Produced by Sandra Laythorpe. HTML version by Al Haines.
DYNEVOR TERRACE:
OR
THE CLUE OF LIFE.
BY
CHARLOTTE M. YONGE.
THE AUTHOR OF 'THE HEIR OF REDCLYFFE'
CONTENTS
I. CHARLOTTE.
II. AN OLD SCHOOLMISTRESS.
III. LOUIS LE DEBONNAIRE.
IV. THISTLE-DOWN.
V. THE TWO MINISTERS.
VI. FAREWELLS.
VII. GOSSAMER.
VIII. A TRUANT DISPOSITION.
IX. THE FAMILY COMPACT.
X. THE BETTER PART OF VALOUR.
XI. A HALTING PROPOSAL.
XII. CHILDE ROLAND.
XIII. FROSTY, BUT KINDLY.
XIV. NEW INHABITANTS.
XV. MOTLEY THE ONLY WEAR.
XVI. THE FRUIT OF THE CHRISTMAS-TREE
XVII. THE RIVALS.
XVIII. REST FOR THE WEARY.
XIX. MOONSHINE.
XX. THE FANTASTIC VISCOUNT.
XXI. THE HERO OF THE BARRICADES.
XXII. BURGOMASTERS AND GREAT ONE-EYERS.
VOLUME I
Who wisdom's sacred prize would win,
Must with the fear of God begin;
Immortal praise and heavenly skill
Have they who know and do His will.
New Version.
CHAPTER I.
CHARLOTTE.
Farewell rewards and fairies,
Good housewives now may say,
For now foul sluts in dairies
May fare as well as they.
BP. CORBET.
An ancient leafless stump of a horse-chesnut stood in the middle of a
dusty field, bordered on the south side by a row of houses of some
pretension. Against this stump, a pretty delicate fair girl of
seventeen, whose short lilac sleeves revealed slender white arms, and
her tight, plain cap tresses of flaxen hair that many a beauty might
have envied, was banging a cocoa-nut mat, chanting by way of
accompaniment in a sort of cadence--
'I have found out a gift for my fur,
I have found where the wood-pigeons breed;
But let me the plunder forbear,
She will say--'
'Hollo, I'll give you a shilling for 'em!' was the unlooked-for
conclusion, causing her to start aside with a slight scream, as there
stood beside her a stout, black-eyed, round-faced lad, his ruddy cheeks
and loutish air showing more rusticity than agreed with his keen, saucy
expression, and mechanic's dress.
'So that's what you call beating a mat,' said he, catching it from her
hands, and mimicking the tender clasp of her little fingers. 'D'ye
think it's alive, that you use it so gingerly? Look here! Give it him
well!' as he made it resound against the tree, and emit a whirlwind of
dust. 'Lay it into him with some jolly good song fit to fetch a stroke
home with! Why, I heard my young Lord say, when Shakspeare was a
butcher, he used to make speeches at the calves, as if they was for a
sacrifice, or ever he could lift a knife to 'em.'
'Shakspeare! He as wrote Romeo and Juliet, and all that! He a
butcher! Why, he was a poet!' cried the girl, indignantly.
'If you know better than Lord Fitzjocelyn, you may!' said the boy.
'I couldn't have thought it!' sighed the maiden.
'It's the best of it!' cried the lad, eagerly. 'Why, Charlotte, don't
ye see, he rose hisself. Anybody may rise hisself as has a mind to it!'
'Yes, I've read that in books said Charlotte. 'You can, men can, Tom,
if you would but educate yourself like Edmund! in the _Old English
Baron_. But then, you know whose son you are. There can't be no
catastrophe--'
'I don't want none,' said Tom. 'We are all equal by birth, so the
orator proves without a doubt, and we'll show it one of these days. A
rare lady I'll make of you yet, Charlotte Arnold.'
'O hush, Tom, I can never be a lady--and I can't stand dawdling
here--nor you neither. 'Tisn't right to want to be out of our station,
though I do wish I lived in an old castle, where the maidens worked
tapestry, and heard minstrels, never had no stairs to scour. Come, give
me my mats, and thank you kindly!'
