MILDRED'S NEW HOME
'Half drowned in sleepy peace it lay,
As satiate with the boundless play
Of sunshine on its green array.
And clear-cut hills of gloomy blue,
To keep it safe, rose up behind,
As with a charmed ring to bind
The grassy sea, where clouds might find
A place to bring their shadows to.'--Jean Ingelow.
'Aunt Milly, I have wakened to find myself in Paradise,' were the first
words that greeted Mildred's drowsy senses the next morning; and she
opened her eyes to find the sun streaming in through the great
uncurtained window, and Polly in her white dressing-gown, curled up on
the low chair, gazing out in rapturous contemplation.
'It must be very early,' observed Mildred, wearily. She was fatigued
with her journey and the long vigil she had kept the preceding night,
and felt a little discontented with the girl's birdlike activity.
'One ought not to be tired in Paradise,' returned Polly, reprovingly.
'Do people have aches and pains and sore hearts here, I wonder--in the
valley of the Eden, as he called it--and yet Mr. Lambert looks sad
enough, and so does Richard. Do you like Richard, Aunt Milly?'
'Very much,' returned Mildred, with signs of returning animation in her
voice.
'Well, he is not bad--for an icicle,' was Polly's quaint retort; 'but I
like Roy best; he is tiresome, of course--all boys are--but oh, those
girls, Aunt Milly!'
'Well, what of them?' asked Mildred, in an amused voice. 'I am sure you
could not judge of them last night, poor things; they were too shy.'
'They were dreadful. Oh, Aunt Milly, don't let us talk of them!'
'I am sure Olive is clever, Polly; her face is full of intelligence.
Christine is a mere child.'
Polly shrugged her shoulders. She did not care to argue on such an
uninteresting question. The little lady's dainty taste was offended by
the somewhat uncouth appearance of the sisters. She changed the subject
deftly.
'How the birds are singing! I think the starlings are building their
nests under the roof, they are flying in and out and chirping so busily.
How still it is on the fells! There is an old gray horse feeding by the
bridge, and some red and white cattle coming over the side of the hill.
This is better than your old Clapham pictures, Aunt Milly.'
Mildred smiled; she thought so too.
'Roy says the river is a good way below, and that it is rather a
dangerous place to climb. He thinks nothing of it--but then he is a boy!
How blue the hills are this morning! They look quite near. But Roy says
they are miles away. That long violet one is called the Nine Standards,
and over there are Hartley Fells. We were out on the terrace last night,
and he told me their names. Roy is very fond of talk, I think; but
Richard stood near us all the time, and never said a word, except to
scold Roy for chattering so much.'
'Richard was afraid the sound of your voices would disturb my brother.'
'That is the worst of it, as Roy says, Richard is always in the right. I
don't think Roy is unfeeling, but he forgets sometimes; he told me so
himself. We had quite a long talk when the others went in.'
'You and he seem already very good friends.'
'Yes, he is a tolerably nice boy,' returned Polly, condescendingly; 'and
we shall get on very well together, I dare say. Now I will leave you in
peace, Aunt Milly, to finish dressing; for I mean to make acquaintance
with that big green hill before breakfast.'
Mildred was not sorry to be left in peace. It was still early. So, while
Polly wetted her feet in the grass, Mildred went softly downstairs to
refresh her eyes and memory with a quiet look at the old rooms in their
morning freshness.
The door of her brother's study stood open, and she ventured in, almost
holding her breath, lest her step should reach his ear in the adjoining
room.
There was the chair where he always sat, with his gray head against the
light, the one narrow old-fashioned window framing only a small portion
of the magnificent prospect. There were the overflowing waste-paper
baskets, as usual, brimming over their contents on the carpet--the table
a hopeless chaos of documents, pamphlets, and books of reference.
