“But – why leave?”
“Because, Miss Inglett, he will have no work here. He will be driven to go to America, and unfortunately he has expended his savings in doing up the house and planting the garden. I am too delicate to risk the voyage, so I shall be separated from my husband. My son Giles has already been taken from me.” Then she began to cry.
A pair of clove-pinks glowed in Arminell’s cheeks. She could hardly control her voice. These poor Saltrens were badly used; her father was to blame. He was the occasion of their trouble.
“It must not be,” said Arminell, starting up, “I will go at once and speak to his lordship.”
CHAPTER VII
A VISION
Without another word Arminell left the cottage. As she did so, she passed Captain Saltren speaking to Captain Tubb. The former scarce touched his hat, but the latter saluted her with profound respect.
When she was out of hearing, Saltren, whose dark eyes had pursued her, said in a low vibrating tone —
“There she goes – one of the Gilded Clique.”
“I think you might have shown her more respect, man,” said Tubb. “Honour to whom honour is due, and she is honourable.”
“Why should I show respect to her? If she were a poor girl earning her bread, I would salute her with true reverence, for God hath chosen the poor, rich in faith. But is it not written that it is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle, than for the rich to enter into heaven?”
“You’ve queer fancies, Cap’n.”
“They are not fancies,” answered Saltren; “as it is written, so I speak.” Then he hesitated. Something was working in his mind, and for a moment he doubted whether to speak it to one whom he did not regard as of the elect.
But Saltren was not a man who could restrain himself under an over-mastering conviction, and he burst forth in a torrent of words, and as he spoke his sombre eyes gleamed with excitement, and sparks lit up and flashed in them. Soft they usually were, and dreamy, but now, all at once they kindled into vehement life.
“I tell you, Tubb, the Lord hath spoken. The last days are at hand. I read my Bible and I read my newspaper, and I know that the aristocracy are a scandal and a burden to the country. Now the long-suffering of heaven will not tarry. It has been revealed to me that they are doomed to destruction.”
“Revealed to you!”
“Yes, to me, an unworthy creature, as none know better than myself, full of errors and faults and blindness – and yet – to me. I was wrestling in spirit near the water’s edge, thinking of these things, when, suddenly, I heard a voice from heaven calling me.”
“How – by name? Did it call you Cap’n?”
Saltren hesitated. “I can’t mind just now whether it said, Saltren, Saltren! or whether it said Mister, or whether Cap’n, or Stephen. I dare say I shall remember by-and-by when I come to turn it over in my mind. But all has come on me so freshly, so suddenly, that I am still dazed with the revelations.”
“Go on,” said Tubb, shaking his head dubiously.
“And when I looked up, I saw a book come flying down to me out of heaven, and I held up my hands to receive it, but it went by me into the water hard by where I was.”
“Somebody chucked it at you,” exclaimed the practical Tubb.
“I tell you, it came down out of heaven,” said Saltren, impatiently. “You have no faith. I saw the book, and before I could lay hold of it, it went under the raft – I mean, it went down, down in the water, and I beheld it no more.”
“What sort of a book was it?”
“I saw it but for a moment, as it floated with the back upwards, before it disappeared. There was a head on it and a title. I could not make out whose head, but I read the title, and the title was clear.”
“What was it?”
“‘The Gilded Clique.’”
“Clique! what was that?”
“A society, a party, and I know what was meant.”
“Some one must have chucked the book,” again reasoned the prosaic Tubb.
“It was not chucked, it fell. I was wrong to tell you of my vision. The revelation is not for such as you. I will say no more.”
“And pray, what do you make out of this queer tale?” asked the captain of the lime quarry with ill-disguised incredulity.
“Is it not plain as the day? I have had revealed to me that the doom of the British aristocracy is pronounced, the House of Lords, the privileged class, – in a word, the whole Gilded Clique?”
Tubb shook his head.
“You’ll never satisfy me it weren’t chucked,” he said. “But, to change the subject, Saltren. You have read and studied more than I have. Can you tell me what sort of a plant Quinquagesima is, and whether it is grown from seed, or cuttings, or layers?”
