CHAPTER X.
TROUBLE AT ELVELEY.
It was August, and the evenings were sultry and oppressive after burning summer days. At Rowdon Smithy there was always some coolness, borrowed from the adjacent moorland, and helped by a situation exposed on northern and eastern sides. So, when dusk drew on, and Jim’s work might, as a rule, be considered over, the young smith used to sit in his trellised porch, with book in hand or violin on shoulder, and enjoy such breezes as were to be had. The place pleased him for several reasons. It had been a favourite resting-spot of his grandfather’s, it caught the latest beams of the sun setting across the Common, and it commanded a fair stretch of the road by which Austin might be expected to come.
Austin came now oftener than of old. Jim sometimes wondered why: he had, as it seemed to him, so little entertainment to offer to his brother.
On a particular evening of this sunny August, Jim sat, as usual, in the cottage-porch. His hands were busy with his fiddle, his eyes were bent over a sheet of music which Austin had lent to him. Jim had changed much during the last few months. His face and figure had matured and grown manlier; he was dressed with more care, and had the fresh, “clean” look peculiar to upper-class Englishmen. There was but slight trace of the peasant about him, and his homely language sounded pleasantly enough in his soft, clear voice—which even to Austin’s ears was quaintly reminiscent of Frances’s sweet tones. His manners and bearing were seldom at fault; for old William East had known something of the ways of gentle-people, and, acknowledging within himself a duty owed to the lad’s deceived father, had taken pains to shield Jim from bad example and to encourage his natural refinement. The sorrow of his bereavement, and the keen pain of his rejection at the hands of his sister and stepmother, had indeed saddened his young face; but they had also deepened and strengthened his character, in teaching him to stand alone.
The sound of a trotting pony advancing along the hard, white country road broke in on Jim’s peaceful studies and caught his attention. Hoping that the nearing rider might be Austin, Jim sprang to his feet, laid aside his fiddle, and swung briskly down the garden-path to the gate. As he went, he saw that his young brother was putting his pony to the gallop, with evident impatience to reach his journey’s end. Jim threw wide the gate, and stepped out on to the roadway in time to wave a welcome to his visitor. Then he saw that Austin’s sunburnt cheeks had lost their ruddy colour, and that his eyes looked scared and strange as from a nervous shock.
“Why, Austin! What’s up, lad?” asked the elder brother anxiously. “There’s surely something wrong.”
“Everything’s wrong, Jim! Everything’s dreadful! You’d never guess what’s happened at home! Don’t try: I’d rather tell straight out. Perhaps I shall feel better when you know, too!”
“It’s no harm to Madam or Missy?”
“Harm to all of us, I think, Jim. At least, Mother says we’re beggars! Isn’t that harm enough? Jim, don’t stand and stare like that!”
Jim pulled himself together. “I was frighted, lad,—feared to think of what you might mean. ‘Beggars!’ Surely not ‘beggars’!”
Austin laughed roughly. Child as he was, the trouble which had overtaken him, and the way in which it had been met, had affected him strongly.
“Well, Mater says so: and I suppose she knows. Jim, I’ll ride round to the shed and fasten up Rough first of all.”
“I’ll come with you,” said the other briefly; and they made the short journey in silence. When the pony had been safely tethered, Austin caught Jim by the arm and dragged him off.
“Not indoors!” said the boy impatiently. “I feel choked already. Let’s go to the orchard. Oh, how jolly quiet and cool it is here! At home—.”
Austin paused, and held his tongue perseveringly until the brothers had gained a favourite retreat in the pleasantest nook among the old apple-trees. Jim, even then, forbore to question, guessing that his young brother’s nerves were strung to a pitch which would not bear further tension. With considerate kindness the elder lad forced back, out of sight, his own fears and forebodings.
Austin threw himself on the ground with a long-drawn breath of relief. The calm of his surroundings and the friendly presence of his brother brought a happy sense of protection to the overwrought lad.