There were some attempts at arrangement in the well-filled bookcases
that occupied two sides of the small room, but the old corner behind the
mother's chair and work-table still held the debris of the renowned
Tower of Babel, and a family tendency to draw out the lower books
without removing the upper ones had resulted in numerous overthrows, so
that even Mr. Lambert objected to add to the dusty confusion.
Books and papers were everywhere; they littered even the couch--that
couch where Betha had lain for so many months, only tired, before they
discovered what ailed her--the couch where her husband had laid the
little light figure morning after morning, till she had grown too ill to
be moved even that short distance.
Looking round, Mildred could understand the growing helplessness of the
man who had lost his right band and helpmeet; the answer and ready
sympathy that never failed him were wanting now; the comely, bright
presence had gone from his sight; the tones that had always vibrated so
sweetly in his ear were silent for ever. With his lonely broodings there
must ever mix a bitter regret, and the dull, perpetual anguish of a
yearning never to be satisfied. Earth is full of these desolations,
which come alike on the evil and the good--mysteries of suffering never
to be understood here, but which, to such natures as Arnold Lambert's,
are but as the Refiner's furnace, purging the dross of earthly passion
and centring them on things above.
Instinctively Mildred comprehended this, as her eye fell on the open
pages of the Bible--the Bible that had been her husband's wedding gift
to Betha, and in which she had striven to read with failing eyes the
very day before her death.
Mildred touched it reverently and turned away.
She lingered for a moment in the dining-room, where a buxom North
countrywoman was laying the table for breakfast. Everything here was
unchanged.
It was still the same homely, green, wainscotted room, with high, narrow
windows looking on to the terrace. There was the same low, old-fashioned
sideboard and silk-lined chiffonnier; the same leathern couch and
cumbrous easy-chair; the same picture of 'Virtue and Vice,' smiling and
glaring over the high wooden mantelpiece. Yes, the dear old room, as
Mildred had fondly termed it in her happy three months' visit, was
exactly the same; but Betha's drawing-room was metamorphosed into
fairyland.
All Arnold's descriptions had not prepared her for the pleasant
surprise. Behind the double folding-doors lay a perfect picture-room,
its wide bay looking over the sunny hills, and a glass door opening on
the beck gravel of the courtyard.
Outside, the long levels of green, with Cuyp-like touches of brown and
red cattle, grouped together on the shady bank, tender hints of water
gleaming through the trees, and the soft billowy ridges beyond; within,
the faint purple and golden tints of the antique jars and vases, and
shelves of rare porcelain, the rich hues of the china harmonising with
the high-backed ebony chairs and cabinet, and the high,
elaborately-finished mantelpiece, curiously inlaid with glass, and
fitted up with tiny articles of _vertu_; the soft, blue hangings and
Sevres table and other dainty finishes giving a rich tone of colour to
the whole. Mr. Lambert was somewhat of a _dilettante_, and his accurate
taste had effected many improvements in the vicarage, as well as having
largely aided in the work nearest his heart--the restoration of his
church.
The real frontage of the vicarage looked towards the garden terrace and
Hillsbottom, the broad meadow that stretched out towards Hartley Fells,
with Hartley Fold Farm and Hartley Castle in the distance; from its
upper window the Nine Standards and Mallerstang, and to the south
Wild-boar Fells, were plainly visible. But the usual mode of entrance
was at the back. The gravelled sweep of courtyard, with its narrow grass
bordering and flower-bed, communicated with the outhouses and
stable-yard by means of a green door in the wall. The part of the
vicarage appropriated to the servants' use was very old, dating, it is
said, from the days of Henry VIII, and some of the old windows were
still remaining. Mildred remembered the great stone kitchen and rambling
cellarage and the cosy housekeeper's room, where Betha had distilled her
fragrant waters and tied up her preserves. As she passed down the long
passage leading to the garden-door she could see old Nan, bare-armed and
bustling, clattering across the stones in her country clogs, the sunny
backyard distinctly visible. Some hens were clucking round a yellow pan;
the goat bleated from the distance; the white tombstones gleamed in the
morning sun; a scythe cut crisply through the wet grass; a fleet step on
the gravel behind the little summer-house lingered and then turned.
