However, this concession was all that could be expected for the
present. It was more liberal, indeed, as Corisande confided to her new
friends, than she had hoped for, until the last moment.
Vanda was overjoyed at the idea of having a new friend more nearly of
her own age, and declared that nothing was now wanting to ensure her
perfect happiness. Australian friends would be forthcoming to complete
the house-party. If the weather was reasonable, the Hexham Hall
gathering would be one of the glories of the summer. Why, indeed,
should it not be a triumphant success?
The day—the great day—was fine. Such a glowing morn, tempered, as the
sun-dial advanced towards mid-day, with the deliciously modified shade
of groves which in olden days had seen the ‘green gloom’ of their
depths invaded by the gleam of knightly armour. The Banneret girls,
who had become accustomed to the sumptuous leafage of the English
woodlands, were not so demonstrative as in their first experience.
But to Corisande, retaining only a dim, half-childish memory, it was
a revelation as of a new heaven, a new earth. The immense girth of
bole, the enormous spread of branch of the oaks, in the ‘King’s
Chase,’ amazed her. There, indeed, the legend ran, had ‘bluff King
Hal’ in person followed the deer. Here, beneath these leafy shades,
had he feasted with nobles, courtiers, and ladies fair. In fancy’s
ear, with cry of hound and huntsman’s hollo, the gay greenwood rang
and re-echoed. What joyous days were those! she thought. How much more
colour and light than in this sad-coloured, prosaic age!
This, in their hours of idleness, the young people were prone to
imagine, and, indeed, to assert, in hasty generalisation, untempered
by experience. On calmer retrospect they were, however, compelled to
admit that, in larger outlook, variety of occupation, and the wondrous
advance of scientific discovery, the moderns have immeasurably the
best of it. If the age no longer affords such romantic situations as
when
The Knight looked down from the Paynim Tower,
As a Christian Host, in its pride and power,
Through the pass beneath him wound,
we must admit that the captive with his ‘heavy chain’ despaired of
release by those ‘whom he loved with a brother’s heart, those in whose
wars he had borne a part, who had left him there to die.’
Sound again, clarion! clarion, pour thy blast!
Sound! for the captive’s dream of hope is past.
‘Can imagination depict a situation more hopeless, more deplorable?’
remarked Reggie, who now, reading for his ‘double first,’ thought
himself constrained to take the rational side of the argument.
‘I think Sterne’s prisoner is a close parallel,’ argued Eric. ‘What a
picture it is!’
‘But perhaps he had never been a knight,’ suggested Vanda, ‘so he
would not have had a past of gallant strife, with helm and charger and
nodding plume, to look back upon; perhaps not even a victory in the
lists, like Wilfred of Ivanhoe, with his opponent rolling in the sand,
and his ladye-love, amid the beauty and fashion (smart set of the
period) looking on. Would that have comforted him in his dungeon, or
otherwise, do you think?’
‘Rather hard to say. Who is the true heroine of that delightful novel
_Ivanhoe_?—as the lists of Ashby-de-la-Zouche are referred to.’
‘Rebecca, of course! Thackeray, in his inimitable ending of the novel,
absolutely destroys Rowena, who settled down as a worthy mate for the
doltish Athelstane.’
‘_Now_, look here, Reggie!’ said Eric impressively; ‘if once we get
fairly started on Sir Walter, we shall never get to the garden party,
or the great Hexham Hall revels, or, indeed, anywhere else in the
kingdom of fact and practical politics. Hadn’t we all better “split
and squander,” as they used to do in the old Border days, when they
had managed some particularly lawless deed of murder and rapine? We
shall have my mother reading the Riot Act (which she can do on
occasions, mild as she looks). I wouldn’t presume to dictate to Miss
Aylmer, as an honoured guest, entitled to respectful deference, but
would merely suggest that an adjournment to the scene of action, as
volunteers for the duties of preparation, would be safer for
her—indeed, for all of _us_.’
‘Come with me, Corie,’ said Vanda. ‘Hermie and I will protect you;
and, indeed, there is some sense in what Eric says—rarely as it
happens to be the case.’
They were just in time to be detailed for active service. Of course
the caterer-general had organised his forces, and was directing the
movements of his officers, not to mention the rank and file, of whom
there appeared to be hundreds. Still, it was necessary to have
aides-de-camp and attachés between the controlling powers and the
heads of departments, and for this important service the young
people—eager, intelligent, and alert—answered admirably. To be sure,
they had additional assistance, which could hardly be overestimated.
