I.

Young Mr. Ellington strolled down the narrow walk that led through the

woods from the Hall to the sea. The morning had lain heavy on his hands,

for he was without companionship, and he was not one of the happy folk

who can make resources or who find a sufficient delight in mere living.

A few sharp commonplaces delivered with dry imperiousness by the old

Squire; a little well-meaning babble from a couple of timid maiden

aunts--such was the range of his converse with his kind from day to day.

And this quiet dreariness had lasted for months past, and seemed likely

to last as far into the future that young Ellington faced his prospect

with a sort of pained confusion of mind, and began by slow degrees to

understand the bovine apathy of the ploughmen. Old Mr. Ellington was a

magnate who would have been commended by Mr. John Ruskin. The fashions

of other country people did not influence him to imitation, and he

steadfastly performed that feat of "living on the land" which is

supposed to bring such blessedness to all whom the land supports. For

fifty years he had never been twenty miles beyond the bounds of his

southernmost farm, and for fifty years the ugly Hall had never opened

its doors to an invited guest. People talked a good deal, and made

theories more or less malignant, but the hard old man minded them no

whit. He went on his own road with perfect propriety, outraging every

convention in the most virtuous manner, and opposing a dry reticence to

the curiosity and wonderment of the few neighbours who continued to have

any vivid remembrance of his existence. In fine weather his stout and

opinionated cob bore him gravely along the lanes. The cottagers'

children ceased their play and looked respectfully sheepish as he rode

by; the farm girls dropped their elaborate curtseys, and the labourers

at the roadside made efforts to appear at their ease. These and the

farmers were the only people who saw his daily progress, and they all

held him a good deal in fear. Nothing escaped his steady eye. If

anything displeased him he did not use words, for he had not talents of

the vocal description, but he took very sudden means of making his

displeasure felt. Within his domain he was absolute master. He disliked

the intrusion of even passing strangers, and the harmless bagmen who

sometimes travelled along the coast road found no hostelry on the

estate. It was said that he once met an alien person walking in the

woods, and that this erratic foreigner was smoking a pipe. The most

learned purveyors of myths were never able to detail exactly what

happened, but the incident was always mentioned with awe. The

inhabitants of the district never managed to get up any personal feeling

about the Squire;--they regarded him as an operation of Nature. So he

lived his life in his colourless fashion, rousing no hate, gaining no

love, and fulfilling his duties as though his own epitaph were an

abiding vision to him. He cared for no enjoyments, and did not

particularly like to see other people enjoying themselves. He seemed to

fancy that laughter should be taken like the Sacrament, and, for his own

part, he preferred not being a communicant. When his only son was killed

in a pitiful frontier skirmish, the old man rode out as usual on the day

following the receipt of the ill news. The gamekeeper said that he drew

up his cob alongside the fence of a paddock wherein was kept an aged

pony that the heir had ridden long ago. He watched the stumbling

pensioner cropping the bright grass for a few minutes, breathed heavily,

turned the cob into the road again, and went on with sharp eyes glancing

emotionless. His daughter-in-law died soon after, and he assumed sole

charge of the young Ellington whom we have seen making a forlorn

pilgrimage under the trees. The young man had received a queer sort of

nondescript education. All the Ellingtons for a generation or two back

had gone in due course to Eton and Oxford, but no such conventional

training was vouchsafed to the latest of the family. The hand of the

private tutor had been heavy upon him, and he was brought up absolutely

without a notion of what his own future might be. He had mooned about

among books to some trifling extent, but the taste for study had never

taken him. The silly mode of culture which he had undergone availed

nothing against the instincts of his race. His grandfather was a sort of

living aberration--a queer variety such as Nature will sometimes

interpolate amid the most steady of strains; but young Ellington's

moods, and tendencies, and capabilities reverted to the old line. Yet,

despite his restless energy, despite his incapacity for that active

thought which makes solitude bearable, he was crushed into the mould

that the Squire had prepared for him. His distractions were few, and in

his vigorous mind, with its longing for instant action, its continual

revolt against self-contained speculation, there arose a dull fear of

the future, a longing for deliverance. It was not a merry existence for

a young man who heard the brave currents of life sounding around and

calling him vaguely to come and adventure himself with the rest. He knew

that the sons of the men who laughed at his grandfather laughed also at

him, and regarded him with a somewhat impertinent wonder, but he dared

explain himself to none, and dared seek companionship with none. This is

why he looked so listless as he lounged toward the sea that fine

afternoon. There was enough all round him to please anyone with an eye

for the quiet beauty of inanimate things. The lights slid and quivered

on the golden windings of the walk. Here and there the beams that came

through were toned into a kind of floating greenness that looked glad

and tender. The light wind overhead set the leaves talking, and their

silky rustle sounded sharp through the low murmur of the near sea. Now

and then came other sounds. A cushat would moan from her high fir-top,

or a pheasant deep in the shadows would call with his resonant guttural.

