THE OLD OR THE NEW?
Thirty years before the date of my story, Braxton Murray and Alan
Prescott were college friends. Braxton was a gentleman commoner of
Christchurch; Alan, a scholar of Wadham. Braxton had four hundred
a-year allowance from his father, and the direct succession to one of
the richest estates in Kent. Alan had his scholarship, seventy pounds
a-year exhibition from a country foundation-school, and another fifty
allowed him by his uncle. The disparity between the positions of the
two young men was vast, but they were thoroughly attached to each
other; and when Braxton had succeeded his father, and the old vicar of
Havering died, Braxton Murray sent for Alan Prescott, then doing duty
as a curate and usher in a suburban school, and presented him with the
vicarage of Havering. That was a happy time in both their lives; the
income of the Vicar was small, certainly, but so was the parish, and
the duties were light; and having only himself, his wife, and a son
and daughter to provide for, and being constantly in the receipt of
presents from his friend and patron, the Rev. Alan Prescott did very
well indeed. Situate in the heart of Kent, no prettier spot than
Havering can be found; and Brooklands, the squire's place, is the gem
of the county. In the bay-window of the old dining-room, overhanging
the fertile valley through which the Medway lies like a thread of
silver, the two men would sit drinking their claret, discussing old
university chums or topics of the day, and pausing occasionally to
look at the gambols of the Vicar's son, Jim, and the Squire's only
daughter, Emily, who were the merriest of little lovers. But as years
went by, and the Vicar's family steadily increased,--first by twin
girls, then by a bouncing boy, and finally by a little crippled
girl,--and as, each year, expenses grew heavier, Alan Prescott was
somewhat put to it to obtain the necessary connexion of those two
ends, the means of bringing which together puzzles so many of us all
our lives; and when the governors of the foundation-school where he
had been usher, remembering his abilities, wrote to offer him the
vacant headmastership, he was too poor to refuse it. Duff borough, a
big, staring, gaunt, manufacturing town, perched on one of the
bleakest of the northern hills, was a bad exchange for beaming little
Havering, with its smiling orchards and glorious hop-gardens; and the
society of the purse-proud, cold, stuck-up calico-men was
heartbreaking after the ease and warmth of Braxton Murray's
companionship. But Alan Prescott felt the spurs of need, and buckled
to his work like a man. An active correspondence was kept up between
him and the Squire of Havering; and occasionally,--once in the course
of four or five years, perhaps,--he had spent a week at Brooklands;
but it was too expensive to remove his family; and consequently, until
that evening in Saxe-Coburg Square James Prescott had not seen Emily
Murray since they were children together, playing out in the old
dining-room at Brooklands.
Emily Murray had been a pretty child; had become a beautiful girl.
There was no doubt about her; one look into those honest brown eyes
would have convinced you that she was thorough. A plump rosy-rounded
bud of woman; a thoroughly English girl, void of affectation, conceit,
and trickery; clean, clear, honest, wholesome, and loving. As she
talked to James Prescott of the old days at Havering, she spoke out
freely, referring to bygone gambols and fun with frank laughter and
many a humorous reminiscence; and when she suggested his joining their
riding-party the next day, she looked him straight in the face without
the smallest shadow of entanglement or guile. To her own brother her
manner had not been different, Prescott thought, as, after they had
parted, he recalled every word, every glance; and he wished for a
moment that there had been something different in it, a trifle more
tenderness, a hand-pressure, a sly upward glance, or--and then he
flung such nonsense behind him, and was delighted to remember the
warmth of her recognition, the cheeriness of her chat. She was nothing
to him, of course; his doom was fixed; he had loved, and--and yet how
pretty she was! how perfectly gloved! how charmingly dressed! what a
pleasure it was to feel that you were talking to a lady! to know that
no slanginess would offend the eye, no questionable _argot_ grate upon
the ear; to feel that--and then Mr. Prescott remembered how the idol
of his soul had called him "Jim," ay, and "old buffer;" how she had
smoked cigars, and used maledictions towards refractory animals; how
there had been all kinds of odd discussions about all kinds of odd
people before her; and how he had seen men take wine without stint,
and smoke cigars in her face, and wear their bats before her, without
the smallest self-restraint. And, smoking a final pipe before turning
into bed, Mr. Prescott pondered on these things long and earnestly.
