THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1748, 6 September 1905, Page 9

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL

(By K. S. MacQuoid, in Glasgow “Weekly Herald.”) I. Outside the air v-as full of raw mist, though it was that strange mildness so frequent in November; this year, however, St. Martin’s summer had come without, the sunshine we have learnt to expect with it. Michael Moss, tall, sunburnt, and healthy-looking, stood with his tack to the hearth on which logs blazed on the old-fashioned andirons. The long room, always dark at this end from its low ceiling crossed by heavy oak beams, and its oak-panelled walls, would have been gloomy this morning hut for the fire which seemed brighter by contrast; Michael’s face, too. was from the same cause, ruddier than usual, as the fire lit up its pleasant features and the chestnut-brown curly liair. “No use, no use, grannie, I’m a confirmed bachelor, and your friend, Miss Molly, would laugh at me, as she laughs at everything ; she always has laughed at every man, since I can remember her. Bless you ! she’s happy enough by herself ; she don’t want a man to disturb her life and rob her of her freedom. I hear she says that when she’s talked to about marrying.” Michael looked severe, and he went out abruptly into the raw mist, without a backward glance. He was glad to end the subject. Mrs Moss had come to spend the winter with her grandson at the Garth. The picturesque old place had come unexpectedly to him while he was away in South Africa; on. his return, he had asked her to come and help him in hisnew position. The bent, fragile old woman sighed as her eyes wandered round the room. “A cosy home for any one,” she thought, “for her above all, used as she is to gentle ways and cultivated taste®. Michael throws away his chances.” She looked at the dark walls. Several of the panels were in linen-fold carving; on her left a broad lecess was filled with books; beside the chimney breast on the right was a much deeper nook, lighted by a small painted window, with a shelf round it; this held some rare German glass, and some hits of blue and white china. These and other like tokens reminded the gazer that Garth had been a manorhouse till it came to its last owner, Mr Standen. A tap at the dcor, then in came a rather tall, slender woman, brown and supple in movement as a gipsy; dark eyes and red, curving lips smiled cheerfully, as she nodded her greeting to M-rs Moss. ~ “I made sure you were alone, and you said I might announce myself,” she laughed cheerily. “I believe you have stayed in all day Too bad of you, when you’re so proud of our air ; you’ll not go back any better for it, sitting all alone while you knit those stockings! I know what’ll do you good; come out for a walk with me. I’ll bring you hack with a colour like a rose in spite of the mist. Dbes not” —she hesitated before the name—“Mr Michael Moss take you out walking?” There was a twinkle in grannie’s eyes, set deeply in their dark hollows. “My grandson’s a busy man, Miss Molly; maybe my pace would not match with his.” j Miss Molly did not see the twinkle; she was taking down from a peg in tile garden porch grannie’s cloak and hood. ! “LoE love ye, Mrs Moss” —she did not look fully at the old woman—“lie’s a man, and that means he has only room in his thoughts for self. Self fills a man’s view—it leaves no space for a thought of others.” , The old woman sighed as she fastened Her hood. “ ’Tis but our third meeting,” she said timidly, as if the shortness of