CHAPTER VIII
ABREAST
As Arminell left Chillacot she did not observe the scant courtesy shown her by Captain Saltren. She was brimming with sympathy for him in his trouble, with tender feeling for the wife who had so loved her mother, and for the son who was out of his proper element. It did not occur to her that possibly she might be regarded by Saltren with disfavour. She had not gone many paces from the house before she came on a middle-aged couple, walking in the sun, abreast, arm in arm, the man smoking a pipe, which he removed and concealed in the pocket of his old velvet shooting coat, when he saw Arminell, and then he respectfully removed his hat. The two had been at church. Arminell knew them by sight, but she had not spoken at any time to either. The man, she had heard, had once been a gamekeeper on the property, but had been dismissed, the reason forgotten, probably dishonesty. The woman was handsome, with bright complexion, and very clear, crystalline eyes, a boldly cut nose, and well curved lips. The cast of her features was strong, yet the expression of the face was timid, patient and pleading.
She had fair, very fair hair, hair that would imperceptibly become white, so that on a certain day, those who knew her would exclaim, “Why Joan! who would have thought it? Your hair is white.” But some years must pass before the bleaching of Joan’s head was accomplished. She was only forty, and was hale and strongly built.
She unlinked her arm from that of her companion and came curtseying to Arminell, who saw that she wore a hideous crude green kerchief, and in her bonnet, magenta bows.
“Do you want me?” she asked coldly. The unæsthetic colours offended her.
“Please, my lady!”
“I am not ‘my lady.’”
Joan was abashed, and retreated a step.
“I am Miss Inglett. What do you want?”
“I was going to make so bold, my la – I mean, miss – .” Joan became crimson with shame at so nearly transgressing again. “This is Samuel Ceely.”
Arminell nodded. She was impatient, and wanted to be at home. She looked at the man whose pale eyes quivered.
“Is he your husband?” asked Arminell.
“No, miss, not exactly. Us have been keeping company twenty years – no more. How many years is it since us first took up wi’ each other, Samuel?”
“Nigh on twenty-two. Twenty-two.”
“Go along, Samuel, not so much as that. Well, miss, us knowed each other when Samuel was a desperate wicked (i. e. lively) chap. Then Samuel was keeper at the park. There was some misunderstanding. The head-keeper was to blame and laid it on Samuel. He’s told me so scores o’ times. Then came his first accident. When was that, Samuel?”
“When I shooted my hand away? Nineteen years come next Michaelmas.”
“Were you keeper, then?” asked Arminell.
“No, miss, not exactly.”
“Then, how came you with the gun?”
“By accident, quite by accident.”
Joan hastily interfered. It would not do to enquire too closely what he was doing on that occasion.
“When was your second accident, Samuel?”
“Fifteen years agone.”
“And what was that?” asked Joan.
“I falled off a waggon.”
Arminell interrupted. This was the scene of old Gobbo and young Gobbo reenacted. It must be brought to an end. “Tell thou the tale,” she said with an accent of impatience in her intonation, addressing Joan. “What is your name?”
“Joan Melhuish, miss. Us have been sweethearts a great many years; and, miss, the poor old man can’t do a sight of work, because of his leg, and because of his hand. But, lor-a-mussy, miss, his sweepings is beautiful. You could eat your dinner, miss, off a stable floor, where Samuel has swept. Or the dog-kennels, miss, – if Samuel were but with the dogs, he’d be as if in Paradise. He do love dogs dearly, do Samuel. He’s that conscientious, miss, that if he was sound asleep, and minded in his dream there was a bit o’ straw lying where he ought to ha’ swept clean, or that the dogs as needed it, hadn’t had brimstone put in their water, he’d get up out o’ the warmest bed – not, poor chap, that he’s got a good one to lie on – to give the dog his brimstone, or pick up thickey (that) straw.”
She was so earnest, so sincere, that her story appealed to Arminell’s feelings. Was the dust that the witch, Patience, had cast on her head, taking effect and opening her eyes to the sorrows and trials of the underground folk?
“Please, miss! It ain’t only sweeping he does beautifully. If a dog has fleas, he’ll wash him and comb him – and, miss, he can skin a hare or a rabbit beautiful – beautiful! I don’t mean to deny that Samuel takes time about it,” she assumed an apologetic tone, “but then, miss, which be best, to be slow and do a thing thorough, or be quick and half do it? Now, miss, what I was going to make so bold as to say was, Samuel do be a-complaining of the rheumatics. They’ve a-took’n bad across the loins, and it be bad for him out in all weathers weeding turnips, and doing them odd and dirty jobs, men won’t do now, nor wimen n’other, what wi’ the advance of education, and the franchise, and I did think it would be wonderful good and kind o’ you, miss, if you’d put in a word for Samuel, just to have the sweeping o’ the back yard, or the pulling of rabbits, or the cleaning up of dishes, he’d make a rare kitchen-maid, and could scour the dogs as well, and keep ’em from scratching over much. Lord, miss! what the old man do want is nourishing food and dryth (dry air) over and about him.”