“Now I’ll tell everything,” he said, drawing near to Jim, who immediately put an arm about him. “Only I can’t explain very well, because I don’t half understand myself. It was this morning it happened. A man came from London to see Mamma; so he was taken to the library, and she went there to speak to him. The library has a French window opening on to the lawn, and Frances and I were sitting together in the garden, quite near the library window. We could hear Mamma and the man talking, but not well enough to know what they were saying, so we did not think we need move away. Presently we did hear something: we heard Mamma say plainly, in a queer, high voice, ‘Then I and my children are paupers!’ Frances jumped up, and so did I; and we both ran to the library window. It wasn’t what Mamma had said; it was the way she spoke. Jim, it would have scared you. Just as we got to the house we heard a sort of cry. Well, we pushed open the window in a jiffey; and there was Mamma, lying all of a heap in her chair, and the strange man standing beside her, looking frightened out of his wits. And he said to us: ‘I’ve brought your mother bad news, but I couldn’t help it; I’ve nothing to do with the matter. The governor sent me down from town to tell her, because he thought it would come easier that way than in a letter or a telegram.’ Of course we didn’t know what he meant, and we didn’t much mind, we were so awfully scared about Mater.”
“Madam had fainted?” questioned Jim in a low voice.
“Yes. We called her maid, and brought her round; while the man vanished into the garden, saying he’d stay there a while in case he was wanted again. I’d have told him to cut back to his precious ‘governor’, only Frances wouldn’t let me. And as soon as Mamma could speak she asked for the London man, and in he came. I must say he looked sorry; and he didn’t seem to like it when Mamma said she wished him to tell Frances and me exactly what he had told her. Then—oh, Jim! I can’t remember half his long speech. It was all about deeds, and securities, and fraudulent trustees, and creditors. There was a man who had charge of all our money—Mamma’s and Frances’s and mine,—and was to manage for us till I was twenty-one. Papa had made him ‘trustee’. He had always given Mamma plenty of money for everything she needed, and she had never thought anything was wrong. But a while ago he wanted to make more money for himself; and first he used only what was his own, and lost it; then he began to use ours, and lost that. When nearly all ours was lost, and he knew he must soon be found out, he managed to get hold of what was left of Papa’s money, and then he ran away. So he has gone; and we shall never find him, or get back what he stole.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Jim breathlessly, “what a sore, sore trial for Madam! Does she bear up, dear lad?”
“No,” replied Austin gloomily; “and that’s the worst of it all. Mamma seems so very—queer. She sits and moans and groans, and tells Frances and me over and over again that we’re just beggars, and must go to the workhouse. Jim!” added Austin, with a break in his voice, and a childlike dread which made him shiver nervously, “Jim! must we really do that?”
“No, dear lad, no. Why, Madam has her beautiful house anyway. She told me she’d bought it.”
“Yes; but it isn’t all paid for,” said Austin, shaking his head. “The London man said Mamma’s trustee hadn’t paid for lots of things. Elveley is to be sold and all that’s in it; and even then Mamma won’t be able to pay everybody.”
“I can’t hardly take it in,” muttered Jim. “Are you sure it’s as bad as you say?”
“I’m sure enough,” said Austin bitterly, “seeing Mamma has said it all over and over again. Frances and I have stayed with her,” continued the lad, throwing up his arms wearily; “but this evening I thought I must come here for a bit, or I’d—I’d howl! Jim, you can’t guess what it’s like, at home. Mamma can’t do anything but groan.”
“But Madam has many friends?” suggested Jim hopefully.
“What’s the good of friends? They can’t find our trustee—or make our money come back again. And we’ve no relations except Cousin Walter, and he’s in Australia, sheep-farming. Don’t I wish I could go to Australia, and have heaps of land, and millions of sheep!” Austin closed his eyes, the better to call up a vision of plenty. “But Cousin Walter’s a failure out there: he can’t help us.”
“There’s surely someone,” said Jim, unable to think of the stately, handsome owner of Elveley as friendless, penniless, and homeless. The lad might have been pardoned a gleam of satisfaction at the ruin which had overtaken the woman who had treated him with contemptuous indifference, and shown no intention of acknowledging his just claim to a share of his father’s property. But Jim was guiltless of resentment, and the inherent chivalry of his nature rose up in indignant pity at the blow dealt to the widow and orphans.
Jim thought much and deeply, but he wisely said little in the meantime, preferring deeds to words. Austin succeeded in convincing him that in Mrs. Morland’s sight, at least, her case was desperate; and Jim the simple-minded could only marvel how so many years of prosperity and social success could have been unfruitful of a single friend attached and loyal enough to come forward with counsel and help.
