It was a melancholy work to glide out of London by the last train, and
to think that one's gaieties were over for that summer, and that there
was nothing to look forward to till the hunting season but Dangerfield
and Lady Horsingham, and the wearisome monotony of a regular
country-house life. Aunt Deborah and I settled ourselves comfortably
in a roomy first-class carriage, she with her knitting and I with the
last _Punch_--in which, by the way, was the portrait of a dandy, the
very image of Frank Lovell--and prepared for our journey, as ladies
generally do, by arranging multifarious outworks of smelling-bottles,
shawls, reticules, parasols, etc., without which paraphernalia no
well-bred woman can possibly travel a hundred yards. I confess I
dreaded the trip. I was too well aware by experience that a railway
always makes Aunt Deborah rather cross and me very sleepy; so I knew
what was coming, and I was not disappointed. Before we had fairly left
the outskirts of London I saw by the way in which my aunt laid down
her knitting and the ominous cough or two in which she indulged that I
was in for a lecture; and sure enough, just as we emerged on the open
fields and began to smell the fresh country air, it began.
"Kate," said my aunt, "as we are going to a very regular and
well-conducted establishment, I think it is a good opportunity for me
to say a few words to you as regards your past conduct."
"Good gracious, aunt!" I replied, quite frightened, "what have I
done?"
"My dear," said my aunt, "I have seen a great deal going on lately
that I have taken no notice of; but it don't follow that I should
approve of it any more than John."
"And what has John got to do with it, I should like to know?" I
rejoined, firing up on the instant, for such a chance of carrying the
war into the enemy's country was not to be neglected. "John, indeed!
I'm sure, aunt, John encourages me in all my _unfeminine_ pursuits, as
you call them; and if he has been telling tales or setting you against
me, I'll soon let him know what I think of such conduct. I'll soon
tell him that I'm not going to be accountable to him; indeed, that I'm
not going to----"
"Hush, my dear," said Aunt Deborah; "there is no occasion for all this
animosity against John. After all, it is very natural, poor fellow,
that he should feel aggrieved and annoyed. There's that Captain
Lovell: I don't mean to say that he's not an agreeable, well-informed
young man, but there he is coming to see you at all hours, riding with
you in the Park, whispering to you at the Opera, bringing you new
music and _old_ china and fresh flowers, and conducting himself
altogether as if he was either your accepted suitor or mine--and I
don't think the latter very likely, Kate--whereas, you know, John----"
My aunt stopped short. The ringing of the bell and loud exclamations
of "Trotter's Heath! Trotter's Heath! All out for Sheepshanks,
Fleecyfold, and Market Muddlebury!" announced that we had arrived at
the Muddlebury Junction; and the opportune entrance into the carriage
of a stranger, who seemed extremely anxious concerning the safety of a
brace of pointers that accompanied him, effectually prevented my aunt
from proceeding with her discourse; while the dead silence which
followed the renewed puffing of the engine, and the vibration of the
train, gave me an opportunity of studying attentively the person and
features of our new fellow-traveller.
I don't think I ever saw a man so freckled in my life. Even the backs
of his hands (for he wore no gloves--I should think didn't even know
_his number_!) were studded with spots till you could have hardly put
a pin's point on a place free from this horrid disfigurement. His
face, too, was like a plum-pudding on which the fruit had been
showered with a most liberal hand; but the features were good, and had
it not been for his red hair, a little grizzled, and his stiff red
whiskers, the bright-blue eyes and white teeth would almost have
entitled him to be considered "handsome." He had a strong, stiff-built
figure, about the middle size, well made for everything but dancing,
and large, _useful_ feet encased in the stoutest double-soled shooting
shoes. The latter articles of costume proved him at once to be a
country gentleman. Every one must have remarked this peculiarity in
that enviable class. Their attire, particularly as regards the lower
man, is invariably of a nature to defy the utmost inclemency of the
weather, and is worn totally irrespective of the season or the pursuit
in which the owner may chance to be engaged at the time. But even
independent of these tell-tales the stranger's social position was
easily enough discerned by the deference with which he was treated
"along the line," and the title of "Squire," which greeted him from
guards, porters, and book-keepers at every station we passed.