“I’ll speak to the housekeeper – no, I will speak to her ladyship about the matter. I have no doubt something can be done for Samuel.”
Joan curtsied, and her honest face shone with satisfaction.
“Lord A’mighty bless you, miss! I have been that concerned about the old man – he is but fifty, but looks older, because of his two accidents. H’s shy o’ asking for hisself, because he was dismissed by the late lord; the upper keeper laid things on him he’d no right to. He’s a man, miss, who don’t set no store on his self, because he has lost a thumb and two fingers, and got a dislocated thigh. But there’s more in Samuel than folks fancy, I ought to know best, us have kept company twenty years.”
“Are you ever going to get married?”
Joan shook her head.
“But how is it,” asked Arminell, “that you have not been married yet, after courting so long?”
“First the bursted gun spoiled the chance – but Lord, miss, though he’s lost half his hand, he is as clever with what remains as most men with two.”
“He was unable to work for his living, I suppose?”
“And next he were throwed down off a waggon, and he’s been lame ever since. But, Lord, miss! he do get along with the bad leg, beautiful, quite beautiful.”
“You are not nearer your marriage than you were twenty years ago,” said Arminell, pitifully.
“I have been that troubled for Samuel,” said Joan, not replying, but continuing her own train of thought; “I’ve feared he’d be took off to the union, and then the old man would ha’ died, not having me to walk out with of a Sunday and bring him a little ’baccy. And I – I’d ha’ nort in the world to live for, or to hoard my wages for, wi’out my old Samuel.”
The woman paused, turned round and looked at the feeble, disabled wreck of a man, who put his crippled hand to his forelock and saluted.
“How came he to fall off the waggon?” asked Arminell.
“Well, miss, it came of my being on the waggon,” explained Ceely, “I couldn’t have falled off otherwise.”
“Were you asleep? Was the waggon in motion?”
Joan hastily interfered, it would not do for too close an enquiry to be made into how it came that Samuel was incapable of keeping himself firm on the waggon; any more than it would do to go too narrowly into the occasion of his shooting off his hand.
“What was it, miss, you was a-saying? Nearer our marriage? That is as the Lord wills. But – miss – us two have set our heads on one thing. I don’t mind telling you, as you’re so kind as to promise you’d get Samuel a situation as kitchen-maid.”
“I did not promise that!”
“Well, miss, you said you’d speak about it, and I know well enough that what you speak about will be done.”
“What is it you have set your heart on? Can I help you to that?”
“You, miss! O no, only the Lord. You see, miss, I don’t earn much, and Samuel next to nothing at all, so our ever having a home of our own do seem a long way off. But there’s the north side of the church, where Samuel’s two fingers and thumb be laid, us can go to them. And us have bespoke to the sexton the place whereabout the fingers and thumb lie. I ha’ planted rosemary there, and know where it be, and no one else can be laid there, as his fingers and thumb be resting there. And when Samuel dies, or I die, whichever goes first is to lie beside the rosemary bush over his fingers and thumb, and when the t’other follows, Samuel or I will be laid beside the other, with only the fingers and thumb and rosemary bush between us, – ’cos us ain’t exactly married – and ’twouldn’t be respectable wi’out. ’Twill be no great expense,” she added apologetically.
When Joan Melhuish had told all her story, Arminell no longer saw the crude green kerchief and the magenta bows. She saw only the face of the poor woman, the crystal-clear eyes in which light came, and then moisture, and the trembling lips that told more by their tremor than by the words that passed over them, of the deep stirring in the humble, patient heart.
How often it is with us that, looking at others, who belong to an inferior, or only a distinct class, we observe nothing but verdigris green kerchiefs and magenta bows, something out of taste, jarring with our refinement, ridiculous from our point of view. Then we talk of the whole class as supremely barbarous, grotesque and separate from us by leagues of intervening culture, a class that puts verdigris kerchiefs on and magenta bows, as our forefathers before Christ painted their bodies with woad. And we argue – these people have no human instincts, no tender emotions, no delicate feelings – how can they have, wearing as they do green ties and magenta bows? Have the creatures eyes? Surely not when they wear such unæsthetic colours. Hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions? Not with emerald-green kerchiefs. If we prick them they do not bleed. If we tickle they cannot laugh. If we poison them, they will not die. If we wrong them – bah! They wear magenta bows and are ridiculous.
