burn your fingers," she says, rising.
"Thank you for your good advice," I say, taking up my basket with alacrity; "but I should say you wanted it all for yourself. You cannot be expected to understand me—or Paul."
"By the way," she says, looking in the glass at her own exquisite person, "how did you hear my husband is not proud of my son? Servants' gossip?"
​"No; I leave that to you. Have you your spy Jane at the Towers?"
"Yes; she is an excellent wretch. Well, I am going. I intended to see you, and I have done so. I'm glad to find your misfortunes have not broken your spirit. Tell your father I came," she says, from the door; "unless, indeed, you would wish to tell him the whole story."
I ring the bell, and she vanishes.
"Was ever such a woman?" I say to myself, as I sit down: "no shame, no fear, no conscience. No wonder Paul and I were like wax in her hands. Her words cut me like knives, again and again. Did I wince under them, I wonder? I think I touched her once or twice: I am sure I tried hard enough."
I pick up my basket, innocent cause of my being caught, and go out into the garden, my heart beating, my pulses throbbing. How that evil, lovely face brings back to my memory that night at Luttrell when, though I knew it not, such happiness lay before me. Now the warning is fulfilled, and my lot in life is fixed.
My adventures this afternoon are doomed to conclude in a somewhat ludicrous manner, for, in crossing the orchard, I find poor Dolly in a state of siege, standing on a pile of planks against the wall, whither she has been driven by our new and potent tyrant, the ram. He was installed in the orchard last Monday, and a very lively time we have had of it ever since; indeed, it would be hard to say why he is here at all, unless the abundant abrasions inflicted by his horns on the family legs and shins find favour in the governor's eyes. Not but what he comes in for his share, for the ram is no respecter of persons, and only yesterday did we all, from behind corners, indulge in the exquisite diversion of watching him dodge papa round a tree, the governor—to his credit be it spoken—coming off victorious, although with some slight loss of dignity.
​To-day it is Dolly's turn. The orchard being the universal high road to everywhere, we all have to cross it more or less often every day, and she, less spry than the rest of us, has evidently, after long and painful capers, returned to her present perch as a last refuge, while her pursuer, with a perseverance that speaks well for the intelligence of the genus mutton, has stretched himself out on the grass before her, leaving small hope of escape.
"Oh, Nell!" she exclaims, divided between wrath and tears, as I appear, "I have been up here more than an hour. I was beginning to think that I should be here till doomsday!"
"I'm coming," I say, approaching warily from the rear; for I have no notion of attracting Mr. Ram's delicate little attentions to my own defenceless legs.
"Can't you get him away?" cries Dolly, piteously.
Now, with the very best intentions in the world, it is pleasanter to see another person's knees buffeted than one's own; besides, I enjoyed the luxury no later than this morning, and I intend to make no efforts at assistance, save what are compatible with my own safety, so I answer somewhat faintly, "I'll try, Dolly," and hide myself carefully behind a tree.
This sneaking conduct does not at all meet Dolly's views, who, I know, wants to get me into the open, and then, while he is attacking me, make good her own escape. A nice little programme for her, but not quite so pleasant for me; so I think I will stay where I am.
"Well!" says Dolly, "I had no idea you were so mean! Now if you were up here———"
"Yes?" I say, with a sisterly wink, "just so. I say, Dolly! have you tried smiling at him?"
"Nonsense!" she says.
"Nevertheless," I say—
his position was very similar to yours, Dolly!"
Meanwhile the ram has discovered the new aspirant to honours, and is surveying me with attention, but he does not move; evidently his heart is set on Dolly. Emboldened by his apparent supineness, and wishful to do her a good turn, I leave the shelter of my tree, and advancing a few steps towards him, make a frightful face, and utter a loud and warlike Shoh! I don't go far though, for past experience has taught me the painful celerity with which the beast moves; so when he scrambles to his feet, and rushes at me, I have found time to interpose the stout body of an apple tree between his horns and my petticoats. He has an excellent notion of dodging, so have I, and we set to each other as diligently and indefatigably as, now and again, you may see two people who are going opposite ways do at a street corner, first seriously, then angrily, until both stop to burst out into hearty laughter. The ram does not laugh though he is far too much in earnest for that. He has only his horns and haunches, poor beast—with the former he defies mankind, with the latter he feeds it, and life is a very earnest matter with him indeed.
Meanwhile Dolly, perceiving the foe to be thus actively engaged, has several times debated the safety of descending from her perch, and at this moment elects to do so; but alas! wicked fate causes her to lose her footing, and sprawl full length on the grass, and in the twinkling of an eye, the ram has wheeled, rushed at her, and is rolling her over and over on the turf in a transport of buffets.
"Help!" cries Dolly.
"Help!" cry I, suffocated with inextinguishable laughter; and Dorley happily appearing at this juncture, the too-persevering ​mutton is beaten off, and Dolly, very green about the dress, tangled about the head, and sore generally, is hustled out of the way.
"I hope that brute will break somebody's legs soon!" says Dolly, in tears, as we go back to the house, by by-ways and short-cuts, fearful of meeting the governor, "he will never be got rid of—else—till he has committed murder!"