PAYING his court to the ex-schoolmistress on the next day, Hardyman made
such excellent use of his opportunities that the visit to the stud-farm
took place on the day after. His own carriage was placed at the disposal
of Isabel and her aunt; and his own sister was present to confer special
distinction on the reception of Miss Pink.
In a country like England, which annually suspends the sitting of its
Legislature in honor of a horse-race, it is only natural and proper that
the comfort of the horses should be the first object of consideration at
a stud-farm. Nine-tenths of the land at Hardyman’s farm was devoted, in
one way or another, to the noble quadruped with the low forehead and the
long nose. Poor humanity was satisfied with second-rate and third-rate
accommodation. The ornamental grounds, very poorly laid out, were also
very limited in extent--and, as for the dwelling-house, it was literally
a cottage. A parlor and a kitchen, a smoking-room, a bed-room, and a
spare chamber for a friend, all scantily furnished, sufficed for the
modest wants of the owner of the property. If you wished to feast your
eyes on luxury you went to the stables.
The stud-farm being described, the introduction to Hardyman’s sister
follows in due course.
The Honorable Lavinia Hardyman was, as all persons in society know,
married rather late in life to General Drumblade. It is saying a great
deal, but it is not saying too much, to describe Mrs. Drumblade as the
most mischievous woman of her age in all England. Scandal was the breath
of her life; to place people in false positions, to divulge secrets
and destroy characters, to undermine friendships, and aggravate
enmities--these were the sources of enjoyment from which this dangerous
woman drew the inexhaustible fund of good spirits that made her a
brilliant light in the social sphere. She was one of the privileged
sinners of modern society. The worst mischief that she could work was
ascribed to her “exuberant vitality.” She had that ready familiarity of
manner which is (in _her_ class) so rarely discovered to be insolence in
disguise. Her power of easy self-assertion found people ready to accept
her on her own terms wherever she went. She was one of those big,
overpowering women, with blunt manners, voluble tongues, and goggle
eyes, who carry everything before them. The highest society modestly
considered itself in danger of being dull in the absence of Mrs.
Drumblade. Even Hardyman himself--who saw as little of her as possible,
whose frankly straightforward nature recoiled by instinct from contact
with his sister--could think of no fitter person to make Miss Pink’s
reception agreeable to her, while he was devoting his own attentions to
her niece. Mrs. Drumblade accepted the position thus offered with
the most amiable readiness. In her own private mind she placed an
interpretation on her brother’s motives which did him the grossest
injustice. She believed that Hardyman’s designs on Isabel contemplated
the most profligate result. To assist this purpose, while the girl’s
nearest relative was supposed to be taking care of her, was Mrs.
Drumblade’s idea of “fun.” Her worst enemies admitted that the honorable
Lavinia had redeeming qualities, and owned that a keen sense of humor was
one of her merits.
Was Miss Pink a likely person to resist the fascinations of Mrs.
Drumblade? Alas, for the ex-schoolmistress! before she had been five
minutes at the farm, Hardyman’s sister had fished for her, caught her,
landed her. Poor Miss Pink!
Mrs. Drumblade could assume a grave dignity of manner when the occasion
called for it. She was grave, she was dignified, when Hardyman performed
the ceremonies of introduction. She would not say she was charmed to
meet Miss Pink--the ordinary slang of society was not for Miss Pink’s
ears--she would say she felt this introduction as a privilege. It was
so seldom one met with persons of trained intellect in society. Mrs.
Drumblade was already informed of Miss Pink’s earlier triumphs in the
instruction of youth. Mrs. Drumblade had not been blessed with children
herself; but she had nephews and nieces, and she was anxious about their
education, especially the nieces. What a sweet, modest girl Miss Isabel
was! The fondest wish she could form for her nieces would be that they
should resemble Miss Isabel when they grew up. The question was, as to
the best method of education. She would own that she had selfish motives
in becoming acquainted with Miss Pink. They were at the farm, no doubt,
to see Alfred’s horses. Mrs. Drumblade did not understand horses; her
interest was in the question of education. She might even confess that
she had accepted Alfred’s invitation in the hope of hearing Miss
Pink’s views. There would be opportunities, she trusted, for a little
instructive conversation on that subject. It was, perhaps, ridiculous to
talk, at her age, of feeling as if she was Miss Pink’s pupil; and yet
it exactly expressed the nature of the aspiration which was then in her
mind.