acquaintance did not warrant her ou6* spokenness; “yet I feel as if I’d knowit you for years. I think you’re far tod blythe and bonnie to use hitter words. Now and again I’ve thought you had a special grudge against some man, but you are hard on all of them.” Miss Marsh seemed vexed, her colour deepened, and her lip had a scornful curl. “ ‘lf Youth only knew, if Age only could’—a wise old saw enough; but I’m neither young nor old, so it doesn’t touch me. As to the men you set value on, I wish other women were as free as I am.” “As you think you are.” A sudden light in her visitor’s dark ayes warned grannie. ” i Miss Marsh opened the outer door, and they set forth together. The older woman stumbled as she stepped from the garden into th© road. Molly’s strong arm caught her and saved her from a fall. Perhaps the longing to protect and help, innate in some women, towards feebler creatures, made laughing, mocking Molly feel tenderly for her companion. “Why did you not come here before ?’* Mrs Moss stared; a deeper meaning than they conveyed sounded in the girl’s words. The sunken eyes and thin “lips smiled very sweetly as Mrs Moss answered—• “I had no one to come to. Till a few months ago Michael was soldiering in South Africa.” “Is he your only grandson?” .‘Yes; and I did not know him when he was younger. My son and his wife lived far away.” “But Mr Michael came here years ago.” Her defiant tone caught Mrs Moss’s attention. “Were you here at the time? A short silence; then the answer came hurriedly—“Oh, yes; he was here before I came home from school.” Mis 9 Molly became suddenly voluble as to the price of land per acre, the bad potato crop, and the terribly long time the fowls had been moulting. ' At last she paused. “Michael was not farming his own land it those days,” Mrs Moss said; “he worked for his godfather, Mr Standen. I dont’ know how it came about, but I heard he had taken a dislike to Brigden ; perhaps”—with a keen, inquiring look—“he met with a disappointment there. My next news of Michael came in a letter from the front. Some time after that some one said that he had quarrelled with his godfather, so we were surprised when Mr Standen died to learn that he’d willed the place and every thing else to Michael.” -Molly was silent; grannie felt impatient. “He’ll have to marry,” she said, gravely. “I have home ties, and must leave him before 'Christmas. Michael can’t live alone; he wants a wife, a bright companion who will amuse him.” “Then there’s no help for the pool* man.” Molly laughed merrily. “Plenty of girls are always ready to be made slaves of. The silly creatures think they catch prizes; they can’t see they are giving up all that’s worth living for—l mean freedom.” The Garth stood far back in its big garden, just beyond the village. The yellow road went down, and as the trees behind the hedgerow grew larger, till they almost met overhead and spread more widely, it gained in beauty. A mild wind had risen; as it. drove the mist before it the atmosphere grew comparatively clear. Ever since Molly’s last words, Mrs Moss had been calling up her courage. She had the feeling that she was about to discover a secret. “You are bitter,” she said; “and one can’t reconcile it witht your happy, laughing way. I wonder if you have real cause for your dislike to mankind ?” Miss Molly pulled her cape more closely together and shivered. “The wind is

scattering the mist,” she saia, 'and we shall soon have rain.; it will b© better for you to turn back, Mrs Moss. _ No” thift in answer to grannie’s pleading face I( J really have no more story to tell that the ‘knife-grinder’ had.” hT Grannie’s summons came much sooner than she had looired for. Being a woman who, not caring vo talk of herself, spent most of her time in nelping others, she had merely said to Molly Marsh “I have home ties.” She oaa given her widowed life to cheer a sister who, older than she was and less well provided for, was suffering from this short separation, though she had persuaded her dear Ruth to go and help Michael in his changed position. Only a few days after Molly’s visit a letter came urging Mrs Moss to return home. She handed the summons to Michael; he shrugged his shoulders with annoyance. . “I must say good-bye to Molly Marsh before I go, Michael. lam sorry to leave you, my dear boy, when you have been so kind.” Then, after a pause—“l fancy you don’t wish her to come here, yet I cannot climb the hill to her house.” . Hooking extra severe, he said stiffly—‘‘Miss Marsh’s comings and goings are perfectly indifferent to me, so long as we do not meet. She is perfectly welcome to come here. You like her; I wish to keep out of her way; she comes, therefore, as your visitor.” His manner was forced. Mrs Moss felt more than ever sure that there had been something between these two. She aaid to herself —“I will know the truth before I quit Brigden; mysteries do not make for happiness. Since her father died, Molly had not at first been absolute mistress of the old house on the hill. Her guardians, a strong-willed couple, decided that she could not guide herself, and that she was better away from Brigden. At last Molly rebelled, and they gave her freedom, but by that time she was thirty. They had tried to marry her to men of their own choice. She said, she hated all men, and would live and die an old maid. Against her will she had spent most part of each year in another country; she had few neighbours near the old house on the hill. Yet Molly told herself (when she was at last, her guardians said, free to make mistakes) she was going to begin real life. The. guardians had lived entirely in the country, surrounded by admiring and less wealthy relatives, so that their ideas were provincial and archaic from lack of contradiction.' . Molly read her new friend’s note and threw it .down on the table with a petulant movement. She presently read it again, her eyes darkening with tears. “It’s my luck I” she said passionately. That morning Molly had told herself Grannie Moss was the only woman she had met in whom she felt tempted to confide. ■ “Perhaps,”, her thoughts went on, “it is safer that she should go. I may have mistaken her real nature, and she might give me away.” She went down at once to the Garth. Chatting beside the blazing fire her heart, so long kept from any show of feeling, grew warmer and warmer. She felt as though she could not say goodbye to her new friend. At last she rose, and bending over the fragile old woman, tenderly kissed her. ‘You’ll come to Brigden again, won’t you ? And next time you’ll come to me ; the hill to my place is too steep for you, —and—l feel on sufferance at the Garth. Charming house as it is, I know I am not welcome?” There was a question in her voice. “Then it has been doubly kind of you to come; it must be unpleasant even to enter a man’s house against whom you are so greatly prejudiced.” Molly walked across to the window and looked out. There was nothing to be seen but dank vegetation. The mists bad been frequent, and the poor