But young Mr. Ellington did not heed the sounds and sights that asked

his attention; he hardly heeded his own being, and his footsteps grated

on till the veil of the trees seemed drawn back, and he saw the shining

sea glimmering under a light haze. Far out toward the centre of the blue

circle, a fishing-boat lunged heavily as the deliberate rollers came

shoreward, and upon this boat he fixed his eye with that meaningless

intentness born of weariness.

He had begun to time his vague thought by the regular swing of the black

boat, when his attention was called by a clinking sound. Someone was

trying to open a wicket which opened from a by-road to the left of him.

He caught a glimpse of bright colour through the bars, and stepped

smartly forward. The wicket was easy to open from his side, and he soon

released the wayfarer from trouble. She took one slight pace back,

curtsied, and said, "Thank you, sir." It was not a very remarkable

speech, but coming upon Ellington's ear in his blank mood, it sounded

friendly and pleasant to a strange degree. He wanted to hear the voice

again. He rested for a brief space--not long enough to make the interval

seem awkward--and glanced swiftly at the girl whom he had aided. His

faculties did not rise readily into keenness after his recent hour of

lethargy, but he saw in an indefinite way that she was tall, and the

elastic pose of her figure as she prepared to pass by him gave him

somehow an impression of power. After an instant of hesitation he met

the clear look of a pair of brown eyes, and he felt that he must say

something. He fancied his slight pause had made him appear a trifle

clumsy, and he sought to effect a graceful parting. But, alas! for the

grace of solitary young men! The one right phrase, the one right

gesture would not come, and so, although his manner was sufficiently

easy at ordinary times, he could only say, "I'm very glad I happened to

be by." The girl was not sophisticated enough to regard him with

anything like humour. She smilingly accepted his remark as cogent, and

replied, "Yes. Old Trumbull has funny notions about fitting on latches,

hasn't he?" Here was a distinct opportunity for further pleasing

conversation, and the unfortunate Mr. Ellington was feeble. "Oh, you

know Trumbull?" he said, with alacrity. "He and I are great friends, but

I don't interfere with his professional matters. I'm afraid he would

discharge me if I did."

This was an unmistakably humorous allusion, and the girl once more

flashed her white teeth in a pretty smile. Such a reception of his not

very striking remarks put the young man at his ease, and he became

composed enough to observe delicately the face of his new acquaintance.

He had but little time, for of course he could not stand for long

babbling stupidities with a country girl. The face was strong and dark,

with composed, full lips, and a dusky glow in the cheeks. The eyes which

had at first put him to such confusion looked liquid and strangely

attractive when the light of laughter was in them. Mr. Ellington had

fallen in with a beautiful girl. He did not formulate any opinion on the

subject all at once, but he prolonged the conversation into the second

five minutes. Then he said casually, "I've not seen you passing this way

before," and the dark young lady made answer, with complete simplicity,

"No, but I always come through here on Thursday afternoons as I go to my

aunt's over at the Dean."

Mr. Ellington said "good-bye" at last, and the tall, strong figure of

the girl disappeared round a bluff of the shrubbery, her feet lighting

on the gravel with crisp, decided firmness.

It was not an exciting incident, but in truth the things that alter

lives, and give us our strongest emotions, do really happen in fashions

the reverse of picturesque. A couple of young folk had exchanged a score

or so of vapid words, yet before many weeks had gone several people had

reason for wishing the trivial interview had never been.

The girl thought but once more about the matter. On her way back the

clink of the closing wicket brought young Ellington to her mind again,

and she said to herself, "What a nice free lad the young squire is! They

were saying he was a kind of close fellow with a bad temper. He doesn't

look like that. I wonder what makes him flatten his hair down so funny?

He asked me about next Thursday." And there Miss Mary Casely ceased her

maiden meditations, and walked on with her sharp step, and with a mind

vacant of all coherent thought, as only the truly rustic mind can be.