Mr. Prescott found a warm welcome awaiting him. Mrs. Wilmslow had been
impressed with his manners and appearance, and old Mr. Murray had a
yearning for the friend of his youth, and longed to receive that
friend's son with open arms. A hale pleasant gentleman, Mr. Murray,
with that wonderful cleanliness which is never seen out of England,
with polished bald head fringed with iron-gray hair, ruddy complexion,
keen little blue eyes, and brilliant teeth. He wore a slipper on his
right foot, but hobbled forward, nevertheless, and gave the young man
a hearty shake of the hand.
"Glad to see you, Jim! Little Jim you were; but, by Jove! I should
not like to carry you on my back now, as I have done many a time.
Very glad to see you! Old times come again, by George! Trace every
feature of your face, and can almost see Magdalen tower behind your
back--you're so like your father. How's the Vicar, eh? I'll drag him
out of that infernal spinning-jenny place yet, and give him a breather
across the home-copse at Havering before next season's over."
Prescott said that his father was well and jolly, but scarcely up to
shooting now, he had had so little practice lately.
"So much the more reason we should give it him, then! He used to be a
crack shot; one of the few men I've seen shoot a brace of woodcock
right and left! And walk! by George, he'd walk me into--has he had any
gout?"
"Not yet, sir;--a threatening last year."
"Bravo!" roared the old gentleman; "I've got some 20-port that shall
bring that threatening to real effect, if he'll only drink enough of
it. And to think that Pussy should have found you out!"
"Pussy?" said Mr. Prescott.
"Emily, of course! a wayward gentle puss who never shows her claws!"
and at that moment Emily entered the room, and advanced towards
Prescott with frank smile and outstretched hand.
Luncheon passed off pleasantly enough. The old gentleman rattled on
incessantly, and availed himself of Prescott's presence, and Mrs.
Wilmslow's distracted attention consequent thereupon, to take three
bumpers of dry sherry, instead of that one half-glass to which, by
doctor's orders, he was so strictly relegated. Mrs. Wilmslow was
thoroughly charmed with Prescott, led him on to talk of his home-life,
of his office friends, and seemed to regard him with real interest.
Emily was less talkative than she had been the previous evening, and
seldom looked up from the table; but she joined readily in the
conversation, and none were too pleased when the horses were
announced.
"Got a horse, Jim?" asked the Squire. "That's right! hope it'll carry
you all right, though one never knows any thing about these hired
hacks. You might have ridden the cob, if I'd known you'd been coming
earlier! This is his third day's rest, and the cob will be about as
fresh as paint when I get across him again. Not that I care much for
your Rotten-Row riding--dull work that, up and down, up and down! The
Vicar and I--we used to go to work in a little more business-like
fashion than that! I suppose he never gets a day's run now? Ah!
thought not! Those spinning-jenny locals would think it unprofessional
for a parson to follow hounds, eh? There, bless you, pussy! good-by,
child! and good-by to you, young Jim! Call here again in a day or two,
and we'll settle about your coming to Havering in the vacation--and
the Vicar too, d'ye hear?"
"I'm getting rather nervous about my responsibility, Miss Murray,"
said Prescott, as they passed through into the hall. "I don't think
I've forgotten my old knack of mounting. You needn't fear my not
lifting you high enough, or jerking you over the side, I mean; but
I've never seen your amazonship yet, and if any thing should happen--"
"Oh, don't fear that, James--Mr. Prescott, I mean!" said Emily with a
clear ringing laugh. "You'll mount me rightly enough, I know:
and as for looking after me afterwards, I forgot to tell you my
riding-mistress would be with us."
"Your riding-mistress!" but as he spoke, the footman threw open the
street-door; and the first thing that met his glance was a well-known
figure sitting erect on a black thoroughbred. Kate Mellon! no one
else. James Prescott had watched too often the rounded outline of that
compact figure, the fall of that dark-blue skirt, the _pose_ of that
neat little chimney-pot hat, under which the gold-shot hair was massed
in a clump behind, not to recognise them all at the first glance. Kate
Mellon, by all that was marvellous! Two young ladies, also mounted,
were with her; and a groom was leading another horse, with a
side-saddle on it for Emily Murray, and another groom was leading the
very presentable hack which Prescott had engaged from Allen's. As she
caught sight of Prescott, Kate gave one little scarcely-perceptible
start, and then saluted Miss Murray with uplifted whip. Prescott swung
Emily to her saddle, and the cavalcade started.