This contingent had arrived by train while they had been discussing
literary questions, and had at once been requisitioned by
Mrs. Banneret. Captain the Honourable Jack Aylmer, of the Guards, the
eldest son, heir to the title and lordship of Hexham, if but to little
else, was a steady, hard-working young officer, devoted to his
profession, who had been wounded in South Africa, and had gained the
proud privilege of having had the D.S.O. decoration attached to his
uniform by His Majesty King Edward in person, the while Lord Roberts
looked on approvingly. The sailor brother, Lieutenant the Honourable
Falkland Aylmer, whose ship the _Palmyra_ had happened to get over
from Malta about that time, dashed into action at once, and proved
himself to be the right man in the right place. Who does not know how
the ‘handy man’ can multiply his inventive talents, and communicate
his mesmeric quality at pinch of need? So when, on that wondrous
morning, the mid-summer sun, all goldenly defiant of meadow mists and
woodland shadows, irradiated the scene, Hermione, Vanda, and their
young friends were satisfied, even exultant, though occasionally
tremulous lest anything important had been overlooked.
But as the programme had been considered and debated, submitted to the
host and hostess over and over again, there was little risk of such
mischance occurring.
Twelve o’clock had been mentioned as the hour when the sports would
begin, but long before mid-day all entrances to the park were crowded
with a continuous stream of country people. As they arrived, they were
taken in charge by the land steward and persons in authority under
him, who disposed them in groups, so that they should diverge to
different localities in the park and chase. There, under the shade of
immemorial elms and oaks, might they rest and recreate after the long
walk which, no doubt, many of them had taken.
Every kind of game, with due forethought, had been arranged for, and
prizes made ready for proficiency in those rustic sports, to excel in
which, since earliest Saxon days, had been the pride of rural England.
Running and leaping, wrestling, cricket, single-stick, and football
were all duly provided for. Scores of athletic youths contested
eagerly. The adjudging of the prizes gave general satisfaction, while
their unusual quality and value elicited hearty praise.
For the village lasses, similar contests and excitements were not
wanting. These were of a gentler kind, tending to improvement in the
domestic arts: needlework in all its branches, as expressed in the
making and repairing of garments for children and others of the
household. For girls under fourteen, and those under sixteen, foot
races were got up, which tested the pace and staying power of the
younger damsels. These had always been popular contests, and could not
have been omitted from the programme without causing dissatisfaction.
Skipping, rounders, and hockey were not neglected, though at this last
exercise occasional falls provoked the mirth of the bystanders, and a
black eye or two, with other bruises, bore witness to the earnestness
of the competing sides. The young men rode at the quintain, wrestled,
boxed, pole-jumped, and tent-pegged, played at bowls, and revived the
ancient game of quarter-staff. Last, not least, the prize for archery,
a handsome and valuable one, aroused such feelings of emulation in the
Dianas of the Hexham and West Essex Clubs as had not been known since
the celebrated match which Lady Hexham recalled, in the days of her
youth, when she was a noted performer, and princes and nobles
contended for the honour of collecting her arrows. To conclude the
day’s entertainment there were hack and pony races, hurdles and
steeplechases. These last, Australian innovations, were, however,
modified by restriction of the men and horses to the families of
tenants on the estate who took an interest in the nearest pack of
hounds, and found it pay to school a promising four-year-old, likely
to bring a good price at the beginning of the next season.
The invitation committee had extended the list over a fairly wide
social range. Besides the squirearchy of the county and the
neighbouring gentry, the farmers and tradespeople, the tenants with
their families, and their visitors too, came as a matter of right.
There was room, and a welcome for all. It was hoped that no one who
had worked in the fields, or on the grounds of Hexham, would stay
away. And judging from the continuous march of people on foot and
horseback, in tax-carts, dog-carts, gigs, and waggons, very few did.
Soon after mid-day the immense tables, placed on tressels, were
covered, as if by magic, with viands of every sort, kind, and
description, arranged ready for the speedy consumption which it was
correctly assumed would take place. Products of the home farm and many
others were displayed, replaced, and continuously provided, in
never-ending profusion. Beer flowed as if from a fountain. The roast
beef of Old England in barons and sirloins, fish and fowl, mutton and
lamb, pork and veal, puddings and pies, fruit, cakes,—all these and
more were assiduously furnished for the banquet of which all present
were pressed and encouraged to partake.
While the rural contingent was judiciously dispersed and subdivided,
so as to prevent the assemblage of an unwieldy crowd, it had been
necessary, in the interest of settled order and good government, to
invite a selection of the leading families of this and adjacent
counties, to head the entertainment. The Duke of Dorlingham had
graciously honoured his invitation, while earls and barons, with a
proportion of baronets and long-descended country gentlemen, responded
cordially, so that the great marquee, erected some days previously,
under the personal supervision of a transatlantic firm of caterers,
well known in London, Brighton, and Australia, was filled with an
assemblage of aristocratic personages, from whose ranks but few
individuals of distinction in the county were absent.
The accessories left little to be desired. The cuisine was undeniable;
the waiting service at table was as nearly perfect as could be
accomplished at an _al fresco_ entertainment; the wines were
admittedly beyond criticism. The turf around the temporary structure
was in perfect condition; the branches of the great oaks waved
banner-like above the festive concourse:
The self-same shadows flecked the sward
In the days of good Queen Anne;
while within the enormous canvas walls, genuine enjoyment and
tempered hilarity commenced with the popping of the first champagne
cork, nor waned until the call for silence preceded that loyal toast
never absent from any festal function of importance in Britain or her
Colonies.