Presently she passed a row of one-storied cottages which ran along the

edge of the low cliff, and she tapped at the door of a somewhat larger

house which stood in a dignified manner a little apart from the

fishermen's cottages. She heard a strong voice say, "Oh! It's her, back

again." Then a heavy step crunched the sand of the flooring, and made

the windows rattle in their frames. The door opened, and the same deep

voice said, "Ye've getten here then, hinny. What kind of a night is it?"

The man stooped low to escape the lintel, and then straightened himself

up in the road.

If you had searched from Yarmouth to Berwick the whole coast along you

could not have found a more superb creature. He stood six feet four, but

his limbs were so massive, and the outward arch of his broad chest was

so full, that you might easily have guessed his inches wrongly. As he

turned westward toward the last light that still glowed in dim bars from

behind the hills, his face showed with a noble outline. He looked round

for a space, said, "Ay, the lads'll be having a bonny night," then

strode heavily to his "settle" once more, and prepared to chat with his

daughter. When the lamp was lit, the grandeur of his face became finely

apparent. His hair was coarse, and black, and lustreless; it hung

heavily over a heavy brow. His jaw was square and powerful, but its

firmness was saved from seeming absolutely cruel by the kindly lines of

the mouth. Not a feature of the man was unmarked by signs of keenness

and strength. You would not have chosen him for an enemy unless you

happened to be a thought inexperienced. This was Mr. Thomas Casely. For

fifty-four years he had dwelt in that house on the cliff-edge; his

father still lived in one of the small cottages near by, and his

grandfather and great-grandfather had spent their lives in the same

village before him. Probably the progenitors of the Caselys and the

Ellingtons came over together on a thieving expedition, and, finding the

natives of the region amenable to emphatic arguments, settled quietly

and used their long vessels henceforth for comparatively honest

purposes.

A deal of very curious talk is spent over the ancient Scandinavians who

used to harry the peaceful farmers long ago. We learn that these

rapacious gentlemen were above all things "deep-thoughted," and that

they had rather fine notions about poetry and the future life. They

were, in short, a species of bloodthirsty AEsthetics. Instead of devoting

themselves to intense amours and sonnets, they were the Don Juans of

Death, but in no other point did they differ materially from the

cultured creature who lives up to his blue china.

This notion seems wrong. From all observations, I should incline to say

that the earliest Ellington who settled in England was a big ruffian who

disliked work, and who had a sharp eye to business; whilst the earliest

Caselys were probably thievish fellows, who loved moonless nights, and

objected to the use of cold water. Under the influence of softening

generations, the Caselys and Ellingtons had dropped their predatory

tendencies, and lived peaceful lives. Furthermore, it is certain that

the heartiest amity had prevailed between the houses for more years than

I care to reckon. Travel and town life had given polish to some of the

aristocrats, and taught them to use reasonable haughtiness toward

inferior creatures; but even a haughty greeting is better than a

remonstrance delivered with a mace. At any rate, all the Caselys were

brought up to offer reverence to the Squire, and the tradition of mutual

esteem and distant respect had never been broken. A correct notion of

the rights of labour had not been expounded anywhere near the estate,

and the roughest fellow on Mr. Ellington's land probably felt loyalty

towards the Family. This state of things cannot withstand the advance of

culture for very long, but meantime it offers even unto this day an

interesting specimen of ancient usage.

When his daughter had got out her knitting, Thomas Casely drew down his

shaggy brows, and looked at her with a queer twinkle of kindness.

"You'll have had a grand talk with them over at the Dean?"

"No, father. The old Squire rode round, and he wanted to see so many

things about the stackyard, aunt couldn't get away. Bob was in for a

minute."

"What for didn't Bob see you home?"

"Oh, I cannot be fashed with him. When he's dressed to come out, he

looks just like as if he'd got mixed suits of other folks' clothes on."

"You'll not have to be proud, my woman. He's just as good, and better,

than the most of the lads round here. I never knew no good come of

pride."

"I never knew what pride meant; but if I walk with a lad I like him to

be bonny, and I want to see him not look like a countryman altogether.

Bob isn't bonny."

"Ay, well, hinny, if you want fine clothes, I doubt you'll get nobody

but the young squire." This Mr. Casely said with a slow smile, and Mary

thought suddenly, "Next Thursday afternoon."

The reader will see that these rustics had not attained that quaint

sententious wisdom proper to the rustics of fiction. In their

ungrammatical way they talked much like human beings.