It needs, may be, a sod taken from their soil, a little dust from their hearth shaken over our heads to open our eyes to see that they have like passions and weaknesses with ourselves.
Arminell, without speaking, turned to Samuel, and looked at him.
What was there in this poor creature to deserve such faithful love? He was a ruin, and not the ruin of a noble edifice, but of a commonplace man. There was no beauty in him, no indication of talent in his face, no power in the moulding of his brow. He looked absurd in his short, shabby, patched, velveteen coat, his breeches and gaiters on distorted limbs. His attitudes with the ill-set thigh were ungainly. And yet – this handsome woman had given up her life to him.
“He don’t seem much to you, perhaps, miss,” said Joan, who eagerly scanned Arminell’s face, and with the instinctive jealousy of love discovered her thoughts. “But, miss, what saith the Scripture? Look not on his countenance, or on the height of his stature. You should ha’ seen Samuel before his accidents. Then he was of a ruddy countenance, and goodly to look on. I always see him as he was.”
She still searched Arminell’s face for token of admiration.
“Lord, miss! tastes differ. Some like apples and others like onions. For my part, I do like a hand wi’ two fingers on it, it is uncommon, it is properly out o’ the way as hands are. And then, miss, Samuel do seem to me to ha’ laid hold of eternity wi’ two fingers and a thumb, having sent them on before him, and that is more than can be said of most of us poor sinners here below.”
She still studied the girl’s countenance, and Arminell controlled its expression.
“Then,” Joan continued, “as for his walk, it is lovely. It is ever dancing as he goes along the road. It makes one feel young – a girl – to have his arm, there be such a lightness and swing in his walk.”
“But – ” Arminell began, then hesitated, and then went on with a rush, “are you not discontented, impatient, miserable?”
“Why so, miss?”
“Because you have loved him so long and see no chance of getting him.”
“No, miss. If I get him here, I get him to give me only half a hand; if I get him in the other world, I get his whole hand, thumb and two first fingers as well. I be content either way.”
CHAPTER IX
TANDEM
On the edge of a moor, at the extreme limits to which man had driven back savage nature, where were the last boundary walls of stone piled up without compacting mortar, was a farm-house called Court. It stood at the point where granite broke out from under the schistose beds, and where it had tilted these beds up into a perpendicular position. A vast period of time had passed since the molten granite thus broke forth, and the ragged edges of upturned rock had been weathered down to mere stumps, but on these stumps sat the homestead and farm-house of Court, with a growth of noble sycamores about it.
A stream brawling down from the moor swept half round this mass of old worn-down rock, a couple of granite slabs had been cast across it, meeting in the middle on a rude pier, and this served as a foot-bridge, but carts and waggons traversed the water, and scrambled up a steep ascent cut out of the rock by wheels and winter runs.
If Court had been a corn-growing farm, this would have been inconvenient, but this, Court was not. It was a sheep and cattle rearing farm, and on it was tilled nothing but a little rye and some turnips.
In an elastic air fresh from the ocean, at a height of a thousand feet above the sea, the lungs find delight in each inhalation, and the pulses leap with perennial youth. Pecuniary embarrassments cease to oppress, and the political outlook appears less threatening.
At the bottom of yonder valley three hundred feet above the sea-level, where a steamy, dreamy atmosphere hangs, we see that England is going to the dogs, the end of English commerce, agriculture, the aristocracy, the church, the crown, the constitution is at hand – in a word, the Saturday Review expresses exactly our temper of mind. A little way up the hill, we think the recuperative power of the British nation is so great, the national vigour is so enormous, that it will shake itself free of its troubles in time – in time, and with patience – in a word, we begin to see through the spectacles of the Spectator. But when we have our foot on the heather, and scent the incense of the gorse, and hear the stonechat and the pewit, and see the flicker of the silver cotton grass about us, why then – we feel we are in the best of worlds, and in the best little nook of the whole world, and that all mankind is pushing its way, like us, upward with a scramble over obstacles; it will, like us, in the end breathe the same sparkling air, and enjoy the same extensive outlook, and be like us without care.