Then the Duke of Dorlingham rose in his place at the head of the
principal table. On his right sat Arnold Banneret, on his left the
Honourable Corisande Aylmer, flushed with the consciousness of youth
and beauty, heightened by the possession of an exalted position and
acknowledged distinction. The Duke had whispered his congratulations
to Corisande on their return to England under circumstances, he
trusted he might say, favourable to the future fortunes of his old
friend’s family.
‘Indeed, your Grace,’ said the girl, ‘I don’t think we could have had
a happier return to Hexham short of the dear old place being given
back to us. It is quite a fairy tale, and Mr. and Mrs. Banneret are
the angels of the story.’
‘I feel ready to believe it, my dear Corisande, and I hope when you
come to Dorlingham with your new friends to hear all about it. I trust
that Lady Hexham, whom I must see before I go, is quite well? But
these good folks have nearly finished cheering, so I must begin my
speech.’
‘He had always,’ his Grace said, ‘been in sincere sympathy with those
daring adventurers who, following in the wake of Drake and Raleigh,
Frobisher and Oxenham, had done so much for the glory and expansion of
England. His friend’s grandfather, finding the limits of our island
home insufficient, had sailed away in his own galley, a modern
Viking, across the Pacific Ocean, to the wider, unshared, half-unknown
lands under the Southern Cross, so late discovered, so rich in
promise. A voyager over uncharted seas, amid hostile tribes, he had
faced dangers, had encountered strange adventures, upon which he would
not at present dwell. It would suffice to say that he found there,
what he went so far to seek—a noble appanage to the Empire. (Cheers.)
A land where millions of British-born and British-descended people
were now living in peace, in comfort, and comparative affluence, under
conditions such as Englishmen had always demanded for themselves and
their families: conditions of equal laws, of well-paid industries—in
circumstances, too, giving hope of a still more prosperous future.
Their host, after securing an auriferous property of exceptional
richness, had decided to come “home,” as Australians wherever settled
still called Old England, in order to invest a portion of his capital
in the purchase of an English estate. Such returning colonists, he had
always held, were of the greatest possible advantage to the
mother-country—not to one class alone, but to all classes—by the
employment of labour, the circulation of capital, and, possibly, by
the introduction of new ideas. Men like their host, representative of
Newer Englands and Greater Britains beyond the seas, had helped to
build great cities and add vast tracts of fertile land to her ancient
sovereignty—to her newly consolidated Empire. They increased year by
year the volume of her trade and commerce, so world-wide and
far-stretching, the foundation on which so much of England’s “might,
majesty, and dominion” rested.
‘They might judge by what they had seen and enjoyed to-day, of what
value to the old country men like their worthy host were likely to be.
He would not weary them. He was not a man of words, but his friends
knew that what he said, he meant. His heart was in the toast which he
gave them; there was no need to ask them to drink it with all the
honours—their worthy host and hostess, with their amiable family and
friends’ (here he looked paternally at Corisande), ‘and long life to
them, to enjoy what they have so honourably gained, so liberally
used.’
Arnold Banneret stood up in his place and faced the great assemblage.
He looked around for a few seconds, permitting the applause which had
followed the Duke’s peroration to die down. He met his wife’s gaze,
half-proud, half-overcome by mingled feelings. He read the expression
on her countenance, with the tear which dimmed her eye but did not
fall. He knew that she was recalling the days of hard endeavour—the
doubts at times, almost the despair, which had clouded early days in
their chequered life, and now as he stood there, with plaudits
resounding in his honour, his heart swelled high with natural pride
and satisfaction.
‘My Lord Duke, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘it would be
insincere for me to deny that I feel intensely the compliment, I
may say the honour, paid me by his Grace and this distinguished
and representative assemblage.
‘That the work is hard, the privations severe, in the pioneer’s life
may not be denied; but the difficulties, though grave, are not greater
than thousands of Britons have been willing to encounter in the
pursuit of fame and fortune, and, thank God! are still willing for
such prizes to risk all that men hold dear. In the mysterious lottery
of life there is no denying the presence of an element known as
Chance, defying all calculation, and turning the balance to success or
failure. “The race,” as they all knew, “was not always to the swift,
nor the battle to the strong.” They had the warrant of Holy Writ for
that. In his own experience he had seen it often exemplified. Of his
comrades, one of the boldest explorers, one of the most capable
pioneers of the Great West Australian desert, survived but to fall a
victim in later years to the arrow of a Nigerian savage; another not
less dauntless, and, in time of need, patient of hunger, thirst, and
all but the direst extremity of famine, a master of woodcraft—ever
tireless, cheerful, and inventive, lay beneath South African sands.