So humane a master of dumb animals, or one so fidgety as to their
welfare, I never came across; and this, I confess, prepossessed me in
his favour. Every time the train stopped out jumped our
fellow-traveller, and off he went to a certain van containing his
treasures, from which he emerged with a very red face and a
constantly-repeated apology for disturbing me on his return to his
seat. Despite of his thick shoes and his freckles, I could see the man
was a gentleman; but, dear me, what a contrast to the smart gentlemen
I had lately been accustomed to meet! Beyond a "Beg your pardon; I
fear I'm very much in your way," accompanied by such a vivid blush as
can be performed only by a red-haired man, the Squire did not venture
on any communication either with me or my aunt; and with the latter's
lecture fresh in my mind I did not, as may be supposed, dare to take
the initiative by dropping my gloves, or pretending I couldn't pull up
the window, or any other little lady-like manoeuvre which lays the
foundation of a temporary intimacy, and often furnishes one with an
agreeable hour's conversation. I can _not_ see why one should sit
"mum" opposite the same person for miles, merely because one has never
been introduced.
When we arrived at length at the Dangerfield Station, where Lady
Horsingham's emblazoned coach and fat horses were in waiting for us,
"the Squire," who was here treated with a deference bordering on
idolatry, got out too. He made an involuntary motion with his hand, as
though he would have taken his hat off, and wished us "good-morning;"
but his shyness got the better of him, and he disappeared from the
platform, entangled amongst his dumb favourites, with a blush that was
visible even at the back of his head, where the tips of his ears met
the rim of his white hat. As we toiled up the sandy lane leading from
Dangerfield Station to Dangerfield Park, we were overtaken by a smart,
high dogcart, drawn by a clever, raking-looking bay mare, and driven
by the owner of the freckles, the pointers, and the white hat.
"Bachelor, my dear," said Aunt Deborah as he whisked by, "and not at
all a bad-looking man either."
"How do you know he's a bachelor, aunt?" I naturally inquired.
"Common-sense, my dear," replied Aunt Deborah sententiously. "I judge
of people by their belongings. No lady could get into that dogcart
without dirtying her dress against the wheel; and if he had a wife,
that handsome bay horse would go with another in her carriage instead
of his. Besides, he wouldn't be so fond of his pointers if he had
anything else to care for; and above all, Kate," added my aunt
conclusively, "his silk handkerchief wasn't hemmed, and he'd a button
wanting in the front of his shirt."
All my life I have had a sinking at my heart when I have heard the
ring at that great Dangerfield front door bell. It was better in my
poor uncle's time, for he would have made any place lively; but since
his death the Park has relapsed into its natural solemnity, and I am
quite sure that if ever I _do_ go into a convent my sensations will be
exactly like those which I have always experienced when visiting Aunt
Horsingham. The moat alone is enough to give one the "blues;" but in
addition to that, the thick horse-chestnuts grow up to the very
windows, and dark Scotch firs shed a gloom all over the Park.
Dangerfield is one of those places that seem always to be in the
shade. How the strawberries ever ripen, or the flowers ever bloom, or
the birds ever sing there is to me a mystery. Outside there are dark
walls and yew hedges and cypresses, and here and there a copper beech,
with lawns that are never mown and copses that are never thinned, to
say nothing of that stagnant moat, with its sombre and prolific
vegetation; whilst within, black oak wainscoting, and heavy tapestry,
and winding staircases, and small, deep-set windows, and oddly-shaped
rooms, with steps at the door like going down into a bath, and doors
considerably up and down hill, and queer recesses that frighten one
out of one's wits to go into, form altogether a domicile that would
tame the wildest Merry-Andrew in a fortnight into as staid and sober
and stupid a personage as the veriest Lady Superior could desire. Aunt
Horsingham received us as usual with a freezing smile.
"How do you do, Kate?" said she, putting two of her cold bony fingers
into my hand. "I'm afraid you will find it rather dull here after
London; but it is _wholesome_ for young people to be occasionally
sobered a little."