From Court what a wonderful prospect was commanded. The Angel in the Apocalypse stood with one foot on the land, and the other in the sea; so Court stood half in the rich cultivated garden of the Western Paradise, and half in the utter desolation of treeless moor. To south and west lay woodlands and pasture, parks and villages, tufts of Scotch fir, cedars, oak and elm and beech, with rooks cawing and doves cooing, and the woodpecker hooting among them; to the east and north lay the haunt of the blackcock and hawk and wimbrel, and tracts of heather flushed with flower, and gorse ablaze with sun, and aromatic as incense.
Far away in the north-west, when the sun went down, he set in a quiver of golf-leaf, he doubled his size, and expired like the phœnix in flame. That was when he touched the ocean, and in touching revealed it.
What a mystery there is in distance! How the soul is drawn forth step by step over each rolling hill, down each half-disclosed valley. How it wonders at every sparkle where a far-off window reflects the sun, and admires where the mists gather in wooded clefts, and asks, what is that? when the sun discloses white specks far away on slopes of turquoise; as the Israelites asked when they saw the Manna. How a curling pillar of smoke stirs up interest, rising high and dispersing slowly. We watch and are filled with conjecture.
As the afternoon sun shines sideways on the moor-cheek, it discloses what it did not reveal at other times, the faintest trace of furrows where are no fields now, where no plough has run since the memory of man. Was corn once grown there? At that bleak altitude? Did the climate permit of its ripening at one time? No one can answer these questions, but how else account for these furrows occasionally, only under certain aspects discernible? And to Court there was a corn-chamber, a sort of tower standing on a solid basement of stone six feet above the ground, a square construction all of granite blocks, floored within with granite, and with a conical slated roof, and a flight of stone steps leading up to it. A tower – a fortress built against rats, who will gnaw through oak and even lead, but must break their teeth against granite.
The corn-chamber was overhung by a sycamore, and at its side a rown, or “witch-bean” as it is locally called – a mountain ash – had taken root, flourished and ripened its crimson berries.
On the lowest step but one of the flight leading to the corn-chamber sat Thomasine Kite, the daughter of the white-witch, Patience. The evening was still and balmy in the valleys; here on the moor-edge airs ever stirred and were crisp. The bells were ringing for evening service far away in a belfry that stood on a hill against the western sky, and their music came in wafts mingled with the hum of the wind among the heather, and the twitter among the sycamores.
Aloft, on the highest twig of the tallest tree sat a crow calling itself in Greek, Korax! and so pleased with the sound of its name in Greek that it repeated its name again and again, and grew giddy with vanity, and nearly overbalanced itself, and had to spread wings and recover its poise.
Thomasine was in a bad humour. All the household of Court were away, master and mistress, men and maids, and she was left alone like that crow on the tree-tops.
“Tamsin!” muttered the girl, “what a foolish name I have got. It’s like damson, of which they make cheese. If they’d call me by my proper name of Thomasine, it would be all right, but Tamsin I hate.”
“Korax!” croaked the crow. “Why was I not born in Greece to be called Korax? Crow is vulgar.”
“I’m tired of my place,” grumbled the girl, “here I am a servant maid at Court, out of the world and hard worked. Nothing going on, nothing to see, no amusements, nothing to read.”
Why was Thomasine restless and impatient for a change? She did not herself know. She was dissatisfied with what? She did not herself properly know. She had vigorous health; she had work, but not more than what with her fresh youth and hearty body she could easily execute. She had sufficient to eat. The farmer and his wife were not exacting, nor rough and bad tempered. The workmen and women on the farm were, as workmen and women are, with good and bad points about them. Elsewhere she would meet with much the same sort of associates. She knew that. Her wage was not high, but it was as much as she was likely to get in a farm-house, and a small wage there with freedom was better than a big wage in a gentleman’s family with restraint. She knew that. Yet she was not content. She wanted something, and she did not know what. She would give her mistress notice and go elsewhere. Whither? She did not know. At any rate it would be elsewhere, a change; and she craved for a change, for she had been a twelvemonth in one place. Would she like her new situation? She did not know. Would she, when in a town, look back on the healthy life at Court? Possibly; she did not know. But she could not stay, because as the passion for roving is in the gipsy blood, so was the fever of unrest in hers. She was tired of life as it presented itself to her, uniform, commonplace, unsensational.