'I'll take 'em in,' said Tom, shouldering them. ''Tis breakfast-hour,
so I thought I'd just run up and ax you when my young Lord goes up to
Oxford.
'He is gone,' said Charlotte; 'he was here yesterday to take leave of
missus. Mr. James goes later--'
'Gone!' cried Tom. 'If he didn't say he'd come and see me at Mr.
Smith's!'
'Did you want to speak to him?'
'I wanted to see him particular. There's a thing lays heavy on my
mind. You see that place down in Ferny dell--there's a steep bank down
to the water. Well, my young Lord was very keen about building a kind
of steps there in the summer, and he and I settled the stones, and I
was to cement 'em. By comes Mr. Frost, and finds faults, what I
thought he'd no call to; so I flings down my trowel, and wouldn't go on
for he! I was so mortal angry, I would not go back to the work; and I
believe my Lord forgot it--and then he went back to college; and
Frampton and Gervas, they put on me, and you know how 'twas I come away
from Ormersfield. I was not going to say a word to one of that lot! but
if I could see Lord Fitzjocelyn, I'd tell him they stones arn't fixed;
and if the frost gets into 'em, there'll be a pretty go next time
there's a tolerablish weight! But there--it is his own look-out! If
he never thought it worth his while to keep his promise, and come and
see me--'
'O Tom! that isn't right! He only forgot--I hear Mrs. Beckett telling
him he'd forget his own head if it wasn't fixed on, and Mr. James is
always at him.'
'Forget! Aye, there's nothing gentlefolks forget like poor folks. But
I've done with he! Let him look out--I kept my promises to him long
enough, but if he don't keep his'n--'
'For shame, for shame, Tom! You don't mean it!' cried Charlotte. 'But,
oh!' with a different tone, 'give me the mat! There's the old Lord and
Mr. Poynings riding down the terrace!'
'I ain't ashamed of nothing!' said the lad, proudly; and as Charlotte
snatched away the mats, and vanished like a frightened hare, he stalked
along like a village Hampden, muttering, 'The old tyrant shall see
whether I'm to be trampled on!' and with both hands in his pockets, he
gazed straight up into the face of the grave elderly gentleman, who
never even perceived him. He could merely bandy glances with Poynings,
the groom, and he was so far from indifferent that he significantly
lifted up the end of his whip. Nothing could more have gratified Tom,
who retorted with a grimace and murmur, 'Don't you wish you may catch
me? You jealous syc--what is the word, sick of uncles or aunts, was
it, that the orator called 'em? He'd say I'd a good miss of being one
of that sort, and that my young Lord there opened my eyes in time. No
better than the rest of 'em--'
And the clock striking eight, he quickened his pace to return to his
work. He had for the two or three previous years been nominally under
the gardener at Ormersfield, but really a sort of follower and
favourite to the young heir, Lord Fitzjocelyn--a position which had
brought on him dislike from the superior servants, who were not
propitiated by his independent and insubordinate temper. Faults on
every side had led to his dismissal; but Lord Fitzjocelyn had placed
him at an ironmonger's shop in the town of Northwold, where he had been
just long enough to become accessible to the various temptations of a
lad in such a situation.
Charlotte sped hastily round the end of the block of buildings, hurried
down the little back garden, and flew breathlessly into her own
kitchen, as a haven of refuge, but she found a tall, stiff starched,
elderly woman standing just within the door, and heard her last words.
'Well! as I said, 'tis no concern of mine; only I thought it the part
of a friend to give you a warning, when I seen it with my own eyes!--
Ah! here she is!' as Charlotte dropped into a chair. 'Yes, yes, Miss,
you need not think to deceive me; I saw you from Miss Mercy's window--'
'Saw what?' faintly exclaimed Charlotte.
'You know well enough,' was the return. 'You may think to blind Mrs.
Beckett here, but I know what over good-nature to young girls comes to.
