Chapter VIII: In the Stable-Yard

"All the windy ways of men
Are but dust that rises up,
And is lightly laid again."
TENNYSON.

MINA was terribly annoyed when she came to reflect over what had happened in the wood. In common with the others, she had been terribly frightened, but of all persons in the world, Joseph was the last to whom she would have chosen to be beholden; and, worse than all, the affair had been the means of revealing to Alice the unfortunate relationship between them. If the man carried out his threats to summon Joseph for the loss of the dog, the whole thing would be blazed abroad, and would go right through her new circle. The only course before her now would be openly and avowedly to cut him.

With Cicely, it had been far different. Being of a more sensitive nature, and entertaining, moreover, far more regard for Joseph than his own cousin did, the terror had caused a very severe shock to her system, and she had been quite unable to throw it off.

It pursued her in her dreams, and by day she could think of nothing else, whilst a still small voice within whispered that her preservation was undeserved. Her mother, observing how pale and languid she was, urged her to seek all possible amusement. But for this, Cicely had no heart. Finding she did not rally, her parents at length deemed it advisable to call in a doctor, who at once ordered change of scene. And Cicely was accordingly sent off to an aunt in the country.

Meanwhile Mina's worst fears were realized. The gamekeeper, backed by his master—an irascible old squire, who had a seat on the bench—served Joseph with a summons for killing the dog. And Mina, Alice, and Annie had to appear as witnesses.

In spite of the equitable view of the case that the deed had been done in defence of life, the old squire's weight carried the day, and Joseph was fined for his gallant act, whilst the young ladies escaped with a warning;—the squire graciously forbearing to prosecute for trespass, in consideration of their sex. At this juncture, however, Mr. Grandpont, who had accompanied his daughter to the court, stepped forward and announced his intention of paying the fine, since it had been incurred in the noble defence of his daughter and her friends.

This generous sentiment was hailed with loud applause.

But Joseph Adams, the elder, was above begging off a paltry sum in this way. In a few plain, though respectful words, he declined the favour, saying that since in the judgment of the bench, his son had justly incurred the fine, he should prefer paying it himself. And laying down the money, he left the court with the young hero.

This piece of honest pride did not tend to reconcile matters between Joseph and his cousins. Had his father been content that he should cringe to Mr. Grandpont, he might have been fondled as a dog that has done some faithful act; but true nobility does not care for the bone flung by patronage. Joseph had done his duty because it came in his path, not for any petty motives of self-interest.

So things went on as before.

The others, Joseph rarely met. When they chanced to do so, it was out of doors, where they could usually continue to feign ignorance of his presence. And as for Joseph, though he still remembered the contemptuous tone of the epithet "carpenter's son," he had ceased to trouble himself much about it.

He had determined that though his trade made him their inferior, by that truer right, personal worthiness, he would become something which even they would be compelled to respect. What that "something" was to be, and the method by which it was to be attained, was at present undecided; but the resolve was strengthening every day, and he was willing for the present to be despised. Little Ruth's indignation amused him vastly.

"It 'is' a shame, Joey!" she exclaimed. "To think that you should have risked being torn in pieces in order to save them from that horrible dog, and even now they don't invite you to their parties."

"The best of it is, I don't particularly want to go," returned Joseph, taking three of Ruth's men off the board and huffing her for a move which in her indignation she had failed to see. "I can't help thinking of a verse in the Psalms, 'I had rather be a door-keeper in the house of the Lord, than to dwell in the tents of wickedness.'"

"Oh, Joseph!" expostulated his mother. "You shouldn't speak so of your uncle's house."

"Well, mother," persisted the lad, "it 'is' wicked to grasp after grandeur and finery until you forget that you're mortal."

"But it is just as wrong to say spiteful things: 'Charity suffereth long.'"

"I'm not a bit spiteful at heart, mother," returned the lad, with a frank look that spoke for itself, "as I think I proved on Good Friday. I'm content they should go their own way; though I mean to show them, some of these days, that I'm not so much to be despised as they think."