drenched chrysanthemum blossom® in 1 the garden hung down their heads as if ashamed- of their lack of beauty. The gentle voice from the ingle-nook called her back to- Mrs Moss. “I thank you very much for so kindly asking me to your house, but my dear—if I may call you so—it is hardly likely we shall meet again. I gather from our doctor’s letter that my dear sister is very ill. At her age I cannot hope for prompt recovery; even if it comes, I shall not leave her again.” “You could not say that, if you cared for me,” Molly exclaimed, moved out of her usual self-restraint. “Oh, you don’t know how much I care for you.” The old woman had risen: she took both Molly’s slended hands. “Thank you, dear. Will you think me a conceited old woman always to want to help those who are good enough to care for me? Ido believe I could trust you, if you'would but trust me. Tell me, won’t you,, why you. so greatly dislike my grandson P” Molly turned from the pathetic, pleading: eyes. Still she did not draw her hands away. Presently—“l did not wish to set you against him-, but he has-made a friend of mine unhappy.”' “Are you quite' sure ? I entirely believe in you, Molly, but you may mistake about another person’s feelings.”

“I’ll tell you; then you’ll see I make no mistake.” “Sit down, dear.” Mrs Moss drew a chair forward, but Molly placed herself on a low stool so that her face was hidden.

“It happened several years ago. My friend was at school, and was told that her father was very ill and that she was to go home next morning. She was strong-willed, and also eccehtric; she resolved to go and see her father without delay. She had money enough, and without a word to any one she managed to get safely to the railway. The home station was at some distance from her father’s house.

“She set out to walk home, so as to avoid the village. Before she was halfway snow began to fall; it very soon became thick and blinding. She could scarcely see her way, the hill was steep, and the climb soon became slippery; she made a false step, and fell. “A voice cried out from below — “ ‘Stay where you are.’ “In a minute she was raised up. She was unable to stand, her ankle gave her much sharp pain; and she said so. “The person who had come to help her —a tall, strong-looking man—bent down and looked in her face.

“ have seen you before,’ he said. You want to go to —•—■’ He named her home. You cannot walk. I must carry you unless you prefer I would like your people to send a carriage?’ “My friend said ‘No’ to this. The man took her up in his arms as though she were a baby. He set her down when they reached the house door within the courtyard. She was stupified by her fall, and also very much ashamed of her plight. She scarcely thanked her rescuer for his kindness. She did not ask his name, or whether he would come in. Hier ankle was soon well, and her father recovered. She worried about her seeming ingratitude and want of courtesy to the stranger, but she did not speak of her adventure to her father.

“The first time they went to< church sheTbaw- her rescuer in a seat near hers. When they came out she asked her father who that gentleman was. “Her father seemed surprised. ‘That is not a gentleman,’ he said. “I said she was strong-willed, and also eccentric. She at once related her adventure, and addedd‘He behaved just like a gentleman.” “Her father laughed, and said she was a silly child, and must go back to school. She was only fifteen. He said she must not come home again until he went himself to fetch her.

“She did a foolish thing after that, though when she told me of it I thought she was right. She wrote to Mr Martin, the man who carried her, and warmly thanked him for his kindness. “He called next day at the school and asked to see her, but she was not told of his visit till afterwards. She then discovered that others had heard of it. She was teased and laughed at, and therefore felt angry at his indiscretion in calling at the school. “She thought she hated him; hut she was always thinking of him, and wondering when she should see him. “She left school when her father died, and the day after the funeral she received a letter full of sympathy from Mr Martin.

