A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME.
A RETROSPECTIVE glance at the antecedents of fair Mistress Hazelwood
peeps into her old-fashioned, hospitable home at Daisy-Meade, where she
fulfilled the mission of one of the bright spirits that seem sent into
the world to round off sharp corners, pad rough edges, fit in curious
angles, and sheath drawn swords. Quick to observe without seeming to
detect, prompt to act without attracting notice, her influence worked
just where it was wanted, and her word was spoken just when it would
have weight.
People often wondered how certain good things came about, and possibly
congratulated themselves on their own wisdom and foresight, when, if
truth had appeared from behind the scenes, it was Miss Dorothy's wise
suggestion, or gentle hint, or kindly act, or invisible influence that
wrought round the circumstances, and shaped them into acceptable form.
Her father was "a fine old English gentleman of the olden time;" a
little obstinate, perhaps, as such old gentlemen are said to have been,
but having excellent common sense, devout belief in God and the Bible,
and whether or not he read "the whole duty of man," he did it, so far
as he saw it, with consistency and decision. He had the usual country
tastes and occupations, with unusual refinement of mind and tenderness
of feeling, which were invaluable to his children when bereft of their
mother's care.
His notions of female character and duty and position were derived
partly from their illustration in the life of his own much loved wife,
and also from an old record of principles which they studied together,
in one of the books of their scanty library. It is to be found in most
libraries still; but in modern book-seeking days, when people are more
interested about wrong roots of things speculative and imaginary, than
right ones real and trustworthy, it is left to be regarded more as a
curious relic which has seen its best days, than an authority that
"lives and abides for ever."
Howbeit the Squire of Daisy-Meade thought and said, and endeavoured to
enforce his idea, that woman's endowments, both by nature and grace,
are to be exercised in private life, and felt in the blessedness of
home; not armed to the teeth for strife and debate, or fussy and famous
before the world, which mocks while it applauds, and sneers while it
submits to the intrusion of things out of place.
And Miss Dorothy had so wonderfully impersonated his views, that he
inconsistently shrank from one of their consequences, and petulantly
denounced the covetous spirit of certain young squires who hovered
about the sweetest flower in Daisy-Mead, wanting to transplant it for
the home "help-meet" it had bloomed to be.
"Dorothy, my dear," he said one day as he was settling himself in
the great chair for his afternoon nap, "can't you be a little more
disagreeable? Talk loud and fast, be self-willed, or extravagant,
or something; perhaps if you would make a dash on Silvertail at a
five-barred gate, or be in at the death at the next hunt, or appear at
church in some fantastical mopsey gear, it might do. Nobody shall send
you to Bedlam for it."
Dorothy opened her merry eyes at her father and laughed.
"Aye, you may laugh, you puss, but I really am at my wits' end. Here's
another thief come reconnoitering my unfortunate premises, and I don't
know what to do."
"Let him know there is nothing worth stealing here, father," said the
young lady, carelessly.
"But you see, he is not of that opinion, Dorothy, and doesn't regard
mine, being evidently desirous to manage his own affairs."
"Then say there is nothing that will allow of a theft, your property is
too well guarded."
"So be it, my dear. What should I do without thee?"
"You can't part with me, father, and until you can, I shall never go;
so please take your nap. And, father, I'll practise for the five-barred
gate, and surprise the hunt next opportunity."
The Squire smiled, and drew a silk handkerchief over his face, and
dozed; while Dorothy went on with her work, kept the dogs quiet on the
rug, and prevented the logs from scuttling down with crackle and thump
on the hearth as they burned away.
Suddenly the silk handkerchief was withdrawn, and the Squire awoke from
a dream about thieves and good little daughters.
"But, Dorothy," said he, doubtfully, "if you wanted to go, if some
booby that you liked came prowling, what then?"
"Dear father, I shan't like a booby," said Dorothy, with her silvery
little laugh; "you are very complimentary in the anticipation of such a
monstrous choice."
"Well, well, there's no wisdom in meeting trouble half way; only, my
girl, I couldn't tell what you might say to young Hazelwood, if he
should dare to tell you what he told me this morning; but I'm glad it's
all right, and now I'll finish my nap;" and the handkerchief was drawn
over his head again.