Aunt Horsingham is tall and thin, with a turn-up nose, rather red at
the point, a back that never stoops, and a grim smile that never
varies. She dresses in bright colours, affecting strange and startling
contrasts, both of hues and material. Her hands are always cold and
seldom clean; and she has sundry uncomfortable notions about damping
the spirits of youth and checking the exuberance of its gaiety which
render her a perfect terror and bugbear to the rising generation. When
I was a little thing, laughing, prattling, and giggling, as children
will, an admonishing look from my aunt, with a gaunt finger held
aloft, and a cold "Kate, don't be silly, my dear," was always
sufficient to make me dull and gloomy for the rest of the day.
I should like to know indeed why children are not to be "_silly_." Are
grown-up people always so rational in their amusements or
irreproachable in their demeanour? "Let the child alone," poor Uncle
Harry used to say; and once I overheard him mutter, "I've more
patience with a _young_ fool than an _old_ one." Such training has not
had a good effect on Cousin Amelia. She has been so constantly tutored
to conceal her emotions and to adopt the carriage and manners of an
automaton that the girl is now a complete hypocrite. It is quite
impossible to make her out. If you tickled her, I don't believe you
could get her to laugh; and if you struck her, I very much doubt
whether she would cry. My aunt calls it "self-command;" I call it
"imbecility." She shook hands with me in her provokingly patronizing
manner--"hoped I had brought my horses with me" (as if I was coming to
spend months at Dangerfield without Brilliant!); "supposed I had my
side-saddle in the cap-box;" and showed me my room without so much as
a single kind word of welcome or a cousinly caress. It was quite a
relief to help dear Aunt Deborah to unpack her dressing-case, and kiss
her pleasant face, and give her the warm cup of tea without which Aunt
Deborah never dreams of dressing for dinner.
Oh, those solemn, heavy, silent, stupid dinners, with the massive
plate and the dark oak wainscoting, and the servants gliding about
like ghosts at a festival in Acheron! What a relief it would have been
even to have had a clownish footman spill soup over one's dress, or
ice-cream down one's back, or anything to break the monotony of the
entertainment! But, no; there we sat, Aunt Horsingham remarking that
the "weather was dull" and the "crops looking very unpromising;" Aunt
Deborah with her eyes fixed on a portrait of the late Mr. David Jones
as a boy, opposite which she invariably took her place, and on which,
though representing an insignificant urchin in a high frill and blue
jacket, she gazed intently during the whole repast; Cousin Amelia
looking at herself in the silver dish-covers, and when those were
removed relapsing into a state of irritable torpor; and as for poor
me, all I could do was to think over the pleasures of the past season,
and dwell rather more than I should otherwise have done on the image
of Frank Lovell, and the very agreeable acquisition he would have been
to such a party. And then the evenings were, if possible, worse than
the dinners--work, work, work--mum, mum, mum--till tea. And after tea
Aunt Horsingham would read to us, in her dry harsh voice, long
passages from the _Spectator_, very excellent articles from the
_Rambler_, highly interesting in their day no doubt, but which lose
some of their point after an interval of nearly a century; or, worse
than all, Pope's "Homer" or Cowper's "Task," running the lines into
each other, so as to avoid what she called "the sing-song of the
rhymes," till the poet's effusions sounded like the most extraordinary
prose, cut into lengths, as we ladies should say, for no earthly
purpose but to make nonsense of the whole thing. Her ladyship never
went to bed till eleven; so there, having dined at half-past six to a
minute, we were forced to sit three mortal hours and a half,
swallowing yawns and repressing that inexplicable disorder termed the
"fidgets" till the welcome bed-candles arrived. No wonder men drink
and smoke and commit all sort of enormities to fill up those dreadful
hours after dinner. I think if ever I take to tobacco it will be at
Dangerfield.
Then of course the Hall was haunted; and of course _my_ passage was
the one which the ghost particularly affected. It was a sad story that
of "the Dangerfield ghost." I have got it all out of Aunt Deborah at
different times; and though I don't exactly believe in the spectre, I
can't help sometimes crying over the incidents. The fact is, the
Horsinghams were quite as proud of their ghost as they were of their
hand; and although not a very creditable tale to any of the family,
Aunt Deborah would never forgive me if I were not to relate the
tragedy which conferred on Dangerfield the honour of being a haunted
house.
