AMONG THE BEECHES.
A fine avenue of beech-trees led from the gate through which George
Dallas had passed, to the house which had attracted his admiration.
These grandest and most beautiful of trees were not, however, the
distinguishing feature of the place: not its chief pride. "The
Sycamores" was so called in honour of a profusion of trees of that
kind, said in the neighbourhood to have no rivals in all England. Be
that as it might, the woodland scenery in Sir Thomas Boldero's noble
park was beautiful in the highest degree, and of such beauty George
Dallas was keenly and artistically appreciative. The tender loveliness
of the spring was abroad throughout the land; its voices, its
gladness, its perfumes, were around him everywhere, and as the young
man strolled on under the shadow of the great branches, bearing their
tender burden of bright, soft, green, half-unclosed buds, the weight
and blackness of care seemed to be lifted off him, and his heart
opened to fresh, pure, simple aspirations, long strangers to his jaded
but not wholly vitiated character. He was very young, and the blessed
influence of youth told upon him, its power of receiving impressions,
its faculty of enjoyment, its susceptibility to external things--a
blessing or a curse as it is used--its buoyancy, its hopefulness. As
George Dallas turned from the broad smooth carriage-way, and went
wandering over the green elastic turf of the carefully kept park,
winding in and out through the boles of the grand old trees, treading
now on a tender twig, again on a wild flower, now startling from her
nest a brooding lark, anon stopping to listen to a burst of melody
from some songster free from domestic cares, he was hardly
recognizable as the man who had sat listening to Philip Deane's hard
worldly talk at the Strand tavern the day before.
"Brighter and softer" his mother had said he was looking, and it was
true. Brighter and softer still the hard, pleasure-wearied, joyless
face became, as the minutes stole over him, among the sycamores and
beeches. He had pursued his desultory path a mile or more, and had
lost sight of the house and the avenue, when he came to a beautiful
open glade, carpeted with turf of the softest green, and over-arched
by forest trees. Looking down its long vista, he saw that it
terminated with a brilliant flower-garden, and a portion of a noble
stone terrace, lying beneath one side of the many-turreted house. He
stood entranced by the beauty of the scene, and, after a few moments,
felt in his pocket for pencil and paper, in order to sketch it. He
found both, and looking round him, saw a piece of the trunk of a
felled tree, not yet removed by the care of the forester.
"A capital place to sketch from," thought George, as he folded his
coat, and laid it upon the convenient block, and immediately became
absorbed in his occupation. He was proceeding rapidly with his sketch,
and feeling rather disposed to get it finished as quickly as he could,
in order that he might return to the inn and procure some food, of
which he stood in considerable need, when he caught the sound of
galloping upon the turf in the distance behind him. He raised his head
and listened; there it was, the dull rapid thud of hoofs on the grass.
Was there one rider, or were there more? He listened again--only one,
he thought; and now the rapid noise ceased, and was succeeded by the
slow, pattering sound of a horse ridden daintily and gently about and
about, by a capricious fancy. Still George listened, and presently
there came riding out of the shadowy distance into the full expanse of
the glade, down which the declining sun sent golden rays, as if in
salutation, a lady, who was, as his first glance showed him, young and
beautiful. She was quite unconscious of his presence, for the piece of
timber on which he had been sitting was out of the line of sight, and
though he had risen, he was still standing beside it. She came towards
him, her slight form swaying to the movements of her bright bay
thorough-bred, as she put the animal through all sorts of fanciful
paces, now checking him with the rein, now encouraging him with her
clear sweet young voice, and patting his arched neck with her
white-gloved hand. The young man looked out from his hiding-place,
enraptured, as she came on, a vision of youth, beauty, and refinement,
down the wide green glade, the sun shining on her, the birds singing,
the flowers blooming for her, the proud walls of the old house rising
grandly in the back-ground, as if in boast of the worthy shelter that
awaited her. Nearer and nearer she came, and now George Dallas could
see her face distinctly, and could hear the pretty words with which
she coaxed her horse. It was a face to remember; a face to be the
happier for having seen; a face whose beauty was blended of form and
colour, of soul, feature, and expression; a face which had all that
the earth has to give of its best and fairest, touched with the glory
which is higher and better, which earth has not to bestow. It was the
face of a girl of nineteen, whose clear eyes were of golden brown,
whose cheeks bloomed with the purest, most varying flower-like colour,
whose rich golden hair shone in the sunlight, as its braids rippled
and turned about with the movement of her head, tossed childishly to
the rhythmical measure of her horse's tread.