There was a period in European history when all was change, when every people plucked itself out of its ancestral ground and went a wandering; when the whole of the continent was trampled over by races galloping west, like cattle and wild beasts disturbed by a prairie fire. What was the cause? We hardly know, but we know that there was not a people, a race, a class which was not thus inspired with the passion for change of domicile. The Germans entitle that period the time of the great Folk-wandering. We are in the midst of such another Folk-wandering, but it is not now the migration of races and nations, but of classes and individuals; the passion for change drives the men and women out of the country to towns, and the young out of their situations. It is in the air, it is in their blood.
The evening sun touched the western sea, and flared up in a spout of fire. Then Thomasine rose to her feet. Her red hair had fallen, and she bent her arms behind her, to do it up. Gorgeous that hair was in the evening sun, it seemed itself to be on fire, to be incandescent in every hair, and her attitude as she stood on the step was grand, her vigorous, graceful form, her splendid proportions were shown in perfection, with bosom expanded, and her hands behind her head collecting and tying and twisting the fire that rained off it. The evening sun was full on her, and filled her eyes that she could see nothing; but her handsome face was shown illuminated as a lamp against the cold grey walls of the corn-chamber. Her shadow was cast up the steps and against the door, a shadow that had no blackness in it, but the purple of the plum.
“Tamsin! my word, you are on fire!”
She started, let go her hair, and it fell about her, enveloping her shoulders and arms in flame. Then she put one hand above her eyes, and looked to see who addressed her.
“You here, Archelaus! What has brought you to this lost corner of the world, this time o’ day?”
“You, of course, Tamsin, what else?”
“I wish you’d choose a better time than when I’m doing up my hair.”
“I could not wish a better time than when you are in a blaze of glory.”
The young man who spoke was Archelaus Tubb, son of the captain of the slate quarry. He was a simple, good-humoured, not clever young man. Strongly built, with sparkling eyes and a merry laugh, he was just such a fellow as would have made his way in the world, had he been endowed with wits. He was not absolutely stupid, but he was muddle-headed. He succeeded in nothing that he undertook. He had been apprenticed to a carpenter, and at the expiration of three years was unable even to make a gate.
He tried his hand at gardening, and dug graves for potatoes, and put in bulbs upside down. He had faculties, but was incapable of applying them, or was too careless to call them together and concentrate them on his work. There seemed small prospect of his earning wage above that of a day-labourer.
He had fair hair, an honest face, always on the alert for a laugh. As he had been unqualified for any trade, his father had given him work in the quarry, but therein he earned but a labourer’s wage, fourteen shillings a week.
Thomasine reseated herself on the lowest step but one, and put her feet on the lowest, and crossed her hands on her lap.
“Arkie,” said she; “I am going away from Court, the life here is too dull for me. I want to see the world.”
“Where are you going, Tamsin?”
“Not to bury myself in a place where nothing is doing, again.”
“Nothing doing! There is plenty of work on a farm.”
“Work!” scorned Thomasine. “Who wants work now? not I – I want to go where there are murders and burglaries and divorces – into a place where there is life.”
“Queer sort of life that,” said Archelaus, casting himself down on the lowest step.
“I want to be where those things are done and talked about,” said Thomasine; “what do I care about how the corn looks, and whether the sheep have the foot-rot, and what per stone is the price of bullocks? Now – you need not sit on my feet.”
“I will choose a higher step,” said the lad; then he stepped past her, and seated himself on that above her.
“Upon my word, Tamsin,” he said, “you have wonderful hair. It is like mother’s copper kettle new scoured, and spun into spiders’ threads. Some red hair,” continued he, “is coarse as wire, but this,” he put his fingers through the splendid waves, “but this – ”
“Is not for you to meddle with,” said Thomasine. “Shall I make my fortune with it in the world?”
She stood up, and stepped past him, and seated herself on the step immediately above that he occupied.
“In the world!” repeated Archelaus. “What world – that where murders and burglaries and divorces are the great subject of talk?”
“Aye – in the world where something is doing, where there is life, not in the world of mangold-wurzel.”
“I do not know, Tamsin,” said the lad dispiritedly. “I hope not.”
“Why not? I am not happy here. I want to be where something is stirring. Why,” said Thomasine with a flash of anger in her cheek and eye and the tone of her voice – “Why am I to be a poor farm girl, and Miss Arminell Inglett to have all she wishes? She to be wealthy, and I to have nothing? She to be happy, and I wretched? I suppose I am good-looking, eh, Arkie?”