"All I know is that I hate Mina," said Ruth; "and I'm going to crown a king, Joey."

"And I'm going straight to victory over the corpses of three of your men," returned her brother. "Look out, Ruth, angry passions don't pay; they unnerve for action, and surely if I can afford to forgive them, you can. They'll see their mistake some day, for 'he that exalteth himself shall be humbled.'"

Mr. Girling's advice on the subject was very salutary. "Let them be," he said; "a man's life wouldn't be worth much if he spent it in running after other people's crazes. The struggles to 'sail down the stream with the silver pots,' as Thackeray puts it, gives the 'brass pots' more trouble than satisfaction. Be what your best ambitions prompt, and let the gusts of fortune sweep by unheeded."

It was not all smooth sailing, however. Horace Grandpont had been intensely disgusted with what he termed "the old sawyer's impudence," and being of just the petty nature to take every opportunity of venting his spite, Joseph's evident indifference riled him not a little.

At last, however, things came to an open climax. Mr. Grandpont was having some greenhouses built, and Joseph and his father were at work on them. Joseph had on more than one occasion been annoyed by Horace's insolent bearing when lounging round to inspect progress, but as long as his father was by, the young aristocrat was cautious not to overstep the bounds of prudence. One day, however, Joseph being there alone with the other men, he went beyond all bounds, and raised the young carpenter's just indignation.

The building operations were going on near the stables, and Horace, who had been following the hunt, was riding his mare into the yard. He had come in through the garden, from which the yard was separated by a little low gate, which he could not easily open without dismounting. Horace drew in his rein and waited a few seconds, choosing to assume that Joseph would run forward to open it. Finding these expectations remained unfulfilled, he rapped impatiently on the side-post with his whip, calling out in a tone of haughty command,—

"Ho, there! Come and open this gate for me!"

Joseph had heard the horse's hoofs, and purposely stood with his back turned. He went on with his planing.

"Ho, there!" shouted young Grandpont again. "Can't you hear?"

Joseph looked up.

"Come, somebody!" he said, raising his voice. "Don't you hear the young gentleman calling?"

But none of the men stirred.

"It's 'you' I'm calling!" roared young Grandpont, now irritated beyond power of control. "Look alive, I say; I'm waiting to come through."

Joseph straightened himself up, and put down his plane, then commenced walking deliberately towards the gate.

"I didn't recognise myself," he remarked, in an ironical tone.

"I didn't ask you to," returned the other; "I only told you to open the gate. Come! Hurry up!"

Joseph was quite close by this time. He stopped dead at these words.

"Haven't you a groom anywhere about, Mr. Grandpont?" he asked, without offering to lay hand on the gate.

"It's of no consequence to you whom I have about!" retorted Horace. "Will you undo the gate or not?"

"Oh! As to that, I am always ready to oblige," returned Joseph, preparing to comply. "But it is of some consequence whether or not your groom is at hand, because I am not yours to command, in a 'literal' sense, and nobody else seems inclined to obey. I should like to remind you that I am not here to be bullied. I am a workman, I know, and I am not ashamed of it; but in my uncle's employ, not yours."

The words were scarcely out of his mouth when young Grandpont, now in an ungovernable rage, aimed a smart blow at him with the handle of his whip.

"Take that!" he cried. "And learn not to stand arguing with your superiors!"

It was a mere rap, and fell across his hat, but caught it with sufficient force to dislodge it and send it flying on the ground.

The assault was absurd enough, but it was more than Joseph could endure. The blood rushed to his face, and he made a quick step forward, as if to seize the horse's bridle, then, rapidly recovering himself, he turned on his heel and quietly picked up his hat.

"You had better call your groom, Mr. Grandpont," he said, as he brushed and replaced it. Then, hesitating a moment, as Horace turned the horse's head to go back through the garden, he changed his mind. "It is not always so great to conquer as to forgive," he said, half aloud, as he retraced his steps to open the gate.