AN INSPECTION OF CARWELL GRANGE.
Through an open door, at the end of this short gallery, the pleasant
firelight gleamed, sufficiently indicating the room that had been
prepared for her reception. She felt a little oddly and frightened, and
the sight of old Dulcibella Crane in the cheerful light, busily
unpacking her boxes, reassured her.
The grim old woman, Mildred Tarnley, stopped at the door.
“It’s very well aired, ma’am,” she said, making a little courtesy.
“It looks very comfortable; thank you--everything so neat; and such a
bright nice fire,” said Alice, smiling on her as well as she could.
“There’s the tapestry room, and the leather room; but they’re not so
dry as this, though it’s wainscot.”
“Oak, I think--isn’t it?” said the young lady, looking round.
“Yes, ma’am; and there’s the pink paper chamber and dressing room; but
they’re gone very poor--and the bed and all that being in here, I
thought ’twas the best o’ the lot; an’ there’s lots o’ presses and
cupboards in the wall, and the keys in them, and the locks all right;
and I do think it’s the most comfortablest room, my lady. That is the
dressing-room in there, please; and do you like some more wood or coal
on the fire, ma’am?”
“Not any; it is very nice--thanks.”
And Alice sat down before the fire, and the smile seemed to evaporate
in its glow, and she looked very grave--and even anxious. Mildred
Tarnley made her courtesy, looked round the room, and withdrew.
“Well, Dulcibella, when are you going to have your tea?” asked Alice,
kindly.
“I’ll make a cup here, dear, if you think I may, after I’ve got your
things in their places, in a few minutes’ time.”
“Would you like that better than taking it downstairs with the
servant?”
“Yes, dear, I would.”
“I don’t think you like her, Dulcibella?”
“I can’t say I mislike her, dear; I han’t spoke ten words wi’ her--she
may be very nice--I don’t know.”
“There’s something not very pleasant about her face, don’t you think?”
said Alice.
“Well, dear, but you _are_ sharp; there’s no hiding my thoughts from
you; but there’s many a face we gets used to that doesn’t seem so
agreeable-like at first. I think this rack ’ll do very nice for
hanging your cloak on,” she said, taking it from the young lady’s
hands. “You’re tired a bit, I’m afeard; ye look a bit tired--ye do.”
“No, nothing,” said her young mistress, “only I can’t help feeling
sorry for poor old Wyvern and the Squire, old Mr. Fairfield--it seems
so unkind; and there was a good deal to think about; and, I don’t know
how, I feel a little uncomfortable, in spite of so much that should
cheer me; and now I must run down and take a cup of tea--come with me
to the top of the stairs, and just hold the candle till I have got
down.”
When she reached the head of the stairs she was cheered by the sound
of Charles Fairfield’s voice, singing, in his exuberant jollity, the
appropriate ditty, “Jenny, put the kettle on,--Barney, blow the
bellows strong,” &c.
And, hurrying downstairs, she found him ready to make tea, with his
hand on the handle of the tea-pot, and the fire brighter than ever.
“Well, you didn’t stay very long, good little woman. I was keeping up
my spirits with a song; and, in spite of my music, beginning to miss
you.”
And, meeting her as she entered the room, he led her, with his arm
about her waist, to a chair, in which, with a kiss, he placed her.
“All this seems to me like a dream. I can’t believe it; but, if it be,
woe to the fool who wakes me! No, darling, it’s no dream, is it?” he
said, smiling, and kissed her again. “The happiest day of _my_ life,”
he said, and through his eyes smiled upon her a flood of the tenderest
love.
A little more such talk, and then they sat down to that memorable cup
of tea--“the first in our own house.”
The delightful independence--the excitement, the importance--_all_ our
own--cups, spoons, room, servants--and the treasure secured, and the
haven of all our hopes no longer doubtful or distant. Glorious,
beautiful dream! from which death, wrinkles, duns, are quite
obliterated. Sip while you may, your pleasant cup of--madness, from
that fragile, pretty china, and may the silver spoon wherewith you
stir it, prove to have come into the world at the moment of your
birth, where fortune is said to place it sometimes. Next morning the
sun shone clear over Carwell Grange, bringing into sharp relief the
joints and wrinkles of the old gray masonry, the leaves and tendrils
of the ivy, and the tufts of grass which here and there sprout fast in
the chinks of the parapet, and casting, with angular distinctness upon
the shingled roof, the shadows of the jackdaws that circled about the
old chimney. A twittering of small birds fills the air, and the solemn
cawing comes mellowed on the ear from the dark rookery at the other
side of the ravine, that, crossing at the side of the Grange,
debouches on the wider and deeper glen that is known as the Vale of
Carwell.