Half a dozen trees only intervened between her and the spot where
George Dallas stood, greedily watching her every movement and glance,
when she took her hat off, and pushed the heavy golden hair off her
broad white forehead. At that moment her horse jerked the rein she
held loosely, and pulled her slightly forward, the hat falling from
her hand on the grass.
"Now see what you have done," she said, with a gay laugh, as the
animal stood still and looked foolish. "I declare I'll make you pick
it up with your mouth. There, sir, turn, I tell you; come, you know
how." And she put the horse through all the pretty tricks of stooping
and half kneeling, in which she evidently felt much more pleasure than
he did. But she did not succeed: he obeyed touch and word readily; but
he did not pick up the hat. At last she desisted, and said with a
funny look of mock patience:
"Very well, Sir Lancelot, if you won't you won't, so I must get off."
She had just gathered her skirt in her hand, and was about to spring
from her saddle, when George Dallas stepped out from among the trees,
picked up the hat, and handed it to her, with a bow.
The young lady looked at him in astonishment, but she thanked him with
self-possession, which he was far from sharing, and put her hat on,
while Sir Lancelot pawed impatiently.
"Thank you," she said; "I did not see any one near."
"I was sitting yonder," said George, pointing to the spot whence he
had emerged, "on some fallen timber, and was just taking the liberty
of sketching the view of the house, when you rode up."
She coloured, looked pleased and interested, and said, hesitatingly,
having bidden Sir Lancelot "stand:" "You are an artist, sir?"
"No," he answered, "at least, only in a very small way; but this is
such a beautiful place, I was tempted to make a little sketch. But I
fear I am intruding; perhaps strangers are not admitted."
"Oh yes, they are," she replied hurriedly. "We have not many strangers
in this neighbourhood; but they are all welcome to come into the park,
if they like. Had you finished your sketch?" she asked timidly, with a
look towards the sheet of paper, which had fallen when Dallas rose,
and had been fluttered into sight by the gentle wind. George saw the
look, and caught eagerly at any pretext for prolonging the interview a
few moments.
"May I venture to show you my poor attempt?" he asked, and without
awaiting her answer, he stepped quickly back to the place he had left.
The girl walked her horse gently forward, and as he stooped for the
paper, she was beside him, and, lifting his head, he caught for a
moment the full placid gaze of her limpid eyes. He reddened under the
look, full of gentleness and interest as it was, and a pang shot
through his heart, with the swift thought, that once he might have met
such a woman as this on equal terms, and might have striven with the
highest and the proudest for her favour. That was all over now; but at
least he, even he, might sun himself in the brief light of her
presence. She laid the rein on Sir Lancelot's neck, and took the
little drawing from his hand with a timid expression of thanks.
"I am no judge," she said, when she had looked at it, and he had
looked at her, his whole soul in his eyes; "but I think it is very
nicely done. Would you not like to finish it? Or perhaps there are
some other points of view you would like to take? I am sure my uncle,
Sir Thomas Boldero, would be delighted to give you every facility. He
is very fond of art, and--and takes a great interest in artists."
"You are very kind," said Dallas. "I shall be at Amherst a day or two
longer, and I will take the liberty of making a few sketches--that
splendid group of sycamores, for instance."
"Ah, yes," she said, laughing, "I call them the godfathers and
godmothers of the park. They would make a pretty picture. I tried to
draw them once, myself, but you cannot imagine what a mess I made of
it."
"Indeed," said Dallas, with a smile, "and why am I to be supposed
unable to imagine a failure?"
"Because you are an artist," she said, with charming archness and
simplicity, "and, of course, do everything well."
This simple exhibition of faith in artists amused Dallas, to whom this
girl was a sort of revelation of the possibilities of beauty,
innocence, and _naïveté_.
"Of course," he replied gravely; "nevertheless I fear I shall not do
justice to the sycamores."
