The village of Hendred, of which Mr. Ives was the parson, lay about two
miles beyond Wancote, in a low valley nestling under a great wave of the
downs. Behind the village a chalk cliff rose white and dazzling, and the
warm red brick of the houses, the gleaming chalk, the bright tender
green of the herbage, formed one of those sunny pictures of which
Berkshire is full.
In the centre of the village rose the little church, with its square
grey tower, over which grew a magnificent creeper with crimson leaves
glowing with a wondrous richness of colour.
A stone's throw back from the road, in a high-walled garden, stood the
parsonage. The garden was rich with orchard trees and wall fruit, and
boasted in particular one golden plum that was the parson's boast and
pride. He had imported rich soil from the valleys, and in each corner of
the garden gathered little hills of leaf-mould. Mr. Ives was a notable
gardener.
Those who would see Betty Ives at her best should see her at home--at
least, so said young Mr. Robins, the rich yeoman's son, who sighed in
vain for her good graces. He was a domestic man, much given to
superintending himself, duties which were looked upon as women's
gear--"A womanish man," said the women.
On the other hand young Thornton, eldest son of Squire Thornton of
Thornton Beeches, in the neighbourhood of Wancote, gave out that to see
Mistress Betty at her best, was to see her in the hunting-field, for she
rode like a bird, and was bright and ready as a pike-staff! There was a
confusion of metaphor, but words always failed the young fellow when he
spoke of the lady who had already three times refused to be his wife.
Then Dr. Glebe, the good doctor of Wancote, in a grey bag-wig and
hunting-boots, would take a whole handful of snuff, while he swore that
Mistress Betty was only at her best by a sick-bed.
The parson laughed, and exclaimed with a tear in his eye that such a
woman as his daughter was always at her best in whatever she put her
hand to do; and the old groom Isaac assented with a chuckle, vowing that
his young lady was good all round.
The autumn was beginning, and the crimson creepers on church and wall
were at the height of their glow. Betty Ives was strolling in the
parsonage garden gathering plums from the wall.
The garden-door was on the latch, it needed but to raise it, and
Mistress Mary Jones walked in. Betty went eagerly forward to meet her
with out-stretched hands. No welcome could be more cordial than that
which Betty Ives gave to her friends.
"I am so glad to see you, Mary? and are you well? Have you lost your
headache?"
Miss Mary sank into a garden-seat and sighed, still retaining the hand
of her friend.
"I am better, sweet Bet," she said; "but my nerves will not recover the
shock for years! No, no! do not shake your head and smile; if you had
the crawlings up the back that I experience, and the creepings down the
spine, and the shaking of knees, the twittering of the lips, and
quivering of the eyelids--"
"Enough, enough!" cried Betty. "Thank Heaven, I am not tormented thus!
My dear Mary, how can you survive such a multitude of ailments?"
"I have survived worse!" she answered, shuddering. "I survived the shock
itself."
"Were you very much frightened?" asked Betty in a tone of interest.
"Frightened! I was terrified. I have not nerve like yours. The dark, the
shot! the dark faces, the loud voices, the ... ah!"
Seeing Mary's chest beginning to heave, Betty thought it high time to
change the subject. "We will not recall it," she said hastily. "Let us
think on more agreeable topics. My father rode into Wancote this
morning, to stroll about the marketplace and hear the news."
"And why did you not go?"
"Because," answered Betty, "I have been making preserves the livelong
day. Up at six this morning, for Dame Martha told me that, owing to my
putting it off so long, the fruit was beginning to rot, so there was no
time to lose."
"I leave preserving to my woman," said Mary. "The hanging over the fire
is ruin to the finest skin."
"Yes, my face is scorched and heated," answered Betty, turning a cheek
like a peach to her friend. "But after all, to so weather-beaten a maid
as myself, up and out in all seasons, a scorched cheek, more or less,
signifies not; and Dame Martha works hard."
"And had your father any news from Wancote?"
"Yes, news indeed--Belton has been taken!"
"Taken?"
"Hired or purchased by a gentleman of the name of Johnstone, whose
arrival is expected hourly."
"This is news indeed! None but a rich man could have paid the price
asked."
"His horses have arrived," went on Betty. "Only four of them as yet, but
each one of the four of surpassing beauty. One of them, Mr. Barnes told
my father, looked worth a king's ransom."