But why dwell on failure or disaster—on history as old as humanity?
He, by God’s grace, had _not_ failed, but stood there to-day—not
proud, not vainglorious, but grateful to the bottom of his heart for
that Divine mercy which had shielded him in danger and distress, in
the dreary days when he lay under the shadow of death. And, next to
the interposition of Divine Providence, was he indebted to the lady
who sat by Sir Piers Hazelwood, his dear, constant, faithful wife,
who had nursed him in sickness, cheered him in misfortune, and been
bravest and most steadfast in the darkest hour before dawn.
(Continuous cheering.) He would say, in conclusion, that he recognised
the exceptional good fortune which had come to him, less for his
personal advantage, than for the power it gave of benefiting his
fellow-creatures, and relieving those less fortunately circumstanced.’
(Tremendous cheering.)
Other toasts were given—other speeches made. Due honour was paid to
Lady Hexham, by personal friends and acquaintances of the family, many
of whom had come far to greet her. She was visibly affected, and
though actuated naturally by conflicting feelings, declared to
Mrs. Banneret that she never expected to feel so happy again. As for
Hermione and Vanda, they kept assuring their mother that they quite
realised all ‘the claims of long descent,’ and couldn’t think of
letting Corisande go back to Bruges. Mrs. Banneret was quite willing
to adopt her; Eric and Reggie followed suit; and so, with more happy
nonsense, ‘God save the King’ was struck up by the much-enduring band,
and the great assemblage commenced to disperse, homewardly intent.
But the summer day in the Northern Isles is long—the twilight extends
far into the night. There was a moon also; and the soft, warm mellow
eve lingered, hour after hour, till the last departing revellers were
safely lighted on their path. There was universal consensus of
opinion—genuinely, if variously, in some cases incongruously,
expressed—that it was many a year since there had been the like of it
at Hexham Hall; it was almost too good to be true that there would be
another such meeting next year. ‘Well, God bless Squire Banneret,
anyhow!’ was the benediction which mostly concluded the argument and
assertions. The summer day was spent, indeed the lingering twilight
had long invaded the scene, when the rearguard of the great host of
guests and revellers moved homeward, echoing in various forms of
speech the common sentiment of grateful appreciation. The drags and
carriages, phaetons and dog-carts, had rolled, and rattled, and
rumbled along the high roads and lanes hours before, but still the
rural visitors, chiefly on foot, thronged the pathways. Amid the
confused murmur of voices the dominant note of assent was the
declaration that the county had never seen such a treat before, so
thoroughly carried out in every detail, and that if, as was promised,
such an entertainment would be annual, the tenants and humbler
neighbours would have indeed cause to bless the day when the Bannerets
came among them.
As for the families, as represented by Lady Hexham, the Honourable
Corisande and her brothers, together with Mr. and Mrs. Banneret, with
their sons and daughters, there could not have been found a more
harmonious _rapprochement_ of the old order and the new. The girls
were frankly, genuinely fond of one another by this time, a feeling
which threatened to extend beyond the division of sex,—the Honourable
Falkland, who had recently been in command of a torpedo-destroyer,
paying rather marked attention to Hermione, and Miss Corisande
inclining to argumentative discussions with Reggie upon the relative
advantages, or otherwise, of old and new countries. Nothing had
advanced beyond the ordinary limits of friendliness; yet there were
signs and tokens, recognised by keen observers, that such positions
were, under favourable circumstances, capable of being permanently
strengthened.
As for the seniors, they were resting from their labours after the
exciting performance which had been successful beyond all expectation.
A series of leisurely rambles through the, as yet, untraversed beauty
spots of Britain had been considered as an autumnal engagement, in
which Lady Hexham consented, after a vain attempt to stem the tide of
opposition, as represented by the allied forces of untitled Hexham, to
permit her daughter to join. They could not, even she admitted, hope
to secure a more wise, experienced chaperon than Mrs. Banneret, not to
mention Mr. Banneret, who had been lauded, in his magisterial
capacity, for ‘admirable firmness and discretion’ under conditions
scarcely differentiated indeed from those of civil war. This being the
case, Lady Hexham gracefully assented, remarking that it appeared to
her quite time to return to her husband, and the rest of the family,
if she did not wish him to think her ashamed of their humble home at
Bruges. This view of the case appeared so painful, that Corisande
offered to return on the spot, but the proposal lapsed in default of
a seconder, or general moral support.
On the following day Lady Hexham left for home, previously assuring
Mrs. Banneret that she had enjoyed her visit more than she could have
possibly imagined, entirely through the kindness of Mrs. Banneret
herself, and her family; she never thought that their years of exile
could have ended with such a home-coming. It made amends in great
measure for the sorrow caused by their ruin, and gave hope for the
restoration of the family to its former position. Once it had appeared
hopeless, but now, on account of the fortunate sale of the estate, and
the unusual liberality of the purchaser, her most kind and generous
husband, they had hope of returning to England in a few years, under
brighter auspices. She asked her to believe that she was truly
grateful, and bade God bless her in the future, and all belonging to
her. So the ladies embraced and bade adieu; the one pleased to
recognise a warm heart and kindly feelings under an apparently cold
manner, and the other ready to uphold Australians as the most
warm-hearted, delicate-minded, delightful people on the face of the
earth.