And now came an inevitable pause, and he expected she would dismiss
him and ride away, but she did not. It was not that she had any of the
awkward want of manner which makes it difficult to terminate a chance
interview, for she was perfectly graceful and self-possessed, and her
manner was as far removed from clumsiness as from boldness. The girl
was thinking, during the pause whose termination Dallas dreaded. After
a little, she said:
"There is a very fine picture-gallery at the Sycamores, and I am sure
it would give my uncle great pleasure to show it to you. Whenever any
gentlemen from London are staying at Amherst, or passing through, Mr.
Page at the inn tells them about the picture-gallery, and they come to
see it, if they care about such things; perhaps it was he who told
you?"
"No," said Dallas, "I am not indebted for the pleasure--for the
happiness--of this day to Mr. Page. No one guided me here, but I
happened to pass the gate, and a very civil old gentleman, who was
doing some gardening at the lodge, asked me in."
His looks said more than his words dared to express, of the feelings
with which his chance visit had inspired him. But the girl did not see
his looks; she was idly playing with Sir Lancelot's mane, and
thinking.
"Well," she said at last, settling herself in the saddle in a way
unmistakably preliminary to departure, "if you would like to see the
picture-gallery, and will walk round that way, through those trees, to
the front of the house"--she pointed out the direction with the handle
of her riding-whip--"I will go on before, and tell my uncle he is
about to have a visitor to inspect his treasures."
"You are very kind," said Dallas earnestly, "and you offer me a very
great pleasure. But Sir Thomas Boldero may be engaged--ay think it an
intrusion."
"And a thousand other English reasons for not accepting at once a
civility frankly offered," said the girl, with a delightful laugh. "I
assure you, I could not gratify my uncle more than by picking up a
stray connoisseur; or my aunt than by bringing to her a gentleman of
sufficient taste to admire her trees and flowers."
"And her niece, _Miss Carruthers_," thought George Dallas.
"So pray go round to the house. Don't forget your coat. I see it upon
the ground--there. It has got rubbed against the damp bark, and
there's a great patch of green upon it."
"That's of no consequence," said George gaily; "it's only an Amherst
coat, and no beauty."
"You must not make little of Amherst," said the girl, with mock
gravity, as George stood rubbing the green stain off his coat with his
handkerchief; "we regard the town here as a kind of metropolis, and
have profound faith in the shops and all to be purchased therein. Did
dear old Evans make that coat?"
"A venerable person of that name sold it me," returned George, who had
now thrown the coat over his arm, and stood, hat in hand, beside her
horse.
"The dear! I should not mind letting him make me a habit," she said.
"Good-bye, for the present--that way," again she pointed with her
whip, and then cantered easily off, leaving George in a state of mind
which he would have found it very difficult to define, so conflicting
where his thoughts and emotions. He looked after her, until the last
flutter of her skirt was lost in the distance, and then he struck into
the path which she had indicated, and pursued it, musing.
"And that is Clare Carruthers! I thought I had seen that head
before, that graceful neck, that crown of golden hair. Yes, it is
she; and little she thinks whom she is about to bring into her uncle's
house--the outcast and exile from Poynings! I will see it out; why
should I not? I owe nothing to Carruthers that I should avoid this
fair, sweet girl, because he chooses to banish me from her presence.
What a presence it is! What am I that I should come into it?" He
paused a moment, and a bitter tide of remembrance and self-reproach
rushed over him, almost overwhelming him. Then he went on more
quickly, and with a flushed cheek and heated brow, for anger was again
rising within him. "You are very clever as well as very obstinate, my
worthy stepfather, but you are not omnipotent yet. Your darling niece,
the beauty, the heiress, the great lady, the treasure of price to be
kept from the sight of me, from the very knowledge of anything so vile
and lost, has met me, in the light of day, not by any device of mine,
and has spoken to me, not in strained, forced courtesy, but of her own
free will. What would you think of that, I wonder, if you knew it! And
my mother? If the girl should ask my name, and should tell my mother
of her chance meeting with a wandering artist, one Paul Ward, what
will my mother think?--my dear conscientious mother, who has done for
me what wounds her conscience so severely, and who will feel as if it
were wounded afresh by this accidental meeting, with which she has
nothing in the world to do." He lifted his hat, and fanned his face
with it. His eyes were gleaming, his colour had risen; he looked
strong, daring, active, and handsome--a man whom an innocent girl, all
unlearned in life and in the world's ways, might well exalt in her
guileless fancy into a hero, and be pardoned her mistake by older,
sadder, and wiser heads.