"May the owner be worthy of his cattle," said Mary Jones. "And were
there no coach-horses, no carriages? No symptoms of a lady to dispense
the hospitalities of Belton?"
"Mr. Johnstone is said to be unmarried," answered Betty gravely. "I am
sorry for it, a new neighbour would have been an agreeable addition to
our society."
There was a click of the garden-gate, then a smart rap, as if by the
knob of a hunting-whip.
"Someone is at the gate," said Miss Mary with curiosity.
"Yes," answered Betty, "and I must needs answer it myself, for the bell
is broken, as doubtless our visitor has discovered, and he may knock
till doomsday ere the sound reach the ears of Dame Martha or Isaac, both
of whom are engaged in quarrelling in the kitchen. So so! how impatient
it is!"
For another succession of knocks fell on the panel.
"I entreat you, do not open the door yourself, Betty," cried Mary in a
tone of alarm. "Who knows who may be there?"
"Certainly not Wild Jack," answered Betty smiling, and disengaging
herself from her friend's arm she went forward and opened the gate.
"Does Mr. Ives live here?" asked a loud, clear voice, which, however,
suddenly changed in tone when the opening door disclosed the radiant
vision of the parson's lovely daughter.
A feathered hat was doffed, a gentleman sprang from his horse and,
bowing low, asked if he had the honour of addressing one of the family
of Mr. Ives.
"His only daughter, sir," answered Betty courteously. "If you wish to
see my father, I will beg you to come in and wait, as he will be in
shortly," Mary Jones advanced, her eyes took in at a glance the whole
distinguished appearance of the visitor, from the fine cut of his suit
of claret-coloured cloth, to the well-shaped boot with shining spurs,
and she gave a little sign of approval.
Betty summoned old Isaac and bade him take charge of the horse, and
then led the way into the garden.
"We are primitive folk here," she said. "But I find most people prefer
our garden-seats to entering the house."
Mary was somewhat scandalised, she thought these easy out-door seats a
breach of etiquette in themselves, but she could make no remonstrance
beyond a little tweak at her friend's sleeve.
Betty sat down and, inviting her visitor to do likewise, she said:
"In my character as mistress of the house, I would wish to introduce
you, sir, to my friend Mistress Mary Jones, of Elm Cottage close by, but
have not the honour of being acquainted actually with your name, albeit
I have conjectured."
"My name is John Johnstone, madam," he replied. "I have but now become
the possessor of Belton, near Wancote."
"Our new neighbour," cried Mary.
"Yes, I claim that honour," continued Mr. Johnstone.
"We are vastly pleased to make your acquaintance," said Mary, thinking
with some pride that she could boast to her friends of already knowing
the newcomer.
Mr. Johnstone acknowledged the compliment courteously, but he never took
his eyes off his young hostess, who appeared in them a miracle of grace
and beauty.
With the skill of a man of the world, he drew her into animated
conversation, gathering from her information respecting the country
round, the different meets of the hounds, the neighbours, the
tradespeople, the horses. Time slipped away almost unperceived, and
neither lady knew how it had sped, when Mr. Ives, mounted on his
handsome bay cob, rode up to the door.
Mr. Ives beheld with some surprise his daughter and her friend in full
converse with a stranger.
The scene was worthy of a Watteau's brush--the sun just sinking behind
the orchard trees gilding the edge of each leaf, shone on the dark red
of John Johnstone's dress, warmed the sombre hue of fair Betty's lincoln
green, and played on the blue and primrose of Mistress Mary's
flower-like costume. It was a fair picture, and no eye could rest on a
goodlier couple than the tall lithe young man, and the noble maiden.
"It was courteous of him to pay us one of the first, nay, _the_ first of
his neighbourly visits," said the good parson, exchanging his tie-wig
for a comfortable flannel night-cap, when he was once more alone with
his daughter.
"Next time he comes I will reward him with some of our golden plums,"
said Betty gaily as she fixed her white teeth in the tender skin of one
that was lusciously ripe.
Mistress Mary to her maid described the newcomer thus:
"He is tall, Deborah, very tall; slight, but with shoulders of great
breadth, and a square neck--one would say that his strength was
herculean. His eyes are dark blue, his nose a trifle arched, brows thick
and square, a sweet mouth--a very sweet mouth--but wondrous stern all
the same. But his manners, Deborah, and his curling dark hair, just
slightly dashed with powder--his manners are perfect! his hair is
divine! Heigh-ho, Deborah!"