'You are early, Aunt Milly--at least, for a Londoner, though we are
early people here, as you will find. I hope you have slept well.'
'Not very well; my thoughts were too busy. Is it too early to go over to
the church yet, Richard?'
'The bells will not ring for another half-hour, if that is what you
mean; but the key hangs in my father's study. I can take you over if you
wish.'
'No, do not let me hinder you,' glancing at the Greek lexicon he held in
his hand.
'Oh, my time is not so valuable as that,' he returned, good-humouredly.
'Of course you must see the restoration; it is my father's great work,
and he is justly proud of it. If you go over, Aunt Milly, I will be with
you in a minute.'
Mildred obeyed, and waited in the grand old porch till Richard made his
appearance, panting, and slightly disturbed.
'It was mislaid, as usual. When you get used to us a little more, Aunt
Milly, you will find that no one puts anything in its proper place. It
used not to be so' he continued, in a suppressed voice; 'but we have got
into sad ways lately; and Olive is a wretched manager.'
'She is so young, Richard. What can you expect from a girl of fifteen?'
'I have seen little women and little mothers at that age,' he returned,
with brusque quaintness. 'Some girls, placed as she is, would be quite
different; but Livy cares for nothing but books.'
'She is clever then?'
'I suppose so,' indifferently. 'My father says so, and so did----(he
paused, as though the word were difficult to utter)--'but--but she was
always trying to make her more womanly. Don't you think clever women are
intolerable, Aunt Milly?'
'Not if they have wise heads and good hearts; but they need peculiar
training. Oh, how solemn and beautiful!' as Richard at last unlocked the
door; and they entered the vast empty church, with the morning sun
shining on its long aisles and glorious arcades.
Richard's querulous voice was hushed in tender reverence now, as he
called Mildred to admire the highly-decorated roof and massive pillars,
and pointed out to her the different parts that had been restored.
'The nave is Early English, and was built in 1220; the north aisle is of
the original width, and was restored in Perpendicular style; the window
at the eastern end is Early English too. The south aisle was widened
about 1500, and has been restored in the Perpendicular; and the
transepts are Early English, in which style the chancel also has been
rebuilt. Nothing of the original remains except the Sedilia, probably
late Early English, or perhaps the period sometimes called Wavy, or
Decorated.'
'You know it all by heart, Richard. How grand those arches are; the
church itself is almost cathedral-like in its vast size.'
'We are very fond of it,' he returned, gravely. 'Do you recollect this
chapel? It is called the Musgrave Chapel. One of these tombs belonged to
Sir Thomas Musgrave, who is said to have killed the last wild boar seen
in these parts, about the time of Edward III.'
'Ah! I remember hearing that. You are a capital guide, Richard.'
'Since my father has been ill, I have always taken strangers over the
church, and so one must be acquainted with the details. This is the
Wharton Chapel, Aunt Milly; and here is the tomb of Lord Thomas Wharton
and his two wives; it was built as a mortuary chapel, in the reign of
Elizabeth, so my father says. Ah! there is the bell, and I must go into
the vestry and see if my father be ready.'
'You have not got a surpliced choir yet, Richard?'
He shook his head.
'We have to deal with northern prejudices; you have no idea how narrow
and bigoted some minds can be. I could tell you of a parish, not thirty
miles from here, where a sprig of holly in the church at Christmas would
breed a riot.'
'Impossible, Richard!'
'You should hear some of the Squire's stories about twenty years ago;
these are enlightened times compared to them. We are getting on
tolerably well, and can afford to wait; our daily services are badly
attended. There is the vicarage pew, Aunt Milly; I must go now.'