“There must be someone,” he repeated, with conviction. “Austin, lad, this is too soon to talk so hopeless-like. Mayhap your mother is fair dazed with the shock, and too upset to think clear. Keep up heart, dear lad, and cheer Madam and Missy too. Tell them as all must come right.”
“Oh, Jim!” broke out Austin, “I wish you would come to Elveley and make some sense of things! It’s so awfully bothering to go on not knowing what will really happen, and with Mater not able to tell us. Jim, do come home with me now!”
“Dear lad, I’d come with you gladly, but I haven’t the right—yet. I promised your mother I wouldn’t tell who I was; and what would folks think to see Jim East the blacksmith meddling with Madam’s affairs? No, it would just worry her more if I should venture—it would make things harder for her to see me there. I mayn’t do it, lad. It’s terrible vexing to know I mayn’t.”
Jim’s reluctance was so evidently reasonable and unselfish that Austin forbore to press his entreaty. Instead, he allowed himself to be comforted and encouraged by all the arguments for hope and cheerfulness which Jim could draw from his imagination. At the smithy, Austin always felt happy and at peace. The difficulty was to tear himself away and go back to the home whence peace and happiness had fled.
Mrs. Morland, as has been said, was not personally popular in the village where she had made her home. Woodend was, in a sense, old-fashioned, and it had acquiesced quietly in her assumption of leadership in all that concerned its small social matters, but it had not learned to like her. Though its upper-class community was no less charitable than others similarly placed, there were not a few old residents who heard the story of the Morland downfall, as it affected the mistress of Elveley, with hardly more than a conventional murmur of regret. But when her children were under discussion the case was different. Everyone liked the bright girl and boy, everyone grieved at the tragic calamity which must so greatly change their lives.
Still, there were some neighbours able and willing to show Mrs. Morland kindness and sympathy. These sought her out at the earliest moment that good taste allowed, and frankly offered to be of service; but the poor woman, completely overwhelmed by the extent of the disaster, rejected their overtures with angry scorn. Naturally, her well-meaning friends retired precipitately, determining that she should be left to take her own course.
What that course should be Mrs. Morland did not even attempt to decide. The creditors who had insisted on the sale of Elveley wished to show the innocent debtor some consideration, and informed her that she might continue to occupy the house for three weeks. The Rector, who was not to be driven away by any rebuffs, listened patiently to the outpourings of bitter invective against her fraudulent trustee, which seemed the only relief Mrs. Morland could discover. The kindly, gentle old man was too infirm to fight an injured woman’s battles; but Edward Carlyon persuaded Mrs. Morland to put her affairs in the hands of a competent solicitor, who might make the best terms possible with her creditors.
The three weeks of grace had almost slipped by, and still no provision had been made for the future of the little family. Frances and Austin seldom left their mother, though in her presence they were acutely miserable. They were young and vigorous, and, after they had recovered from the shock of misfortune, they were eager to be up and doing. Both girl and boy implored their mother to speak—to tell them what her plans might be, so that they might help forward any arrangements she had made. But Mrs. Morland declared herself incapable of action, and was not moved even by the pale and anxious faces of the harassed pair who were ready to take the field in her behalf.
It was an awakening period for the two young Morlands. Hitherto they had felt a childlike security in the capacity of a mother’s protecting love and care. The world’s struggles and trials had seemed far removed from the sheltered comfort of their home. Now, the arm that had encircled and shielded them had been suddenly removed, and the onset of trouble found them defenseless.
“If only we knew what was going to become of us,” sighed Frances in Miss Carlyon’s ear. “It is so dreadful to feel day after day passing and not to have the least idea what Mamma will do. Sometimes Austin and I think she really does not understand that we must leave Elveley immediately; but if we try to talk about it she will not listen.”
“Dear child, your mother has received a very heavy blow. Who can wonder if it has prostrated her?”
Miss Carlyon’s tone was extremely pitiful, though she could hardly think without impatience of the crushed, broken woman who, even for the sake of her children, would not rouse herself out of her state of despondency. The girl and boy whose future had promised to be so bright were surely the chief sufferers; but Mrs. Morland’s pride saw as yet only her personal defeat—her loss of position, her coming poverty.