* * * * *
‘All good things must come to an end,’ says the venerable adage, and
the Hexham Hall garden party was no exception to the ancient saw. The
summer was now at its height, the next change would be a decadent one,
after which the leaves would fall, and people begin to talk about
autumn winds, declining days, and other depressing subjects. Hence it
was necessary to arrange for whatever plan of travel the family
decided to carry out before winter was upon them, with its over-full
programme of dances, dinners, hunting fixtures, and other absolutely
necessary functions. The need for travel began to obtrude itself.
Young men and maidens, with their attendant parents and guardians (for
such indeed, nowadays, is the order in which the migration of families
must be described), began to talk of guides, alpenstocks, and other
foreign necessaries, the glories of the ascent of the Matterhorn, or
the panorama from the Rigi.
However, after a full and exhaustive survey of plans and projects, the
decision was practically unanimous in favour of Britain. So much had
been dared and done during the present year, that it was agreed not to
tempt the chances of foreign travel until a peaceful interval of
restful rambles in the ancestral mother-land had made them fully
conversant with all the scenes of interest, beauty, and historic fame,
with the leading characteristics of which their reading had made them
familiar.
The party of travel was to be commanded by Mr. and Mrs. Banneret:
efficient, conventional chaperonage being, of course, indispensable.
It was many years since the parents had enjoyed the opportunity of a
quiet progress through historic scenes, which their general culture
fitted them so eminently to enjoy. When they had the leisure, they had
been without the pecuniary facilities, without which tourists are
necessarily hampered. Now they were in possession of both. They left
Hexham, therefore, with the intention of enjoying to the fullest
extent the fortunate combination, which comes so rarely in this
troubled life of ours. The Hexham girls, titled and untitled, numbered
three—Hermione, Corisande, and Vanda. Two of these were abbreviated to
Corie and Hermie for the greater convenience of intimate friendly
converse, Vanda pleading that her name was sufficiently short, and
that ‘Van’ sounded rather Dutch. It was resolved to reserve this
weighty matter for the test of experience and time.
But little time was wasted after the preliminaries were agreed upon.
Something was said about following the route and the practice of some
latter-day Canterbury pilgrims, and walking from London to that
celebrated shrine. A party of Australian friends, not very dissimilar
in number and artistic taste, had done so some years since, sending on
their baggage by coach and rail to the terminus of each stage. But the
elders of this party dissented from the proposition.
In the first place, it was unnecessarily fatiguing; also expensive in
time. They had an extended tour to consider, and would find that,
although they claimed to be over the average, as pedestrians,
sufficient exercise would be provided before their return.
Moderate counsels prevailed, and though the younger division were
eager for the Pilgrim’s staff and Cockle-shell business, the rail and
coach party carried its amendment. After this, what was to be the
first objective? The Lakes—Windermere, Grasmere, the Wordsworth
country, Rydal Mount, and so on. Yes, decidedly.
They were fortunate in finding a decent hostelry near Grasmere, which
served as a _pied à terre_, whence they could sally forth into the
‘royaulme of faerye,’ and revel in memories of the glorious dead. Here
was the Poet’s ‘little nook of mountain ground,’ overlooking the Lake
of Grasmere. Here he lived for eight years, hither he brought his
bride—
The perfect woman, nobly planned
To warn, to comfort, and command,
with whom he lived, in purest love and unclouded happiness, even unto
his life’s end.
The inn was not pretentious; there was no crowd of tourists to conduce
to landlordly independence and the heightening of prices. But it was
delicately clean; host and hostess were thankful for the patronage of
such a company, and duly respectful. The view from their chamber
windows was extensive and romantic, commanding a prospect of the vale
of the Rothay and the distant waters of the Lake.
‘Now that breakfast is over,’ said Vanda—‘and, oh! what a lovely sleep
I had—and every one seems to have eaten enough to last till to-morrow
morning, I vote that we lose no time, but get over to Rydal Mount the
very first thing. Luckily the day is fine. I suppose we must walk?’
‘Walk? Why, of course!’ said Eric. ‘You don’t suppose we’ve come to
this jolly Lake country, with views, and sunrises, and suchlike
floating all about, to be jolted in the shandrydan of the period? It
will freshen us up after the riotous doings at Hexham, where we must
have given our constitutions rather “a nasty bump,” to say the least
of it.’
‘Don’t talk in that horrid mundane way,’ said Hermione, who was
verging on the sentimental, semi-poetical period of life. ‘There,
yonder, is Rydal Mount on the side of the hill, “The modest house, yet
covered with the Virginia creeper,” and overlooking that lovely
Windermere. Surely no poet was ever more delightfully lodged?’