Poor Miss Dorothy! The needle had dropped from her fingers, the merry
light faded from her eyes, the colour came and went on her cheek. What!
Could it be possible?—The handsome, gallant young squire of Hazel
Copse, the admired of all the ladies round, the generous, warm-hearted,
pitiful young master who excused old Wilks his rent when he fell ill
and couldn't work; forgave poor Slade for poaching, and refused to
prosecute; saved Widow Crane's boy from drowning, and took care of them
all, until Wilks got well, and Slade got honest employment, and the
boy came through the fever;—the best huntsman in the field, Captain
in the Militia, and the possible choice of the county at the next
election;—and more and better than all, the most regular and apparently
sincere worshipper in the parish church, and the best helper the vicar
had in whatever good he proposed to do. Amazing!
Could this gentleman really have thought of her, the little daisy of
the Meade, as some of the silly old people called her? And her father
had called him a booby, and she had coolly assented! What a miserable
mistake!
But, after all, what did it matter? She could not and would not leave
her dear, kind father for any squire in Christendom, so there was an
end of that. And Miss Dorothy calmed down, and picked up her fallen
needle, and a very soft little sigh escaped as she resumed her work.
The kind old gentleman was not so sleepy as he seemed, and out of
the corner of an eye, and a convenient little hole in his India-silk
handkerchief, he had carefully watched his child; noting the start, the
colour, the expressive mouth as she sat thinking, and his quick ear
caught the little sigh. So, after a suitable make-believe sleep, he
pretended to awake, shook himself, whistled to his dogs, and went out,
thinking hard about what he would have to do next. The simple fatherly
heart had no thought of hindering the happiness of others for his own;
and feeling in a strange maze upon the subject, he stumbled against the
cause of his disquietude.
"Ah, I thought so, sir; you couldn't wait a whole day, it seems, before
coming to know whether you may rob an old man of his best and sweetest.
Look you, sir, ask my best horse, my finest field, or biggest barn with
all its fresh-gathered store, and you shall be welcome; but Dorothy, my
singing-bird, my home-sunshine, I don't know how to part with her yet."
"Well, sir," said Mr. Hazelwood, frankly, "I do feel very like some
house-breaker in your presence, and my dismissal will pain no one
but myself; but I have strictly obeyed your command of a week ago to
abstain from any attempt to plead my own cause, and now you must give
me your decision."
"All fair and straightforward for a thief, I admit," said Dorothy's
father. "I honestly tell you that I took the week since you broached
the subject to make searching inquiries about you, and I took the last
few hours to fathom my Daisy's mind, if I could. If you won't give me
any more time, you must just find it out for yourself."
"Sir, if your daughter cannot willingly and happily become my wife
after I have convinced her of my affection, I will never again distress
you with my suit."
"Well, well, likely story; you don't believe in disappointment, not
you," thought the old man; "it's all up if I give him the chance he
asks. I wish he'd broke—no, no I don't,—selfish old fool!
"Well, sir, I can't help myself, it seems; wherever she goes, her
father's heart and blessing go with her. She's in there at some woman's
work you may be sure," pointing back through the hall: "but I'm just
going down to look at the hop-ground; you can come too if you care for
the crops this year," he added, drily.
Mr. Hazelwood seized his hand with a right earnest grasp.
"The hops must wait this time, sir, and I thank you with all my heart."
And darting away, he left the good father to contemplate the painful
loneliness of his closing years.
It was not a cheerful walk, and so prolonged that Dorothy was anxiously
watching for him in the path from the hop-grounds.
"Well, my child, is it settled?" he asked, drawing her within his arm.
"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, demurely, "if you please."
"Humph, you have forgotten that you don't like boobies. How soon must I
give you up?"
"Not before seven years, father, and another seven to that if it would
make you sad to do it."
"Ah! A Jacob and Rachel sort of business, is it? But they say Hazel
Copse wants a mistress now."
"I can't help that, father. Daisy-Meade wants a mistress too, and I am
queen here until you choose to dethrone me."
"Well, well, my child, who knows but I may be—"
Dorothy's hand was on his lips, before what might be, could be spoken.