“I know how very hard it is for Mamma,” said Frances; “Austin and I would scarcely mind at all if only Mamma need not lose all her things. I do want to help her, but she says I am just a girl, and of no use. And Austin is not grown-up yet. Oh, Miss Carlyon, is there no work I can do? I think I could take care of children, and I would do anything.”
“Dear Frances, you are so young to leave home.”
“Should I have to leave home? I don’t think I could bear to go quite away among strangers. What would Austin do?”
“What, indeed? And how could your mother part from her only daughter? Your place is at home, darling.”
“I don’t know,” said Frances in a shaky voice. “I don’t seem much good to Mamma; and perhaps, after all, Austin would not mind now. He does not want me as he used to.”
“How is that?” asked Miss Carlyon gently, while she stroked the girl’s bent head.
“It is because I am different,” said Frances dejectedly. “I have been mean and horrid, and Austin knows.”
Muriel Carlyon remained silent, half-expecting that her young favourite would open her heart, and give her confidence to her friend. But Frances’s tongue was tied by her promise to her mother; though, in this time of trial, when sight seemed clearer and duty plainer, she did long to cast away the burden of deceit and tell the truth before all the world.
“Do you think anyone would take me as a nursery governess, Miss Carlyon?” asked the girl presently.
“No, dear, I do not. People do not engage little maids of fourteen for posts of responsibility.”
“I am nearly fifteen. Of course I know that is not old, but I could put up my hair.”
Muriel replied with a loving kiss.
“I might try a grey wig,” suggested Frances, throwing her arms round her friend; “and spectacles, you know,—like a girl in a story-book.”
“Even then, I am afraid, you would be nothing but a dear young lass, by no means formidable enough to pose as a governess.”
“You are formidable,” said Frances, hugging Miss Carlyon close. “And your hair is not grey, but pretty brown curls; and you look, oh! ever so young and jolly! It cheers me up just to see you.”
“Have that cheer as often as you will, darling; and believe it doesn’t make troubles lighter to meet them with a gloomy face.”
“Ah! that’s what Florry says.”
“Florry is a first-rate philosopher—an unconscious preacher, too, of the gospel of plain living and high thinking.”
“I’ll tell you how she argues—you know she loves to argue. This is exactly what she said:—‘If you don’t have such a big house, you needn’t mind, for you can’t be in more than one room at a time. And if you don’t have grand dinners, you needn’t mind, for boys and girls come in only for dessert, and grown-ups just have indigestion. And if you’ve only one best frock and one worst one, you needn’t mind, for it will save the bother of thinking what you’ll put on.’ It sounds quite sensible, really. I don’t think I do mind being poor, for myself. Just for Mamma and Austin.”
“Perhaps Mamma and Austin may learn to be equally philosophical. At all events, dear, you can go on trying to show them the bright side of things.”
“If there were a bright side!” said Frances. “I must try to see it myself first.”
“Suppose I could help you there?” said Muriel, smiling rather oddly.
“Could you?”
“Well—think. Since the sad day of your trial, dear, which of your friends have been most eager to seek you out—which have been careful to hold aloof?”
Muriel watched the changing expression of the girl’s intelligent face.
“Ah!” said Frances at last, in a low, happy voice, “I know what you mean. Thank you, Miss Carlyon. Of course you knew, you could not help seeing, how the girls I used to like the best have seemed, ever since Christmas, to be far jollier without me.”
“Only because you made them believe that you were jollier without them.”
“Did I?” said Frances, with real surprise. “I thought it was because I was dull and stupid. So I tried to make friends with the others, but it never seemed the same. And now all my old chums have come back to me, and the new ones have stayed away. Oh, yes, Miss Carlyon, there is a bright side. Only, I didn’t know where to look for it.”
It was the evening of the third day before the one on which Elveley, and the major portion of its contents, were to be put up to auction. Mrs. Morland sat alone in her private sitting-room; a small and beautifully-furnished apartment where, during the last weeks, she had hidden herself from all eyes which she considered malicious or inquisitive. She knew she was not a popular woman; but she had preferred to mere popularity the more exclusive gratification which could be obtained by a determined and successful insistence on superiority. So long as she could be a leader, Mrs. Morland cared not whether her train followed her willingly or not. Thus, among her acquaintances, she had not tried to make a single friend.