Pretty use to make of your fine scholarship, to be encouraging
followers and sweethearts, at that time in the morning too!'
'Speak up, Charlotte,' said the other occupant of the room, a pleasant
little brisk woman, with soft brown, eyes, a clear pale skin, and a
face smooth, in spite of nearly sixty years; 'speak up, and tell Mrs.
Martha the truth, that you never encouraged no one.'
The girl's face was all one flame, but she rose up, and clasping her
hands together, exclaimed--'Me encourage! I never thought of what Mrs.
Martha says! I don't know what it is all about!'
'Here, Jane Beckett,' cried Mrs. Martha; 'd'ye see what 'tis to
vindicate her! Will you take her word against mine, that she's been
gossiping this half hour with that young rogue as was turned off at
Ormersfield?'
'Tom Madison! cried the girl, in utter amaze. 'Oh! Mrs. Martha!'
'Well! I can't stop!' said Martha. 'I must get Miss Faithfull's
breakfast! but if you was under me, Miss Charlotte, I can tell you it
would be better for you! You'll sup sorrow yet, and you'll both
recollect my advice, both of you.'
Wherewith the Cassandra departed, and Charlotte, throwing her apron
over her face, began to cry and sob piteously.
'My dear! what is it now? exclaimed her kind companion, pulling down
her apron, and trying to draw down first one, then the other of the
arms which persisted in veiling the crimson face. 'Surely you don't
think missus or I would mistrust you, or think you'd take up with the
likes of him!'
'How could she be so cruel--so spiteful,' sobbed Charlotte, 'when he
only came to ask one question, and did a good turn for me with the
mats. I never thought of such a thing. Sweetheart, indeed! So cruel
of her!'
'Bless me!' said Jane, 'girls used to think it only civility to say
they had a sweetheart!'
'Don't, Mrs. Beckett! I hate the word! I don't want no such thing! I
won't never speak to Tom Madison again, if such constructions is to be
put on it!'
'Well, after all, Charlotte dear, that will be the safest way. You are
young yet, and best not to think of settling, special if you aren't
sure of one that is steady and religious, and you'd better keep
yourself up, and not get a name for gossiping--though there's no harm
done yet, so don't make such a work. Bless me, if I don't hear his
lordship's voice! He ain't never come so early!'
'Yes, he is,' said Charlotte, recovering from her sobs; 'he rode up as
I came in.'
'Well, to be sure, he is come to breakfast! I hope nothin's amiss with
my young Lord! I must run up with a cup and plate, and you, make the
place tidy, in case Mr. Poynings comes in. You'd better run into the
scullery and wash your face; 'tis all tears! You're a terrible one to
cry, Charlotte!' with a kind, cheering smile and caress.
Mrs. Beckett bustled off, leaving Charlotte to restore herself to the
little handy piece of household mechanism which kind, patient, motherly
training had rendered her.
Charlotte Arnold had been fairly educated at a village school, and
tenderly brought up at home till left an orphan, when she had been
taken into her present place. She had much native refinement and
imagination, which, half cultivated, produced a curious mixture of
romance and simplicity. Her insatiable taste for reading was
meritorious in the eyes of Mrs. Beckett, who, unlearned herself,
thought any book better than 'gadding about,' and, after hearing her
daily portion of the Bible, listened to the most adventurous romances,
with a sense of pleasure and duty in keeping the girl to her book.
She loved the little fragile orphan, taught her, and had patience with
her, and trusted the true high sound principle which she recognised in
Charlotte, amid much that she could not fathom, and set down
alternately to the score of scholarship and youth.
Taste, modesty, and timidity were guards to Charlotte. A broad stare
was terror to her, and she had many a fictitious horror, as well as
better-founded ones. Truly she said, she hated the broad words Martha
had used. One who craved a true knight to be twitted with a
sweetheart! Martha and Tom Madison were almost equally distasteful, as
connected with such a reproach; and the little maiden drew into
herself, promenaded her fancy in castles and tournaments, kept under
Jane's wing, and was upheld by her as a sensible, prudent girl.