Youth enjoys a change of abode, and with the instinct of change and
adventure proper to its energies, delights in a new scene.
Charles Fairfield accompanied his young wife, who was full of
curiosity, and her head busy with a hundred plans, as in gay and eager
spirits she surveyed her little empire.
“This is the garden--I tell you, lest you should mistake it for the
forest where the enchanted princess slept, surrounded by great trees
and thickets--it excels even the old garden at Wyvern. There are
pear-trees, and plum, and cherry, and apple. Upon my word, I forgot
they were so huge, and the jungles are raspberries and gooseberries
and currants. Did you ever see such thickets, and nettles between. I’m
afraid you’ll not make much of this. When I was a boy those great
trees looked as big and mossgrown as they do now, and bore such odd
crabbed little fruit, and not much even of that.”
“It will be quite beautiful when it is weeded, and flowers growing in
the shade, and climbing plants trained up the stems of the trees, and
it shan’t cost us anything; but you’ll see how wonderfully pretty it
will be.”
“But what is to become of all your pretty plans, if flowers won’t grow
without sun. I defy any fairy--even my own bright little one--to make
them grow here; but, if you won’t be persuaded, by all means let us
try. I think there’s sunshine wherever you go, and I should not
wonder, after all, if nature relented, and beautiful miracles were
accomplished under your influence.”
“I know you are laughing at me,” she said.
“No, darling--I’ll never laugh at you--you can make me believe
whatever you choose; and now that we have looked over all the wild
beauties of our neglected paradise, in which, you good little
creature, you are resolved to see all kinds of capabilities and
perfections--suppose we go now to the grand review of our goods and
chattels, that you planned at breakfast--cups, saucers, plates,
knives, forks, spoons, and all such varieties.”
“Oh, yes, let us come, Ry, it will be such fun, and so useful, and old
Mrs. Tarnley said she would have a list made out,” said Alice, to whom
the new responsibilities and dignities of her married state were full
of interest and importance.
So in they came together, and called for old Mildred, with a list of
their worldly goods; and they read the catalogue together, with every
now and then a peal of irrepressible laughter.
“I had not an idea how near we were to our last cup and saucer,” said
Charles, “and the dinner-service is limited to seven plates, two of
which are cracked.”
The comic aspect of their poverty was heightened, perhaps, by Mrs.
Tarnley’s peculiar spelling. The old woman stood in the doorway of the
sitting-room while the revision was proceeding, mightily displeased at
this levity, looking more than usually wrinkled and bilious, and
rolling her eyes upon them, from time to time, with a malignant ogle.
“I was never good at the pen--I know that--but your young lady desired
me, and I did my best, and very des_pick_able it be, no doubt,” said
Mildred, with grizzly scorn.
“Oh, my! I am so sorry--I assure you, Mrs. Tarnley--pray tell her,
Charlie--we were laughing only at there being so few things left.”
“Left! I don’t know what ye mean by _left_, ma’am--there’s not another
woman as ever I saw would keep his bit o’ delf and chaney half as long
as me; I never was counted a smasher o’ things--no more I was.”
“But we didn’t think you broke them; did we, Charlie?” appealed poor
little Alice, who, being new to authority, was easily bullied.
“Nonsense, old Mildred--don’t be a fool,” said Charles Fairfield, not
in so conciliatory a tone as Alice would have wished.
“Well, fool’s easily said, and there’s no lack o’ fools, high or low,
Master Charles, and I don’t pretend to be no scholar; but I’ve read
that o’er much laughing ends, ofttimes, in o’er much crying--the Lord
keep us all from grief.”
“Hold your tongue--what a bore you are,” exclaimed he, sharply.
Mrs. Tarnley raised her chin, and looked askance, but made no answer,
she was bitter.
“Why the devil, old Mildred, can’t you try to look pleasant for once?”
he persisted. “I believe there’s not a laugh _in_ you, nor even a
smile, is there?”
“I’m not much given to laughin’, thankee, sir, and there’s people,
mayhap, should be less so, if they’d only take warnin’, and mind what
they seed over night; and if the young lady don’t want me no longer,
I’d be better back in the kitchen before the chicken burns, for
Lilly’s out in the garden rootin’ out the potatoes for dinner.”
And after a moment’s silence she dropped a little courtesy, and
assuming permission, took her departure.