polly musgrave was gone with flying colours. she had been indefatigable in procuring her aunt, uncle, and cousins, parting gifts that would suit their tastes; she had actually toiled herself in paying courtesy-calls round the [page 30]neighbourhood; and she had written half-a-dozen letters, and evinced a considerable amount of successful management in procuring an invitation for two of her cousins to join her during the week or weeks of york's gaieties. she would have had joanna also, but joanna would not leave home at the season when her father was liable to his worst rheumatic twinges. polly had shown herself really good-natured under her ease and luxury, and joanna had been a little penitent and vexed that she did not like polly any more than in a cousinly way. whether polly was right in saying that joanna was romantic or not, polly had not a particle of romance in her constitution, though much was flourishing, fresh, and fragrant, in pure, commonplace, selfish, good-natured worldliness, for it is a mistake to suppose that quality (without hypocrisy) has not its attractive guise. without knowing herself romantic, joanna was apt to quarrel in her own mind with cleverer girls, accomplished girls, pleasant girls, even good girls, sensible women, business women, nay religious women, until she feared she must be fault-finding, satirical, sour—as her sisters protested at intervals. joanna, sour? joanna, so charitable and sympathizing? take comfort, joanna; the spirit is willing, though the flesh is weak.
the ewes was in its normal condition; the parish was in its normal condition; the excitement of harry jardine's return to whitethorn had died out; he might shoot, as it was september, or fish still, or farm, or ride, or read as he pleased. he retained his popularity. his father had been a popular man, fully more popular than mr. crawfurd of the ewes. harry was even more approved, [page 31]for mingling with the world had smoothed down in him the intolerance of temper which beset his father. what did joanna crawfurd say to such compromising agreeability? joanna was disarmed in his case; she contradicted herself, as we all do. she had the penetration to perceive that many externals went to raise harry jardine's price in the eyes of the world; externals which had little to do with the individual man,—youth, a good presence, a fair patrimony, freedom from appropriating ties. strip harry of these, render him middle-aged, time-worn or care-worn, reduce him to poverty, marry him, furnish him with a clamorous circle of connections, land-lock him with children! would the difference not be startling? would he need to be condemned for the world's favour, then? joanna trowed not.
the crawfurds met mr. jardine occasionally, but there was no probability of the acquaintance ripening, since mr. crawfurd could not call for harry at whitethorn, and harry did not see the necessity of offering his company at the ewes. mrs. jardine had not visited much since the shock of her widowhood, and she only now began to recur to her long-disused visiting-list on harry's account. though a reasonable woman, it is scarcely requisite to say that she did not propose to renew her friendship with the family at the ewes. the blow which rendered her without control did not break her spirit, but it pressed out its buoyance. mrs. jardine was a grave, occupied, resigned woman, no longer a blithe one, very fond and proud of harry, but grateful, not glad in her fondness and pride.
the frost had come early, strong, and stern on those [page 32]highlands of the lowlands, those moors of the south. the "lustre deep" at twilight and dawn, the imperial tyrian dye at noon, the glorious "orange and purple and grey" at sunset and sunrise, which, once known and loved, man never forgets, nor woman either—all would soon be swept away this year, and joanna regretted it. she liked the flower-garden, but, after all, the garden was tame to the moor. the moor's seasons were, at best, short—short the golden flush of its june; short the red gleam of its september. not that the lowland moor has not its dead, frosted grace in its winter winding-sheet, and its tender spring charm, when curlews scream over it incessantly. but joanna had never seen the autumn so short as this year; and she had heard them tell, that in the fall, when poor mr. jardine was killed, the heather remained bright till november.
thinking of that date caused joanna, when she strolled out on the moor one morning, to go near the scene with its melancholy celebrity.
it was quite early in the morning, a hail shower lying all around, though the sky was a deep sapphire blue, with the wan ghost of the moon lingering on the horizon, and the atmosphere bitter cold. the breakfast was late at the ewes, owing to mr. crawfurd's delicate health, and because mrs. crawfurd had her fancies like mrs. primrose. thus joanna was frequently abroad before breakfast, and, like most persons of healthy organization, was rather tempted to court the stinging air as it blew across the heather, bracing her whole frame, nipping her fingers and toes, and sending blush-roses into her cheeks.