“He asked at the end of his letter how soon he might call on her. • “My fi'iend was now eighteen. It seemed to l her wiser to show the letter to her guardians, and tell them she meant to see this visitor when he called. They both laughed at her; she felt mortified. They said that as her fortune would be larger than any one expected, she would for a time receive many such proposals; it was well, they added, that according to her father’s will she was to be a minor till she was twenty-six, otherwise she would be snapped up by some needy fortune-hunter. One of her schoolfellows had already pointed put this danger; she was already softened by her father’s death, and anxious to obey the guardians he had chosen for her. They took her away to their own home, and the matter ended.”

Molly paused, as if she had more to tell.

“Did the girl forget all about him ?” Mrs Moss inquired, with assumed carelessness.

Molly’s eyes sparkled and her cheeks flushed. “No, the girl did not forget. I believe she cared more foi* him than she knew, or she would not have been so keenly mortified by that which came after. On her return to her home she met Mr Martin. She bowed, and stopped to greet him, from impulse, I fancy. Will you believe it? He looked at her with "contempt, he did not even raise his hat and passed on. Since that meeting life lias been dull for her. She avoids all men, and, for her sales, so do I. That is her story.” A little silence, then Mrs Moss said : “If I send your friend a message will you repeat it to her ?” Molly looked hard at her, then a sad smile softened her face. “I may forget it, - you know.” “You’ll not forget it; you are not so hard as you wish me to believe. Now listen. Please tell your friend that, so far as he knew, her father was right. Mr Martin was not then in a suitable position to win her regard ; besides, she was too young for such an acquaintance, , though she rightly divined he was her

equal. Bid her to he honest with her own heart, and if she can find a way to be open and honest with the other. For, Molly, he loves her dearly. He is proud, and he thinks he has been despised as an inferior; can she not see this ? She will, dear girl—indeed she will see it, if you tell her, I will answer for the result.”

Molly’s bent head had dropped lower and lower; a deeply flushed face was now uplifted, hut it shunned grannie’s kindly eyes. ‘Yes, Til tell her what you say. But, as you know, one person cannot say how another will judge the same subject.” Molly spoke coldly, as if the matter bored her; yet she lingered, unwilling to say good-bye. “I am to start directly after dinner,” grannie said. “I cannot thank you enough for your friendliness to me. Good-bye, my dear child, and Heaven bless you.” Milly’s arms were around her a® the two women kissed. Grannie thought she heard a stifled sob. She followed her visitor to the door and watched her alert, graceful movements till she was hidden from sight. “ ’Tis best to let her go; she is not frivolous, and she will think, over our talk. Her own pride should teach her to make allowance for his ; if they would both pray one for the other, all would surely come right.” While Mrs Moss put her few possessions together—for though she always looked dainty she spent little on her dress—she went on thinking of Molly and the warm affection she herself felt for the woman so> disliked by her grandson. “I ought in justice to hear his story,” she thought. “He may have stronger reason for his rudeness than mere pique.” ~IIL Michael Moss put his grandmother into an empty carriage, and stood talking to- her. ‘You must take a wife —you must, indeed, dear boy.” He gave a whimsical laugh for answer. “The inconsistency of women,” he said. “You too, I thought were free from their weaknesses; you seem to have forgotten that I am a confirmed bachelor. Your kind visit has shown me I am managing my house all right, so' I shall persevere in carrying out the kind advice you have given me ” “And now, I give you the best advice of all —marry! Listen: You are still young; you tell me you can enjoy a game of cricket, and so on. How will it be a few years hence? You have few acquaintances; your life as you grow older will be very lonely. Put your ear closer, dear Michael. You know a woman who loves you as you deserve to be loved, but she would rather die than betray it.” So far in an incisive whisper; then aloud : “Good-bye, and thank you.” He could not answer, for the train was moving; he waved his band, and smiled as long as he could see her; then he fell into thought, frowned and went home.