Only nineteen--Richard's mannishness was absolutely striking; how wise
and sensible he seemed, and yet what underlying bitterness there was in
his words as he spoke of Olive. 'His heart is sore, poor lad, with
missing his mother,' thought Mildred, as she watched the athletic
figure, rather strong than graceful, cross the broad chancel; and then,
as she sat admiring the noble pulpit of Shap granite and Syenetic
marble, the vicarage pew began slowly to fill, and two or three people
took their places.
Mildred stole a glance at her nieces: Olive looked heavy-eyed and
absent; and Chriss more untidy than she had been the previous night.
When service had begun she nudged her aunt twice, once to say Dr. Heriot
was not there, and next that Roy and Polly had come in late, and were
hiding behind the last pillar. She would have said more, but Richard
frowned her into silence. It was rather a dreary service; there was no
music, and the responses, with the exception of Richard's, were
inaudible in the vast building; but Mildred thought it restful, though
she grieved to see that her brother's worn face looked thinner and
sadder in the morning light, and his tall figure more bowed and feeble.
He waited for her in the porch, where she lingered behind the others,
and greeted her with his old smile; and then he took Richard's arm.
'We have a poor congregation you see, Mildred; even Heriot was not
there.'
'Is he usually?' she asked, somewhat quickly.
'I have never known him miss, unless some bad case has kept him up at
night. He joined us reluctantly at first, and more to please us than
himself; but he has grown into believing there is no fitter manner of
beginning the day; his example has infected two or three others, but I
am afraid we rarely number over a dozen. We do a little better at six
o'clock.'
'It must be very disheartening to you, Arnold.'
'I do not permit myself to feel so; if the people will not come, at
least they do not lack invitation--twice a day the bells ring out their
reproachful call. I wish Christians were half as devout as Mahometans.'
'Mrs. Sadler calls it new-fangled nonsense, and says she has not time to
be always in church,' interrupted Chrissy, in her self-sufficient
treble.
'My little Chriss, it is not good to repeat people's words. Mrs. Sadler
has small means and a large family, and the way she brings them up is
highly creditable.' But his gentle reproof fell unheeded.
'But she need not have told Miss Martingale that she knew you were a
Ritualist at heart, and that the daily services were unnecessary
innovations,' returned Chrissy, stammering slightly over the long words.
'Now, Contradiction, no one asked for this valuable piece of
information,' exclaimed Roy, with a warning pull at the rough tawny
mane; 'little girls like you ought not to meddle in parish matters. You
see Gregory has been steadily at work this morning, father,' pointing to
the long swathes of cut grass under the trees; 'the churchyard will be a
credit to us yet.'
But Roy's good-natured artifice to turn his father's thoughts into a
pleasanter channel failed to lift the cloud that Chrissy's unfortunate
speech had raised.
'Innovations! new-fangled ideas!' he muttered, in a grieved voice,
'simple obedience--that I dare not, on the peril of a bad conscience,
withhold, to the rules of the Church, to the loving precept that bids me
gather her children into morning and evening prayer.'
'Contradiction, you deserve half-a-dozen pinches for this,' whispered
Roy; 'you have set him off on an old grievance.'
'Never sacrifice principles, Cardie, when you are in my position,'
continued Mr. Lambert. 'If I had listened to opposing voices, our bells
would have kept silence from one Sunday to another. Ah, Milly! I often
ask myself, "Can these dry bones live?" The husks and tares that choke
the good seed in these narrow minds that listen to me Sunday after
Sunday would test the patience of any faithful preacher.'
'Aunt Milly looks tired, and would be glad of her breakfast,' interposed
Richard.
Mildred thanked him silently with her eyes; she knew her brother
sufficiently of old to dread the long vague self-argument that would
have detained them for another half-hour in the porch had not Richard's
dexterous hint proved effectual. Mildred learnt a great deal of the
habits of the family during the hour that followed; the quiet watchful
eyes made their own observation--and though she said little, nothing
escaped her tender scrutiny. She saw her brother would have eaten
nothing but for the half-laughing, half-coaxing attentions of Roy, who
sat next him. Roy prepared his egg, and buttered his toast, and placed
the cresses daintily on his plate, unperceived by Mr. Lambert, who was
opening his letters and glancing over his papers.