In these terms, feeling her way with the utmost nicety, Mrs. Drumblade
wound the net of flattery round and round Miss Pink until her hold on
that innocent lady was, in every sense of the word, secure. Before half
the horses had been passed under review, Hardyman and Isabel were out of
sight, and Mrs. Drumblade and Miss Pink were lost in the intricacies
of the stables. “Excessively stupid of me! We had better go back, and
establish ourselves comfortably in the parlor. When my brother misses
us, he and your charming niece will return to look for us in the
cottage.” Under cover of this arrangement the separation became
complete. Miss Pink held forth on education to Mrs. Drumblade in the
parlor; while Hardyman and Isabel were on their way to a paddock at the
farthest limits of the property.
“I am afraid you are getting a little tired,” said Hardyman. “Won’t you
take my arm?”
Isabel was on her guard: she had not forgotten what Lady Lydiard had
said to her. “No, thank you, Mr. Hardyman; I am a better walker than you
think.”
Hardyman continued the conversation in his blunt, resolute way. “I
wonder whether you will believe me,” he asked, “if I tell you that this
is one of the happiest days of my life.”
“I should think you were always happy,” Isabel cautiously replied,
“having such a pretty place to live in as this.”
Hardyman met that answer with one of his quietly-positive denials. “A
man is never happy by himself,” he said. “He is happy with a companion.
For instance, I am happy with you.”
Isabel stopped and looked back. Hardyman’s language was becoming a
little too explicit. “Surely we have lost Mrs. Drumblade and my aunt,”
she said. “I don’t see them anywhere.”
“You will see them directly; they are only a long way behind.” With this
assurance, he returned, in his own obstinate way, to his one object in
view. “Miss Isabel, I want to ask you a question. I’m not a ladies’ man.
I speak my mind plainly to everybody--women included. Do you like being
here to-day?”
Isabel’s gravity was not proof against this very downright question.
“I should be hard to please,” she said laughing, “if I didn’t enjoy my
visit to the farm.”
Hardyman pushed steadily forward through the obstacle of the farm to
the question of the farm’s master. “You like being here,” he repeated.
“Do you like Me?”
This was serious. Isabel drew back a little, and looked at him. He
waited with the most impenetrable gravity for her reply.
“I think you can hardly expect me to answer that question,” she said
“Why not?”
“Our acquaintance has been a very short one, Mr. Hardyman. And, if _you_
are so good as to forget the difference between us, I think _I_ ought to
remember it.”
“What difference?”
“The difference in rank.”
Hardyman suddenly stood still, and emphasized his next words by digging
his stick into the grass.
“If anything I have said has vexed you,” he began, “tell me so plainly,
Miss Isabel, and I’ll ask your pardon. But don’t throw my rank in my
face. I cut adrift from all that nonsense when I took this farm and got
my living out of the horses. What has a man’s rank to do with a man’s
feelings?” he went on, with another emphatic dig of his stick. “I am
quite serious in asking if you like me--for this good reason, that I
like you. Yes, I do. You remember that day when I bled the old
lady’s dog--well, I have found out since then that there’s a sort of
incompleteness in my life which I never suspected before. It’s you who
have put that idea into my head. You didn’t mean it, I dare say, but you
have done it all the same. I sat alone here yesterday evening smoking
my pipe--and I didn’t enjoy it. I breakfasted alone this morning--and I
didn’t enjoy _that_. I said to myself, She’s coming to lunch, that’s one
comfort--I shall enjoy lunch. That’s what I feel, roughly described. I
don’t suppose I’ve been five minutes together without thinking of you,
now in one way and now in another, since the day when I first saw you.