‘No poet was ever so happy in the whole world, I believe,’ assented
Corisande—‘except perhaps Tennyson. Just think! He had married the
“perfect woman, nobly planned”; he had the nicest, sweetest,
devotedest sister, who agreed with the perfect woman, which doesn’t
always happen. He was contented, even thankful for his lot. He had
leisure—friends too, who _were_ friends, that is, friends in need.
They stood by him when such support was of value: Raisley Calvert, who
left him a legacy of a thousand pounds, which sufficed to give him
leisure and ease of mind just when he most required it; and Lord
Lonsdale, who paid up his father’s debt, which meant life-long
independence.’
‘How very seldom the friends of poets and writers,’ said
Mrs. Banneret, ‘think of the very thing which would earn their
everlasting gratitude! They flatter and profess admiration, but stop
short of substantial benefits. But, perhaps, after all, the poet’s
healthiest frame of mind is that of independence. Being compelled to
work certainly brings out the best fruit of a man’s intellect.’
‘Yes, indeed! Yet it is pitiable to think how poets and dramatists,
not to mention the herd of fictionists, worked under depressing
conditions of penury, even absolute want. Read the private papers of
Henry Ryecroft, which no doubt faithfully represented the experience
of the author. It makes your heart ache—the direst poverty, hunger and
cold, shivering in semi-starvation—think of a London winter under such
conditions! How he could have produced the work he did is a marvel!’
‘I may be allowed to remark, perhaps,’ said Mr. Banneret, in a
judicial tone of voice, ‘that we are wandering from the direct path in
discussing the abstract question of a poet’s freedom from care bearing
upon the quality of his work. As to the quantity, it may, and no doubt
would, make a serious deduction if at breakfast time the singer or
seer was uncertain as to the periodicity of dinner. But I am inclined
to think that, as to _quality_, the enforced abstinence and lack of
material comfort were distinctly favourable to the “divine afflatus.”’
‘That being so,’ said Reggie, ‘and I am inclined to agree with you,
sir, we ought to address ourselves to the practical side of our
undertaking. Before we make a start for Rydal Mount we are bound to
inaugurate the worship of the Poet by the ladies repeating some of his
lovely lyrics. We must put it to the vote, and whoever gains the
largest number must recite the poem which she deems to be the most
distinctly representative of the Poet’s genius? Who is the Wordsworth
scholar of the party? and what does the lady assert to be one of the
Poet’s lyric triumphs?’
The voting was in favour of Mrs. Banneret. That lady confessed that
she had not been an exhaustive student of the poet under discussion,
or indeed of any other—had not had time of late years. But in an old
scrap-album of her girlhood’s days might be found several of his
poems, which she had copied out. One which she still remembered was
‘The Fountain.’
‘It always appeared to me,’ she said, ‘most truly representative of
Wordsworth’s sympathy with Nature; of his power of investing the most
ordinary incidents with
‘The gleam,
The light that never was, on sea or land,
The consecration, and the Poet’s dream—
almost with a sacred simplicity, but still appealing to the heart as
ornate phrases rarely succeed in doing. I still remember the opening
verses of
‘THE FOUNTAIN
‘We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
‘We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
‘“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match
The water’s pleasant tune
With some old Border song, or catch
Which suits a summer noon;
‘“Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made!”
‘In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied—
The grey-haired man of glee:
‘“No check, no stay, this streamlet fears;
How merrily it goes!
’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
‘“And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain’s brink.
‘“My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those years I heard.
‘“Thus fares it still in our decay:
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what Age takes away
Than what it leaves behind.”’
Here the lady paused. ‘I think these verses are all that I can
remember of the poem at present. But they impressed themselves on my
memory long since, as a delicious description of calmly happy old age,
of friendship founded on sympathetic tastes, with a setting for the
incident of the rural loveliness of an English summer day.’
Much applause was evoked by the recitation, given with taste and
feeling.
‘Why, mother, I had no idea you had such a sentimental vein in your
composition,’ said Hermione. ‘Vanda and I used to think you were quite
stern about unprofitable reading, as you used to call anything but
history and language in the old Carjagong days!’
‘Everything depends upon the proper time and place,’ replied
Mrs. Banneret, with a quiet smile. ‘You girls and boys would have
learned very little if you had not been kept to your morning lessons
in those days.’
‘But we were so terribly fond of books,’ argued Vanda; ‘it ran in the
blood. Why, father used to read on _horseback_, when he took those
journeys to other goldfields and places—when he was driving, too—by
himself; you know he did!’
‘It was very natural, I’m sure,’ replied Mrs. Banneret. ‘Riding or
driving all day, by one’s self, is rather dull. Bishop Percy and his
wife, a charming woman, travelled in all weathers, through the
diocese, in a dog-cart. She used to read aloud while he drove.’