When he had finished--and his appetite was very small--he pushed away
his plate, and sat looking over the fells, evidently lost in thought.
But his children, as though accustomed to his silence, took no further
notice of him, but carried on the conversation among themselves, only
dropping their voices when a heavier sigh than usual broke upon their
ears. The table was spread with a superabundance of viands that
surprised Mildred; but the cloth was not over clean, and was stained
with coffee in several places. Mildred fancied that it was to obviate
such a catastrophe for the future that Richard sat near the urn. A
German grammar lay behind the cups and saucers, and Olive munched her
bread and butter very ungracefully over it, only raising her head when
querulous or reproachful demands for coffee roused her reluctant
attention, and it evidently needed Richard's watchfulness that the cups
were not returned unsweetened to their owner.
'There, you have done it again,' Mildred heard him say in a low voice.
'The second clean cloth this week disfigured with these unsightly brown
patches.'
'Something must be the matter with the urn,' exclaimed Olive, looking
helplessly with regretful eyes at the mischief.
'Nonsense, the only fault is that you will do two things at a time. You
have eaten no breakfast, at least next to none, and made us all
uncomfortable. And pray how much German have you done?'
'I can't help it, Cardie; I have so much to do, and there seems no time
for things.'
'I should say not, to judge by this,' interposed Roy, wickedly,
executing a pirouette round his sister's chair, to bring a large hole in
his sock to view. 'Positively the only pair in my drawers. It is too
hard, isn't it, Dick?'
But Richard's disgust was evidently too great for words, and the
unbecoming flush deepened on Olive's sallow cheeks.
'I was working up to twelve o'clock at night,' she said, looking ready
to cry, and appealing to her silent accuser. 'Don't laugh, Chriss, you
were asleep; how could you know?'
'Were you mending this?' asked her brother gravely, holding up a breadth
of torn crape for her inspection, fastened by pins, and already woefully
frayed out.
'I had no time,' still defending herself heavily, but without temper.
'Please leave it alone, Cardie, you are making it worse. I had Chriss's
frock to do; and I was hunting for your things, but I could not find
them.'
'I dare say not. I dare not trust myself to your tender mercies. I took
a carpet bagful down to old Margaret. If Rex took my advice, he would do
the same.'
'No, no, I will do his to-day. I will indeed, Rex. I am so sorry about
it. Chriss ought to help me, but she never does, and she tears her
things so dreadfully,' finished Olive, reproachfully.
'What can you expect from a contradicting baby,' returned Roy, with
another pull at the ill-kempt locks as he passed. Chriss gave him a
vixenish look, but her aunt's presence proved a restraining influence.
Evidently Chriss was not a favourite with her brothers, for Roy teased,
and Richard snubbed her pertness severely. Roy, however, seemed to
possess a fund of sweet temper for family use, which was a marked
contrast to Richard's dictatorial and somewhat stern manner, and he
hastened now to cover poor Olive's discomfiture.
'Never mind, Lily, a little extra ventilation is not unhealthy, and is a
somewhat wholesome discipline; you may cobble me up a pair for to-morrow
if you like.'
'You are very good, Roy, but I am sorry all the same, only Cardie will
not believe it,' returned Olive. There were tears in the poor girl's
voice, and she evidently felt her brother's reproof keenly.
'Actions are better than words,' was the curt reply. 'But this is not
very amusing for Aunt Milly. What are you and Miss Ellison going to do
with yourselves this morning?'
'Bother Miss Ellison; why don't you call her Polly?' burst in Roy,
irreverently.
'I have not given him leave,' returned the little lady haughtily. 'You
were rude, and took the permission without asking.'