When a man comes to my time of life, and has had any experience, he
knows what that means. It means, in plain English, that his heart is set
on a woman. You’re the woman.”
Isabel had thus far made several attempts to interrupt him, without
success. But, when Hardyman’s confession attained its culminating point,
she insisted on being heard.
“If you will excuse me, sir,” she interposed gravely, “I think I had
better go back to the cottage. My aunt is a stranger here, and she
doesn’t know where to look for us.”
“We don’t want your aunt,” Hardyman remarked, in his most positive
manner.
“We do want her,” Isabel rejoined. “I won’t venture to say it’s wrong in
you, Mr. Hardyman, to talk to me as you have just done, but I am quite
sure it’s very wrong of me to listen.”
He looked at her with such unaffected surprise and distress that she
stopped, on the point of leaving him, and tried to make herself better
understood.
“I had no intention of offending you, sir,” she said, a little
confusedly. “I only wanted to remind you that there are some things
which a gentleman in your position--” She stopped, tried to finish the
sentence, failed, and began another. “If I had been a young lady in your
own rank of life,” she went on, “I might have thanked you for paying me
a compliment, and have given you a serious answer. As it is, I am afraid
that I must say that you have surprised and disappointed me. I can claim
very little for myself, I know. But I did imagine--so long as there
was nothing unbecoming in my conduct--that I had some right to your
respect.”
Listening more and more impatiently, Hardyman took her by the hand, and
burst out with another of his abrupt questions.
“What can you possibly be thinking of?” he asked.
She gave him no answer; she only looked at him reproachfully, and tried
to release herself.
Hardyman held her hand faster than ever.
“I believe you think me an infernal scoundrel!” he said. “I can stand a
good deal, Miss Isabel, but I can’t stand _that_. How have I failed in
respect toward you, if you please? I have told you you’re the woman my
heart is set on. Well? Isn’t it plain what I want of you, when I say
that? Isabel Miller, I want you to be my wife!”
Isabel’s only reply to this extraordinary proposal of marriage was a
faint cry of astonishment, followed by a sudden trembling that shook her
from head to foot.
Hardyman put his arm round her with a gentleness which his oldest friend
would have been surprised to see in him.
“Take your time to think of it,” he said, dropping back again into his
usual quiet tone. “If you had known me a little better you wouldn’t have
mistaken me, and you wouldn’t be looking at me now as if you were afraid
to believe your own ears. What is there so very wonderful in my wanting
to marry you? I don’t set up for being a saint. When I was a younger man
I was no better (and no worse) than other young men. I’m getting on now
to middle life. I don’t want romances and adventures--I want an easy
existence with a nice lovable woman who will make me a good wife. You’re
the woman, I tell you again. I know it by what I’ve seen of you myself,
and by what I have heard of you from Lady Lydiard. She said you were
prudent, and sweet-tempered, and affectionate; to which I wish to add
that you have just the face and figure that I like, and the modest
manners and the blessed absence of all slang in your talk, which I don’t
find in the young women I meet with in the present day. That’s my view
of it: I think for myself. What does it matter to me whether you’re the
daughter of a Duke or the daughter of a Dairyman? It isn’t your father I
want to marry--it’s you. Listen to reason, there’s a dear! We have only
one question to settle before we go back to your aunt. You wouldn’t
answer me when I asked it a little while since. Will you answer now?
_Do_ you like me?”
Isabel looked up at him timidly.
“In my position, sir,” she asked, “have I any right to like you? What
would your relations and friends think, if I said Yes?”