‘I remember them quite well,’ said Hermione, ‘when they stopped at our
old station. I was quite a small child. They had no children. You
couldn’t have done that, mother, though you would have liked it, I
know.’
‘Indeed I should, but you tiresome children came in the way of that
and many other recreations. What do you say at cricket when the
innings is over? “Next man in”—isn’t it? I think mine is over, and
that we should call upon Corisande for a contribution, and then
adjourn any other intellectual exercise to a future occasion.’
This motion, being put to the vote, was carried, and the young lady in
question, being entreated not to delay the movement of the pilgrimage,
graciously consented, remarking: ‘I am very fond of birds, so all my
friends will understand the reason why I volunteer to give
‘THE REVERIE OF POOR SUSAN
‘At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
Hangs a thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
In the silence of morning the song of the bird.
‘’Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
Bright volumes of vapour through Lothbury glide,
And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.
‘Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove’s,
The only one dwelling on earth that she loves.
‘She looks, and her heart is in Heaven: but they fade,
The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
And the colours have all passed away from her eyes!’
The acclamations were loud, so general, so prolonged, that an encore
was even demanded. Mr. Banneret, who had been unanimously elected
stage manager, felt it his duty to declare that no encores would be
permitted. ‘But,’ continued he, ‘as my wife and Miss Corisande have
complied with the general wish, I think it only fair that my daughters
should furnish their share, which I think can be managed without
serious delay to the expedition. Vanda, dear child, lead off! I know
you have a choice.’
‘Oh, certainly! Corisande told us she was fond of birds; now I am
passionately fond of flowers. It will be quite in keeping therefore
with the spirit of our show if I choose
‘THE DAFFODILS
‘I wandered lonely as a cloud
Which floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
‘Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
‘The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
‘For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon the inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.’
‘Next girl in,’ said Eric. ‘Hermie dear, don’t block the procession;
consider all the pretty things said of Vanda’s artless lay. We know
how fond she is of the bliss of solitude, and how ready to dance with
the daffodils, or other eligible partners.’
‘Chiefly in order to put an end to your cheap sarcasm,’ retorted
Hermione, ‘also to finish the affair decently, I will make an attempt
to render “The Solitary Reaper.” I remember weeping bitterly over it
in childhood.
‘THE SOLITARY REAPER
‘Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
‘No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
Such thrilling voice was never heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.
‘Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
‘Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;—
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.’
‘Charmin’! charmin’! absolutely, truly excellent!’ said the Honourable
Falkland Aylmer, R.N. ‘Emphasis perfect, very clear and distinct
intonation, but there’s one triflin’ thing I noticed—slight departure
from “well of English undefiled”—probably Australian fashion; excuse
me for alludin’ to it.’
‘Oh, of course, certainly!’ said Hermione. ‘I know I’m only “a
despisable colonist” (as the author of _Sam Slick_ said), but mother
and father are rather purists, and we fancied that we spoke tolerable
English.’
Falkland Aylmer’s blue eyes danced with mischief and merriment at his
successful ‘draw,’ thinking the while how handsome the girl looked
with sudden glance and heightened colour; but putting on an expression
of exaggerated humility he said, ‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have
noticed—rather rude, of course—but you and Miss Vanda are so perfect
in intonation generally, that I thought I would venture just to
hint——’
‘On the contrary, I feel sure,’ said Hermione, with a certain
stateliness of manner, ‘that my people would hold themselves deeply
indebted to you for pointing out any provincialisms—no twang, I
trust?’
By this time the rest of the family had gathered round, amused and
expectant.
‘Pray don’t keep us waiting, Mr. Aylmer,’ said Vanda. ‘You don’t know
Hermie when she’s roused, though she looks so quiet.’ Here every one
burst out laughing; her amiability being proverbial.
‘If I must, I must—I rely on the mercy of the Court’—here he lowered
his voice to a deep and impressive bass—‘but you can’t deny that you
pronounce the final “g.”’
‘Of course I do,’ replied the girl, who could not help smiling, as
indeed did all the spectators.
‘But you shouldn’t—oh, really, you shouldn’t, dear lady! You said
“bending,” and “reaping,” and “singing.” We heard you distinctly
“thrilling” also.’
‘Of course I did; and why not?’ the girl answered, with a distinctly
bellicose air—looking indeed as if she was likely to confirm Vanda’s
assertion of the possession of an unexpected temper. ‘We were taught
that dropping the “g” was next door to the unforgivable sin of
dropping the “h.”’
‘But it’s not good form, dear Miss Banneret, to sound the final “g.”
Nobody does it—that is, nobody that is anybody. The other way is
old-fashioned.’
‘I don’t care,’ retorted the valiant Hermione; ‘our Australian way is
good English, and that I’ll abide by. The other is an affectation, a
senseless departure, copied by silly people who believe it to be
fashionable—like “dwopping” the “r.”’