"How beautiful she is, how frank, how graceful, how unspeakably
innocent and refined! She spoke to me with such an utter absence of
conventional pretence, without a notion that she might possibly be
wrong in speaking to a stranger, who had offered her a civility in her
uncle's park. She told that man on the balcony that night that Sir
Thomas Boldero was her uncle. I did not remember it when the old man
mentioned the name. How long has she been here, I wonder? Is she as
much here as at Poynings? How surprised she would be if she knew that
I know who she is; that I have heard her voice before to-day; that in
the pocket-book she held in her hand a few minutes ago there lies a
withered flower, which she once touched and wore. Good God! What would
a girl like that think of me, if she knew what I am--if she knew that
I stole like a thief to the window of my mother's house, and looked
in, shivering, a poverty-stricken wretch, come there to ask for alms,
while she herself glittered among my mother's company, like the star
of beauty and youth she is? How could she but despise me if she knew
it! But she will never know it, or me, most likely. I shall try to get
away and _work out all this_, far away in a country where no memories
of sin and shame and sorrow will rise up around me like ghosts. I am
glad to have seen and spoken to Clare Carruthers; it must do me good
to remember that such a woman really exists, and is no poet's or
romancer's dream. I am glad to think of her as my mother's friend,
companion, daughter almost. My mother, who never had a daughter, and
has, God help her, no son but me! But I shall never see her again,
most likely. When I reach the house, I shall find a pompous servant,
no doubt, charged with Sir Thomas's compliments, and orders to show me
round a gallery of spurious Dutch pictures, copies of Raphael and
Carlo Dolce, and a lot of languishing Lelys and gluttony-suggesting
Knellers."
"With these disparaging words in his thoughts, George Dallas reached
the border of the park, and found himself in front of the house. The
façade was even more imposing and beautiful than he had been led to
expect by the distant view of it, and the wide arched doorway gave
admittance to an extensive quadrangle beyond. A stone terrace
stretched away at either side of the entrance, as at Poynings.
Standing on the lower step, a tame peacock displaying his gaudy
plumage by her side, he saw Miss Carruthers. She came forward to meet
him with a heightened colour and an embarrassed manner, and said:
"I am very sorry, indeed, but Sir Thomas and my aunt are not at home.
They had no intention of leaving home when I went out for my ride, but
they have been gone for some time." She looked towards a servant who
stood near, and added: "I am so sorry; nothing would have given my
uncle more pleasure; but if you will allow me, I will send--"
George interrupted her, but with perfect politeness.
"Thank you very much, but, if you will allow me, I will take my leave,
and hope to profit by Sir Thomas Boldero's kindness on a future
occasion." He bowed deeply, and was turning away, when, seeing that
she looked really distressed, he hesitated.
"I will show you the pictures myself, if you will come with me," she
said, in a tone so frank, so kindly and engaging, that the sternest
critic of manners in existence, supposing that critic to have been any
other than an old maid, could not have condemned the spontaneous
courtesy as forwardness. "I am an indifferent substitute for my
uncle, as a cicerone, but I think I know the names of all the artists,
and where all the pictures came from. Stephen,"--she spoke now to
the servant,--"I am going to take this gentleman through the
picture-gallery; go on before us if you please."
So George Dallas and Clare Carruthers entered the house together, and
lingered over the old carvings in the hall, over their inspection of
the sporting pictures which adorned it, and the dining-room, over the
family portraits in the vestibule, the old china vases, and the rococo
furniture. Every subject had an interest for them, and they did not
think of asking themselves in what that interest originated and
consisted. The girl did not know the young man's name, but his voice
was full of the charm of sweet music for her, and in his face her
fancy read strange and beautiful things. He was an artist, she knew
already, which in sober language meant that she had seen a very
tolerable sketch which he had made. He was a poet, she felt quite
convinced; for did he not quote Tennyson, and Keats, and Coleridge,
and even Herrick and Herbert, as they wandered among the really fine
and valuable paintings which formed Sir Thomas Boldero's collection,
so aptly and with such deep feeling and appreciation as could spring
only from a poetic soul?