“Grannie would not tell a lie,” he thought, “but what she says can’t be possible. Molly could never forgive thp way I have treated her, the avoidance I have shown. Besides, she detests men, and would not submit to one l among them. She has to’ my knowledge refus>ed two good offers. He went home and sat before his desk, ostensibly to write business letters. But his thoughts flew to Molly Marsh. How he had loved her once- —how he had watched her develop as years went by. Her father’s pride—for Mr Marsh had always refused to return his greeting—had not checked the growth of his passion. Then she had at last been free, and he had resolved to put her to the test; he had claimed his right as a man to see her face to face. His heart beat in great throbs as he recalled his own feelings when he wrote that request to visit at the house on the hill. The old longing to see her, if it might be to hold her in his arms, was again strong in him; then the detectable reality tore away all self-deceit, and taught him with hitter mcisiveresß that all had been a dream.

She had never answered his letter, and two days later she had left home. Before her return he gave up his post as manager to Mi* Standen and took a Don don clerkship. He was well paid, but he hated the confined life'; still, he had more distraction and also- better means of cultivation than he could get in the country. He toiled on till the troubles began in South Africa. When he returned as owner of the Garth, hi© acquaintances—they were only a few — told him he must marry. He laughed, and said ho was a confirmed old bachelor; and, by way of silencing gossip on this subject, he had invited Mrs Moss to l pay him a long visit.

“I meant her to stay on,” he thought, discontentedly; “sooner than lose the wise, pleasant old dear, I’d have asked Aunt Selina to hear her company.”

Next day, and the day after, he could not shake off the thought of grannie’s words. Then he remembered a fact which entirely contradicted them. He had noted Suffclay after Sunday that Molly Marsh went home from church by a circuitous path certainly ten minutes further than the direct way which he had to take to> the Garth.

“She does it to avoid me,” he thought. “Poor dear grannie speaks •a® shs wishes.” He thought that if ever he brought his mind to marriage the wife he chose must be meek and loving, itbt a self-willed man-hater. . • -

Then came Sunday. The morning was clear and cold, but the air felt healthier than it had been in those milder day® of mist.

Molly Marsh was at Church, and Michael, against his will, stood looking after her, as she took the longer road. How well she walked; how different she was from any other woman; how superior to those smart girls he had last week met at the Hall.

Since Michael had come into money he had been asked to dine at the best houses in the neighbourhood, whose inhaitants had once ignored his existence. He rarely acoepted these invitations; he shrank from the chance of meeting Molly Marsh. While he still looked after her she turned her head. Their eyes met, and instinctively he raised his hat. Without : waiting to see whether she returned his greeting, he hastened along the way she had taken and soon, came up with her. She smiled and held out her hand. He thought she looked more delightful than ever.

“Why do you come out of your way, Mr Moss? You will find it quite a round. You will have to go across the waste to the Garth.”

He fancied that her voice trembled, and this encouraged him. ‘You think I shall be over-tired ? I wonder whether you will be kind enough to ask me in to rest at the top of the hill?” Their eyes met; Molly looked provokingly saucy. Michael laughed. “Dear me J” Molly’s little nose had an upward tilt on occasions. “Come in by all means. You—you might sooner have come if you would have so far condescended.”

It was her turn to laugh now, and she did so-heartily, for he looked puzzled. He followed her into a cosy library, evidently her special den, for beside the writing-table, which bore traces of much correspondence, was a covered basket with ends of knitting wool and silk.

“That is the best chair for resting in.” “I’ll stand, please, till I’ve asked your pardon and confessed my faults.” “Please don’t,” Molly said, nervously. She began to fear she had been overbold.

“Well, then, may I say something else ?” He waited, but she did not speak. “May I come again, and again, till I have persuaded you that I love you?” - Grannie had not deceived Tier; hut Molly thought he seemed over-confident. She felt rebellious.

“Come as often as you like, but remember, I make no promise.” - She had seated herself.

He went and stood over her as if he felt sure of her consent. “I was told that if I asked for your love you would give it.” Molly was blushing, hut at this she held her head very erect. “Willi you give it?” he said, very gravely, for, he began to doubt. Molly leant back and laughed heartily. “Shall I fetch my father’s stick that you may give me the heating your face threatens? You are a gentle wooer indeed! And I was told you loved me so dearly, so* dearly that I had spoilt your life. Was I not right when I said men were hateful?” She still laughed, but he saw tears in her bright eyes. “Dearest Molly, I am bent on proving you wrong, except when you say T love you’ ” ; and clasping his arm around her, he whispered as he kissed her, “I say I will have you whether you hate me or not.”