"You see I have brought a cavalier, Miss Mellon," said Emily, with a
smile; "though I don't know whether such an encumbrance is
permissible; but this is Mr. Prescott, whom I have known for a very
long time. James, this is Miss Mellon, who is good enough to
superintend my clumsiness on horseback, and who is the very star of
horsewomen herself."
Kate started a little at the "James," but merely repeated the whip
salutation, and said, "Mr. Prescott and I have met before, Miss
Murray. Besides, you're coming it too strong about yourself! you're
quite able to take care of yourself now, and have no clumsiness left,
whatever you might have had at first. This has relieved me of some of
my charge; for these two young ladies will want all my eyes, and
another to spare, if I had it. Perhaps you'll not mind my riding
forward with them, and you and Mr. Prescott can follow us; you're both
of you to be trusted--with your horses, I mean!" and she smiled
shortly, and cantering on, joined the anonymous young ladies in front.
You see it is perfectly right to tell a man who is desperately smitten
with you that he is on the wrong tack; that though you have a great
regard for him as a friend, you cannot reciprocate his love-passion;
and that the whole affair is ill-judged, and should properly be put a
stop to at once. But when you come upon him suddenly, within three
weeks, evidently consoling himself by dangling at the heels of another
woman--well, there is something provoking in it, to say the least!
Kate Mellon was thoroughly honest during all that last interview with
Prescott in Rotten Row, but she scarcely expected _this_.
So they rode on in two divisions; and the young ladies in front, who
were the daughters of a picture-dealer who had recently risen from
nothing, and who were in the greatest state of fright at the
unaccustomed exercise, were surprised to find a tone of asperity at
first tinging their mistress's instructions at being told of their
rounded shoulders and their heavy hands, in far plainer terms than had
been hitherto employed. But this severity gradually subsided as they
went on, and as Kate thought to herself how all was for the best, and
how, instead of being annoyed, she ought to do every thing she could
to help the fortunes of one who had been so staunchly gallant to her,
until he was repulsed. As for the couple behind, they got on
splendidly; Emily looked to the greatest advantage on horseback; and
Prescott could scarcely take his eyes from her as he watched the
graceful manner in which she sat her horse, and as he listened
to the encomiastic remarks which her appearance extracted from the
passers-by. He talked to her of the old days, and she answered without
an ounce of coquetry or affectation; and she spoke of her father, of
her happiness in her home, of the little simple duties and pleasures
in their village, and of other little suchlike matters, in an honest
way that touched James Prescott deeply, and sent purer, calmer
thoughts into his heart than had found lodging there for many months.
After a couple of hours in the Row the party returned to Mrs.
Wilmslow's, where Emily bade them farewell, and Prescott also
alighted, giving up his horse to the groom waiting for it. Kate Mellon
saw her other pupils to their home close by, and then turned into the
Row again, intending to have one final gallop on her way to The Den.
She was at full speed when she heard the dull thud of a horse's hoofs
close behind her, and turning saw Mr. Simnel. In a minute he was by
her side.
"How d'ye do, Kate?" said he, reining-in his big hunter; "I came on
the chance of seeing you here."
"How do, Simnel?" said Miss Mellon, shortly; "what do you want?"
"I want you to say when I can come up to The Den and have
half-an-hour's chat with you, Kate."
"And I tell you, never! as I've told you before. Look here, Simnel,"
said she, pulling up short; "let's have this out now. I don't like
you; I never did, and I never shall! and I don't want you at my place.
Do you understand?"
"Perfectly," said Simnel, with a hard smile; "and yet I think I must
come. I want to say something specially particular to you."
"What about? What you've said before? About yourself?"
"No," said Simnel, smiling as before; "I never say things twice over.
I want to talk to you about a friend of ours--Charles Beresford."
"Charles Beresford?--what of him?"
"That's just what I propose to come and tell you."
Their eyes met. The next instant Kate cast hers down as she said, "I
shall be at home on Friday from two till six. You can come then."
"You may depend on me," said Simnel; "I'll not bore you any longer."
He raised his hat with perfect politeness, turned his horse, and rode
slowly away.