It was the old story, which has never been truly told, which shall
never cease in the telling. Both were young, and one was beautiful;
and though the present is an age which mocks at love at first sight,
and indeed regards love at all, under any circumstances, with only
decent toleration, not by any means amounting to favour, it actually
witnesses it sometimes. The young man and the girl--the idle,
dissolute, perverted young man; the beautiful, pure, innocent, proud,
pious young girl--talked together that spring afternoon, as the hours
wore on to evening, of art, of literature, of music, of travel, of the
countless things over which their fancy rambled, and which had
wondrous charms for her bright intellect and her secluded life, simple
and ignorant in the midst of its luxury and refinement. All that was
best and noblest in George's mind came out at the gentle bidding of
the voice that sounded for him with a new, undreamed-of music; and the
hard, cold, wicked world in which he lived, in which hitherto, with
rare intervals of better impulses, he had taken delight, fell away
from him, and was forgotten. The girl's grace and beauty, refinement
and gentleness, were not more conspicuous than her bright intelligence
and taste, cultivated, not indeed by travel or society, but by
extensive and varied reading. Such was the influence which minute
after minute was gaining upon George. And for her? Her fancy was
busily at work too. She loved art; it filled her with wonder and
reverence. Here was an artist, a young and handsome artist, of
unexceptionable manners. She adored poetry, regarding it as a divine
gift; and here was a poet--yes, a poet; for she had made Dallas
confess that he very often wrote "verses;" but that was his modesty:
she knew he wrote poetry--beautiful poetry. Would he ever let her see
any of it?
"Yes, certainly," he had answered; "when I am famous, and there is a
brisk competition for me among the publishers, I will send a copy of
my poems to you."
"To me! But you do not know my name."
"O yes, I do. You are Miss Carruthers."
"I am; but who told you?"
The question disconcerted Dallas a little. He turned it off by saying,
"Why, how can you suppose I could be at Amherst without learning that
the niece of Sir Thomas Boldero, of the Sycamores, is Miss
Carruthers?"
"Ah, true; I did not think of that," said Clare simply. "But I do
not live here generally; I live with another uncle, my father's
brother--Sir Thomas is my mother's--Mr. Capel Carruthers, at Poynings,
seven miles from here. Have you heard of Poynings?"
Yes, Mr. Dallas had heard of Poynings; but now he must take his leave.
It had long been too dark to look at the pictures, and the young
people were standing in the great hall, near the open door, whence
they could see the gate and the archway, and a cluster of servants
idling about and looking out for the return of the carriage. Clare was
suddenly awakened to a remembrance of the lateness of the hour, and at
once received her visitor's farewell, gracefully reiterating her
assurances that her uncle would gladly make him free of the park for
sketching purposes. She would tell Sir Thomas of the pleasant
occurrences of the day;--by the by, she had not the pleasure of
knowing by what name she should mention him to her uncle.
"A very insignificant one, Miss Carruthers. My name is Paul Ward."
And so he left her, and, going slowly down the great avenue among the
beeches, met a carriage containing a comely, good-humoured lady and an
old gentleman, also comely and good-humoured who both bowed and smiled
graciously as he lifted his hat to them.
"Sir Thomas and my lady, of course," thought George; "a much nicer
class of relatives than Capel Carruthers, I should say."
He walked briskly towards the town. While he was in Clare's company he
had forgotten how hungry he was, but now the remembrance returned with
full vigour, and he remembered very clearly how many hours had elapsed
since he had eaten. When he came in sight of the railway station, a
train was in the act of coming in from London. As he struck into a
little by-path leading to the inn, the passengers got out of the
carriages, passed through the station gate, and began to straggle up
in the same direction. He and they met where the by-path joined the
road, and he reached the inn in the company of three of the
passengers, who were about to remain at Amherst. Mr. Page was in the
hall, and asked George if he would dine.
"Dine?" said George. "Certainly. Give me anything you like, so that
you don't keep me waiting; that's the chief thing."
"It _is_ late, sir, indeed," remarked Mr. Page; "half-past seven,
sir."
"So late?" said George carelessly, as he turned into the coffee-room.