The disaster which would have been heavy to most women was appalling to her. So far, she had refused to face facts, and had met her children’s timid protests either with indifference or anger. But that very afternoon, the boy and girl—coming hand in hand, for mutual encouragement—had made a fresh attempt to persuade her to listen to them; and though she had fairly driven them away by her harsh and bitter replies, she had not been able to forget the wretchedness in their young faces. It was true, of course, what they had said: in three days they would have no roof to cover their heads.
Austin, on leaving his mother, rushed to the stable, had his pony saddled, and galloped off to Rowdon. He had promised that his brother should know that day how matters stood; and it seemed to Austin that matters were at desperation-point.
Mrs. Morland remained alone. Round her were the evidences of her lost prosperity, and her eyes roved from one to another of her possessions, while her brain worked busily, and her long, slender fingers played with the pretty toys on a delicately-carved and inlaid table by her side. The children’s appeal had at last roused her, and consternation was taking the place of lethargy. Frances had implored her to speak: but after all, what could she say? What refuge was open to her, that pride could let her accept? More than one of her neighbours—the Rector first of them—had courteously offered her and her children a temporary home; but the idea of lingering on in Woodend, an object of careless pity to those whom she had compelled to a certain admiration, was hateful, even insupportable, to the suffering woman.
Her thoughts were still dwelling on what seemed to her an indignity impossible of endurance, when a servant brought a visitor to her door, and left him, at his own request, to enter unannounced.
“Who’s that?” demanded Mrs. Morland sharply, as the figure of young Jim Morland began to take shape in the distant shadows of the room.
Jim stepped forward, and with a word of greeting quietly proclaimed himself. He had been warned by Austin of the mood in which he was likely to find his stepmother; and the latent chivalry of his nature was now prepared to resist all inclinations towards impatience or resentment. In Jim’s simple creed a woman’s misfortune rendered her sacred.
“Please forgive me for venturing, Madam,” began the lad respectfully; “I’m feared you’ll not be over-pleased as I should come just now. I’m here because Austin told me of your trouble, and I wanted to see what I could do.”
“What you could do!” exclaimed Mrs. Morland, remembering bitterly enough that her stepson was of age now; that, had she treated him justly, and made over to him the share of his father’s property which was morally his right when he reached his majority, he would have been able, and probably willing, to help her to good purpose. “What can you do, pray? Take my son, and teach him the trade of a blacksmith?”
“He has pluck enough,” replied Jim gently. “And he would think it no shame to do aught which would help you or his sister. But of course that’s for me to do. I am the eldest: and—though I feel sore-like to vex you, Madam,—I’ve come now to claim my rights.”
“Your rights?” queried Mrs. Morland, thinking of her husband’s lost thousands.
“Yes. I’ve waited—knowing as you and Missy thought shame of me—to see if you had better plans. But now I’ve come, because my brother and sister are in need of someone to care for them.” Jim moved nearer, and laid his strong brown hand on the dainty inlaid table: Mrs. Morland almost shivered to see it there. “I claim the right to care for them. Madam, this time you can’t say me nay—it is my right.”
“My good boy,” said Mrs. Morland petulantly, “don’t try to be bombastic if you want me to hear you out. Please say what you have come to say, as quickly as you can.”
“I’d best be quick,” said Jim, unmoved; “for I doubt not you are tired and worried: and if I could”—the lad’s eyes rested softly on his stepmother’s hard-drawn features—“I’d like to bring you some ease. You know as I’ve a little house, Madam. ’Tis a small place, but tidy-like; and there’s a big orchard behind. And since my brother and sister must soon leave their home, I’d have them come to mine and be king and queen of it. I’d be proud to see them there.”
“No doubt,” said Mrs. Morland grimly; “but the joys of cottage life are not quite in their line.”
“Madam,” said Jim earnestly, “you must listen to me now. The others are too young to do aught, and it’s not for them to feel the world’s roughness. You do not like as folks should know their brother’s just a blacksmith and the home he has to offer them just a poor cottage. I do not say as that’s not reason in a way, and no fault of yours. But if, when this place is sold, you will not let me take them to Rowdon, where are they to go?”
Mrs. Morland sat still awhile, without replying, while her fingers tapped nervously the polished surface of the little table. Her demeanour had changed somewhat during Jim’s brief speech, for she had been obliged to recognize that his words were the expression of his heart’s true feeling, and that she had now no hard or revengeful nature to deal with. However unworthy might be her estimate of the causes which prompted Jim’s present attitude, she began to see in the lad possibilities that would render more tolerable the necessity for owning him.