‘Assure you, it’s nevah done now,’ said her critical reviewer; ‘though
I think I must “pwactise,” if only to take a “wise” out of you and
Miss Vanda.’
‘We shall have to arrange an ambush for you to fall into,’ replied
Hermione, laughing good-humouredly. ‘We are willing to mend our ways
in minor matters when we think we are wrong, but not merely to copy
English fashions because they _are_ English, which would be
affectation indeed, and very properly expose us to ridicule.’
‘_Nothing_ that you or Miss Vanda could say or do would end so
disastrously. I hope you believe me,’ he added in a lower tone, ‘and
forgive my imprudence?’
‘I grant you my royal pardon,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I
confess that we Australians are just a trifle touchy, and I began to
be frightened that I had committed some enormity.’
* * * * *
Saturated as the feminine division of the pilgrims was with the
Wordsworth cult, nothing but the necessity of laying out regular
stages and abiding by them prevented them from lingering in this
enchanted spot.
But the route was given; the leaders decreed the hour; and protests
were unavailing.
But, hark! the summons—down the placid lake
Floats the soft cadence of the church-tower bells.
* * * * *
Northward, ever northward, was now the appointed course of the
wanderers: across moor and fell to Yorkshire, with its somewhat rude
inhabitants. Uninviting as it was in appearance, with barren-looking
moors and desolate stretches of rocky undulations, it held within its
bosom a jewel of priceless worth. There stood the lonely parsonage of
world-wide fame, where had lived the Brontë family—the wondrous girls
who, from that dreary parsonage, standing among graves, on a
wind-beaten hill-top, aroused the admiration of the keenest literary
intelligences of the period. Then the order of the day was the route
to Keighley in Yorkshire, four miles only from Haworth; and to
Keighley by ordinary, perhaps prosaic, methods the pilgrims proceeded.
For to Keighley, they were aware, the Brontës, these strange children,
fiercely desirous of knowledge of all and every kind and sort, were
accustomed to walk from the village of Haworth. Why? Because there was
a draper’s shop? Because there was at rare intervals a fair of the
period? None of these provincial recreations interested this
remarkable family. No! But because there was a circulating library.
For that sole reason did these delicate little creatures undertake the
rough moorland walk of eight miles—four miles there and four miles
back—‘happy, though often tired to death, if only they brought home a
novel by Scott or a poem by Southey.’ Brought home! To what a home did
the tired feet and aching limbs bring these eager searchers after
knowledge! To a ‘grey parsonage standing among graves, on a
wind-beaten hill-top; the neighbouring summits wild with moors. A
lonely place, among half-dead ash trees and stunted thorns. The world
cut off on one side by the still ranks of the serried dead; distanced
on the other by mile-wide stretches of heath.’ Such, we know, was
Emily Brontë’s home, the vicinity inhabited by Catharine, by
Heathcliff, by Earnshaw, and Hindley.
‘Oh, what a dreadful place to live in!’ cried Hermione; ‘it recalls
Kinglake’s description of the country around Jerusalem—“a land
unspeakably desolate and ghastly”—no wonder the poor things died early
and Branwell drank. When one thinks of that murderous school at Cowan
Bridge it is hard to restrain one’s feelings.’
‘Some people love moors and fells,’ argued Vanda; ‘there’s a wild and
rugged grandeur about them; and Yorkshiremen, next to the Scots, are
among the boldest of the races of Britain. Look at the men and women
we watched going to that mill!’
‘All very well,’ said her unconvinced sister. ‘The climate kills off
the weak ones; but what of those poor, sensitive little creatures,
shivering and ill-fed, in that unhealthy, undrained hole? That
fanatical idiot of a clergyman ought to have been sent to gaol, and a
teacher or two hanged! He was rich too, and thanked God for the
progress of the school, while these dear babes starved by inches.’
‘Gently, my dear Hermie!’ said Reggie; ‘he’s not the only historical
personage who has killed, or tortured, for the glory of God; but the
whole affair is plunged in lamentation, mourning, and woe. I vote we
leave for Scotland by the early train to-morrow.’
‘By the very earliest,’ Eric agreed. ‘Another day here would send us
back to Hexham—despairing of life, and fit for nothing but suicide.’
‘All the same, moors and heaths have their redeeming features,’
insisted Vanda. ‘Don’t you remember how Justice Inglewood calls Die
Vernon his “heath-blossom,” when, pulling her towards him by the hand,
he says: “Another time let the law take its course—and, Die, my
beauty! let young fellows show each other the way through the moors”?’
‘All very well for Die Vernon, with a blood mare to ride, and a
cavalier like Frank Osbaldistone to gallop about with her. But think
of three lonely girls, with not even a wicked cousin, like Rashleigh,
to fight with, or a delightful, handsome, romantic one like Frank, to
fall in and out of love with! But now I think the Brontë experience
has gone far enough. Let us agree that the incident is closed. We make
an early start to-morrow.’
‘And so say all of us,’ chorused the rest of the party.