Hardyman gave her waist a little admonitory squeeze with his arm
“What? You’re at it again? A nice way to answer a man, to call him
‘Sir,’ and to get behind his rank as if it was a place of refuge from
him! I hate talking of myself, but you force me to it. Here is my
position in the world--I have got an elder brother; he is married,
and he has a son to succeed him, in the title and the property. You
understand, so far? Very well! Years ago I shifted my share of the rank
(whatever it may be) on to my brother’s shoulders. He is a thorough good
fellow, and he has carried my dignity for me, without once dropping it,
ever since. As for what people may say, they have said it already, from
my father and mother downward, in the time when I took to the horses and
the farm. If they’re the wise people I take them for, they won’t be at
the trouble of saying it all over again. No, no. Twist it how you may,
Miss Isabel, whether I’m single or whether I’m married, I’m plain Alfred
Hardyman; and everybody who knows me knows that I go on my way,
and please myself. If you don’t like me, it will be the bitterest
disappointment I ever had in my life; but say so honestly, all the
same.”
Where is the woman in Isabel’s place whose capacity for resistance would
not have yielded a little to such an appeal as this?
“I should be an insensible wretch,” she replied warmly, “if I didn’t feel
the honor you have done me, and feel it gratefully.”
“Does that mean you will have me for a husband?” asked downright
Hardyman.
She was fairly driven into a corner; but (being a woman) she tried to
slip through his fingers at the last moment.
“Will you forgive me,” she said, “if I ask you for a little more time? I
am so bewildered, I hardly know what to say or do for the best. You see,
Mr. Hardyman, it would be a dreadful thing for me to be the cause of
giving offense to your family. I am obliged to think of that. It would
be so distressing for you (I will say nothing of myself) if your friends
closed their doors on me. They might say I was a designing girl, who had
taken advantage of your good opinion to raise herself in the world. Lady
Lydiard warned me long since not to be ambitious about myself and not
to forget my station in life, because she treated me like her adopted
daughter. Indeed--indeed, I can’t tell you how I feel your goodness, and
the compliment--the very great compliment, you pay me! My heart is free,
and if I followed my own inclinations--” She checked herself, conscious
that she was on the brink of saying too much. “Will you give me a few
days,” she pleaded, “to try if I can think composedly of all this? I
am only a girl, and I feel quite dazzled by the prospect that you set
before me.”
Hardyman seized on those words as offering all the encouragement that he
desired to his suit.
“Have your own way in this thing and in everything!” he said, with an
unaccustomed fervor of language and manner. “I am so glad to hear that
your heart is open to me, and that all your inclinations take my part.”
Isabel instantly protested against this misrepresentation of what she
had really said, “Oh, Mr. Hardyman, you quite mistake me!”
He answered her very much as he had answered Lady Lydiard, when she had
tried to make him understand his proper relations towards Isabel.
“No, no; I don’t mistake you. I agree to every word you say. How can I
expect you to marry me, as you very properly remark, unless I give you a
day or two to make up your mind? It’s quite enough for me that you like
the prospect. If Lady Lydiard treated you as her daughter, why shouldn’t
you be my wife? It stands to reason that you’re quite right to marry a
man who can raise you in the world. I like you to be ambitious--though
Heaven knows it isn’t much I can do for you, except to love you with all
my heart. Still, it’s a great encouragement to hear that her Ladyship’s
views agree with mine--”
“They don’t agree, Mr. Hardyman!” protested poor Isabel. “You are
entirely misrepresenting--”
Hardyman cordially concurred in this view of the matter. “Yes! yes! I
can’t pretend to represent her Ladyship’s language, or yours either; I
am obliged to take my words as they come to me. Don’t disturb yourself:
it’s all right--I understand. You have made me the happiest man living.
I shall ride over to-morrow to your aunt’s house, and hear what you have
to say to me. Mind you’re at home! Not a day must pass now without my
seeing you. I do love you, Isabel--I do, indeed!” He stooped, and kissed
her heartily. “Only to reward me,” he explained, “for giving you time to
think.”
She drew herself away from him--resolutely, not angrily. Before she
could make a third attempt to place the subject in its right light
before him, the luncheon bell rang at the cottage--and a servant
appeared evidently sent to look for them.
“Don’t forget to-morrow,” Hardyman whispered confidentially. “I’ll call
early--and then go to London, and get the ring.”