[page 33]joanna was walking along, feeling cheerful, although she was in that neighbourhood, and vaunting to herself that their moor was infinitely superior to a park, when a grey object caught her eye, lying beyond some whin bushes—a thing raised above the ground, but stretched still and motionless. joanna stopped with a strange thrill. no! it was not on that piece of earth; but so must he have lain on that disastrous morning, far removed from the abundance, and garnered goods, and heartiness of harvest.
joanna stood a moment, then reproaching herself with cowardice, egotism, inhumanity, she advanced, her heart fluttering wildly. yes, it was a man in tweed-coat, trousers, and cap; and stay! was that a gun by his side? joanna could not go a step further; she closed her eyes to hide the blood which she felt must be oozing and stealing along the ground, or else congealed among the heather and it was only after she had told herself how far she was from home, and how long it would be ere she could run back for assistance, that she opened them and approached the figure. there was no blood that she could see; the man might not be dead, but stupefied or insensible. oh, dear! it was harry jardine of whitethorn; the hail-drops among his black curls, the sprigs of the heather dinted into his brown cheek.
it darted into joanna's mind like inspiration how the chance had occurred. she remembered susan had said, yesterday, that she had met mr. jardine going in shooting garb across the moor in the afternoon, and he had stopped her and asked if she had seen a dog. he had taken out a new dog and lost it, and was vexed at wasting [page 34]half the morning in the pursuit. she recalled, with a peculiar vividness of perception, that somebody had observed, one day lately, that mr. jardine was not so strong as he looked; that he had fever while abroad, just before he came home, and that his mother was annoyed because he would not take care of himself, and complained that he was constantly over-taxing his unrecovered powers, and subjecting himself to fresh attacks of illness. joanna remembered, with a pang, that she had laughed at the remark, mentally conjuring up harry jardine's athletic, sunburnt comeliness.
joanna freed herself more quickly from this phantom than from the last, and, while she did so, called out his name, and stepped to his side, stooping down and even touching him. he was breathing, though he was very cold and stiff, and she did not rouse him. oh, joanna was very thankful! but what should she do next? life must be very faint, and frozen in the muscular, active young man. he had loitered at his sport till the dusk; he had been bewildered on the moor—strange to him as to a foreigner; he had wandered here and there impatient and weary; but still more angry with himself than alarmed. he had sat down in the intense chill and dim darkness to recover himself; no way forewarned, "simply because he was on corncockle moor, so near home," on a september night. he had sunk down further and further, until the stealthy foe sprang upon him and held him fast—the sleep from which there is so tardy an awakening.
joanna dared not leave the faint, vital spark to smoulder [page 35]down or leap out. the moor was very unfrequented at this hour; at certain periods of the day, portions of it, intersected by meandering tracks, were crossed by men labouring in the adjacent fields or quarry; but till then it was only the circumstance of alarm being excited on harry's account, or her protracted absence giving rise to surmise and search, that could bring them companions.
as a forlorn hope joanna raised her voice and cried for assistance; fear and distress choked the sound, and the freezing air caused it to fall on the silence with a ringing quaver. she persevered, however, every now and then varying the appeal, "papa, lilias, sandy, do some of you come to me; i want you here, for god's sake! here."
she took his big hands and chafed them between her own little ones; she lifted his head on her lap, her fingers getting entangled in his curly hair, she prayed for him that he might be restored to them.
he continued to breathe dully and heavily; his eyes never unclosed; she felt tempted to raise the lashes, as she would lift up and peep under the lids of a child. ah! but she feared to see the balls sightless and glazing over fast. the marked, lively face was placid as if it were set in death, and the slight contraction between the brows, which she had remarked the first night she saw him, was almost effaced. how dreadful it would be if he died on her knees there, in the solitude of the moor! the son at the daughter's feet, as his father at her father's. how would his mother bear it? her father would never survive this mournful re-writing of the old letters traced in blood. it should be she rather who should die; and [page 36]joanna in her piety, her goodness, her great love for her father, her exquisite kindness for harry jardine, did ask god if he sought a life, in his justice and mercy, to allow hers to pay for harry's, to substitute her in some way for harry; and joanna well remembered that prayer afterwards.
joanna was beginning to cower and fail in her trial. suddenly she shook herself up, when she was lapsing into a heap nearly as passive as that beside her; a suggestion darted across her brain; she detected in the little pocket of her dress a bottle of a strong essence and perfume, which polly musgrave had forced upon her the day she left.
joanna was quick and clear in following out a notion. with trembling fingers she poured the hot, stimulating, subtle liquid into her hollow hands, and bathed his forehead. she unloosed his cravat, and sent the warm stream over his throat and chest, rubbing them with her free hand, while she supported his head on the other arm; and inspired with fresh courage and trust she called anew this time a shrill, echoing call, and harry jardine shivered, sobbed, and stretched himself, and slowly opened his sealed eyes, looking her first vaguely and then wonderingly in the face, and her father's and lilias's voices rose from opposite sides of the heath, near and far in reply. "what is it, joanna? what has kept you? what has happened? we missed you; we were getting anxious; we are coming, coming!"