“Where are they to go?” asked Jim again, with increased gentleness.
“They will go with me,” said Mrs. Morland bitterly, “to the workhouse, I suppose!”
“They will go with you, of course,” said Jim, leaning forward, and speaking in a tone of the most persuasive softness his peasant tongue could command. “What would they do without you? But I’ve a home for you all at Rowdon—and—indeed, I’ll make it as trim as I can.”
He glanced at the beautiful and costly things about him, and sighed inwardly. His common-sense taught him that a woman who had been bred amid such surroundings could hardly be contented at Rowdon Smithy. When Jim Morland pressed his invitation on his stepmother, he guessed that he was passing sentence on all his future peace of mind. With his brother and sister alone, he might have hoped, some day, to be happy: they were very young, and youth readily accepts its circumstances. Austin, at least, would quickly have been at home. But Frances!—Jim wondered if he could bear the daily sight of his sister’s shrinking repugnance; and how might he ever hope to overcome it while Frances remained under the influence of this suspicious, ungracious nature?
“I’ll do my best,” continued the lad gravely; “and mayhap Rowdon will serve for a home till I can earn more and provide a better. Come, then, Madam, if it please you; and the children will make it home-like.”
The impulse to believe the best of Jim, to give him the credit of a magnanimous proposal, was stronger with Mrs. Morland at that moment than she could have imagined. Some words of acknowledgment were rising to her lips when her eyes lighted on her stepson’s rough hand, so near her own delicate fingers, and in a rapid glance she noted his rustic dress, while her pride rose passionately at the thought of recognizing him as a kinsman. Her better instincts were choked at once by a sensation of overwhelming dislike and scorn. Mrs. Morland knew that she was ungenerous; but she easily persuaded herself that, without loss of self-respect, she could deal to Jim a certain measure of fairness in compensation for lack of generosity. He would be satisfied, no doubt, if, in return for the refuge he offered, she gave him the name but not the place of a son.
“If I go to Rowdon,” she said deliberately, “you will, of course, expect me to acknowledge your identity as my husband’s child?”
Jim flushed deeply: his stepmother’s words contained a hint of motive on his part which he had a right to resent.
“I make no bargains, Madam!” said the young workman sternly. “Come to Rowdon, and call me what you please.”
“You have claimed your ‘rights’ as a brother,” said Mrs. Morland, smiling slightly; “and besides, my friends are, as you know, not so dull as to believe I should go by choice to live at Rowdon Smithy, or that you offered me a home there out of pure benevolence. Perhaps, James,” she continued more seriously, “we shall understand each other better if we do strike a bargain. We can put the matter on a business footing between ourselves, and leave the rest of the world to supply the sentiment. Well, then, I accept your offer of a temporary home: in return, I agree to place in the Rector’s hands a written acknowledgment of your right to bear your father’s name.”
“Madam,” said Jim coldly, his patience strained to the uttermost, “you know right well as I’ve the means of proving who I am, if so be as I wanted to do it, without a word from you. ’Twas to save you and Missy what you held to be shame that I’ve kept so long a name as was never really my own. There’ll be no bargaining on my side. Call me East or Morland as it pleases you; I’ll count your wish as it might be my father’s, and be your son or not as you choose. I’ll not presume on your choice either way,” added Jim, borrowing for once a little of his companion’s bitterness; “I’m not likely to forget as you’d never give me a mother’s love.... I’d not expect it, neither,” he went on, recovering his softer speech, “no more than I look for Missy to remember as it’s not my fault I’m just a rough fellow. The little lad ... the little lad”—Jim’s brave voice trembled—“he’s different: he sees through things somehow.... Madam,” finished Jim, looking straight at his stepmother, “I think the world of the little lad!”
“Boys are so ready to make friends,” said Mrs. Morland, moved in spite of her prejudices, and striving to shake off an uncomfortable sense of defeat. “Well, James, I am not so insensible of your good intentions as you fancy. I never was quick to give affection, so you need not take it amiss if I am not demonstrative. I dare say we shall manage to put up with one another. Whether as part of a bargain or not, I shall certainly desire that you be known for the future by your proper name. And perhaps,” added the speaker, as the better side of her nature asserted itself, “you ma