In the reign of George II, the head of the house, Sir Hugh Horsingham,
married a young wife, and brought her home to Dangerfield with the
usual demonstrations and rejoicings peculiar to such an event. Sir
Hugh was a dark, morose man, considerably older than his bride; stern
and forbidding in his manners, but possessing deep feelings under a
reserved exterior, and a courage and determination not to be daunted
or subdued. Such a man was capable of great things for good or for
evil; and such was the very nature on which a woman's influence might
have produced the most beneficial results. But, unfortunately, young
Lady Horsingham had but one feeling for her lord, and that was intense
terror of his anger. She never sought to win his confidence; she never
entered into his political schemes, his deeper studies, or even his
country amusements and pursuits. All she thought of was how to avoid
offending Sir Hugh; and ere long this one idea grew to such a pitch
that she quite trembled in his presence, could scarcely answer
distinctly when he spoke to her, and seemed hardly to draw breath in
freedom save when out of his sight. Such a state of things could have
but one ending--distrust and suspicion on one side, unqualified
aversion on the other. A marriage, never of inclination, as indeed in
those days amongst great families few marriages were, became an
insupportable slavery ere the first year of wedded life had elapsed;
and by the time an heir was born to the house of Horsingham, probably
there was no unhappier couple within fifty miles of Dangerfield than
dark Sir Hugh and his pretty, fair-haired, gentle wife. No; she ought
never to have married him at all. It was but the night before her
wedding that she walked in the garden of her father's old manor-house
with a bright, open-hearted, handsome youth, whose brow wore that
expression of acute agony which it is so pitiable to witness on a
young countenance--that look almost of _physical_ pain, which betokens
how the iron has indeed "entered the sufferer's soul." "Ah, you may
plead, 'Cousin Edward;' but we women are of a strange mixture, and
_the weakest_ of us may possess _obstinacy_ such as no earthly
consideration can overcome." "Lucy! Lucy! for _the last_ time, think
of it; for the love of Heaven, do not drive me mad; think of it once
more; it is the last, _last_ chance!" The speaker was white as a
sheet, and his hollow voice came in hoarse, inarticulate whispers as
he looked almost fiercely into that dear face to read his doom. Too
well he knew the set, fixed expression of her delicate profile. She
did not dare turn towards him; she could not have looked him in the
face and persevered; but she kept her eyes fastened on the horizon, as
though she saw her future in the fading sunset; and whilst her heart
seemed turning to very stone she kept her lips firmly closed; she
repressed the tears that would have choked her, and so for _that_ time
she conquered.
Lucy had a great idea of duty; hers was no high-principled love of
duty from the noblest motives, but a morbid dread of self-reproach.
She had not _character_ enough to do anything out of her own notions
of the beaten track. She had promised her father she would marry Sir
Hugh Horsingham--not that he had the slightest right to exact such a
promise--and she felt bound to fulfil it. She never remembered the
injury she was doing "Cousin Edward," the _right_ which such devotion
as _his_ ought to have given him. She _knew_ she loved him better than
any one in the world; she knew she was about to commit an act of the
greatest injustice towards Sir Hugh; but she had "promised papa," and
though she would have given worlds to avoid fulfilling her compact,
she had not strength of mind to break the chain and be free.
Cousin Edward! Cousin Edward! you should have carried her off then and
there; she would have been truly grateful for the rest of her life,
but she would have died sooner than open her lips. He was
hurt--reckless--almost savage. He thought her sullen. "Once more,
Lucy," he said, and his eye glared fiercely in the waning light--"once
more, _will_ you give me one word, or _never_ set eyes on me again?"
Her lip never moved. "I give you till we pass that tree"--he looked
dangerous now--"and then"--he swore a great oath--"I leave you for
ever!" Lucy thought the tree looked strange and ghastly in the rising
moon, she even remarked a knot upon its smooth white stem; but she
held out whilst one might have counted ten; and when she turned round,
poor girl, Cousin Edward was gone!