'Nonsense, don't be dignified, Polly; it does' not suit you. We are
cousins, aren't we? brothers and sisters once removed?'
'I am Aunt Milly's niece; but I am not to call him Uncle Arnold, am I?'
was Polly's unexpected retort. But the shout it raised roused even Mr.
Lambert.
'Call me what you like, my dear; never mind my boy's mischief,' laying
his hand on Roy's shoulder caressingly. 'He is as skittish and full of
humour as a colt; but a good lad in the main.'
Polly contemplated them gravely, and pondered the question; then she
reached out a little hand and touched Mr. Lambert timidly.
'No! I will not call you Uncle Arnold; it does not seem natural. I like
Mr. Lambert best. But Roy is nice, and may call me what he likes; and
Richard, too, if he will not be so cross.'
'Thanks, my princess,' answered Roy, with mocking reverence. 'So you
don't approve of Dick's temper, eh?'
'I think Olive stupid to bear it; but he means well,' returned Polly
composedly. And as Richard drew himself up affronted at the young
stranger's plain speaking, she looked in his face, in her frank childish
way, 'Cardie is prettier than Richard, and I will call you that if you
like, but you must not frown at me and tell me to do things as you tell
Olive. I am not accustomed to be treated like a little sheep,' finished
Polly, naively; and Richard, despite his vexed dignity, was compelled to
join in the laugh that greeted this speech.
'Polly and I ought to unpack,' suggested Mildred, in her wise
matter-of-fact way, hoping to restore the harmony that every moment
seemed to disturb.
'No one will invade your privacy to-day, Aunt Milly; it would be a
violation of county etiquette to call upon strangers till they had been
seen at church. You and Miss----' Richard paused awkwardly, and hurried
on--'You will have plenty of time to settle yourself and get rested.'
'Fie, Dick--what a blank. You are to be nameless now, Polly,'
'Don't be so insufferably tiresome, Rex; one can never begin a sensible
conversation in this house, what with Chriss's contradictions on one
side and your jokes on the other.'
'Poor old Issachar between two burdens,' returned Roy, patting him
lightly. 'Cheer up; don't lose heart; try again, my lad. Aunt Milly,
when you have finished with Polly, I want to show her Podgill, our
favourite wood; and Olive and Chriss shall go too.'
'Wait till the afternoon, Roy, and then we can manage it,' broke in
Chriss, breathlessly.
'You can go, Christine, but I have no time,' returned Olive wearily; but
as Richard seemed on the point of making some comment, she gathered up
her books, and, stumbling heavily over her torn dress in her haste,
hurried from the room.
Mildred and Polly shut themselves in their rooms, and were busy till
dinner-time. Once or twice when Mildred had occasion to go downstairs
she came upon Olive; once she was standing by the hall table jingling a
basket of keys, and evidently in weary argument on domestic matters with
Nan--Nan's broad Westmorland dialect striking sharply against Olive's
feeble refined key.
'Titter its dune an better, Miss Olive--t' butcher will send fleshmeat
sure enough, but I maun gang and order it mysel'.'
'Very well, Nan, but it must not be that joint; Mr. Richard does not
like it, and----'
'Eh! I cares lile for Master Richard,' grumbled Nan, crossly. 'T'auld
maister is starved amyast--a few broth will suit him best.'
'But we can have the broth as well,' returned Olive, with patient
persistence. 'Mamma always studied what Richard liked, and he must not
feel the difference now.'
'Nay, then I maun just gang butcher's mysel', and see after it.'
But Mildred heard no more. By and by, as she was sorting some books on
the window seat, she saw Chrissy scudding across the courtyard, and
Olive following her with a heavy load of books in her arms; the elder
girl was plodding on with downcast head and stooping shoulders, the
unfortunate black dress trailing unheeded over the rough beck gravel,
and the German grammar still open in her hand.