And if Mr. Hazelwood could have seen the mingled love and pain that
were depicted on each face for the moment, he ought to have felt some
compunction for the disturbance he had made.
"But what must be must, and should be faced manfully," the old Squire
said. And he set about plans for furthering the hopes of his son-in-law
elect, who had rashly quoted the patient patriarch in deference to the
filial affection of his ladye love.
Before a year expired, he resigned his farm and its business into the
hands of his son, who had qualified himself for the responsibility, and
at the earnest desire of Mr. Hazelwood, took up his chief residence at
Hazel Copse, where he could watch and be tended by his transplanted
flower, and see her bloom into matronly beauty, the light of another
home.
Such was the lady who paid her momentary visit to Mrs. Falconer at the
carriage door, and whose thoughts as she moved about in her new and
spacious home continually reverted to the banished ones, possibly shut
up in some dingy house of the city street.
Everywhere she traced the graceful tastes of the late mistress of the
Moat, everywhere she heard regrets for her departure, and praises of
her character; and the desire grew strong within her to prove sympathy
and respect in some substantial manner.
But Mistress Hazelwood's instinctive practise was to hide her own
loving impulses behind her husband's actions, and to claim for him the
tribute, while she shared with him the pure pleasure of generous and
useful deeds.
She knew well how a little suggestion expanded in his mind, and often
went beyond all her expectations. Presently he would certainly perceive
some way to benefit those who had been suddenly deprived of so much
that he and his were now enjoying.
In the meantime, there must be no grasping at a shadow and losing
the substance; no craving for future usefulness in some congenial
form, while duty ready to her heart and hand lay before her in God's
appointment.
Those closed doors in the village had chilled her, and must be opened
somehow; she must try to supply Mrs. Falconer's place. Her devout and
humble manner as she took her place in the great family pew at church
on Sunday was particularly approved by the clerk, who commented thereon
to the good old gardener, who had not yet required the epitaph.
But of Miss Hazelwood, he could not so favourably report; for she
had looked about her, and stared in a peculiar manner at him when he
delivered his first "Amen," which he had meant to render unusually
impressive, and she did not seem impressed at all,—at least, not
respectfully so.
"But she is but a young thing, and must be taught better. Hazel Copse
was but an outlandish sort of place, and maybe young Miss had never
heard before an 'Amen' as it should be. As for the Squire, he was
certainly a pleasant gentleman enough, and not too proud to shake hands
with an honest poor man. He had himself looked in at the gardener's
cottage with a bunch of grapes for the invalid, which was a good sign;
and he would have power to do a deal more than Mrs. Falconer could do
in the way of gifts; so perhaps when they came to be known, and the
pert little Miss had mended her manners, things might not go so badly
after all."
Mr. Herbert heard opinions and remarks, and wisely left matters to
take their course. The turn of feeling in the village would be all the
stronger when resulting from personal experience, than if constrained
by any pressure of advice or suggestion from him.
In honourable sympathy with the general feeling which attended the
transfer by purchase of an old family estate, there were no rejoicings
at the Moat; and the chief changes to be noticed were the presence
of a master and manager of his own affairs, with a bright cheerful
little lady for his help-mate, instead of the calm pale face of the
widow in her suit of undeviating black, and instead of the poor young
heir and his graceful sister, only the one radiant presence of the
butterfly heiress, whom nobody could ever resolve to correct or punish.
She bounded about like a ball, dived into things serious and comic,
resolutely refused to mount the black pony, which she learned had been
Guy's, and most irreverently mimicked Mr. Spadeley's impressive "Amen"
in his own place of dignity, when exploring the church.
But in the churchyard, she conquered him quite; listened to his tales
of the heroes of the Falconers' line; gleaned wonders of village lore
from names and dates and epitaphs; trod softly round the tomb beneath
the cedars; made him lift her high enough to read the record on the
marble slab, and before tripping away,—
"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I wish Mrs. Falconer and the children
had not gone away from the Moat; there is plenty of room for us all,
and I can't see why they should go; can you, Mr. Spadeley?"
Mr. Spadeley pushed back his hat and rubbed his shining head
meditatively.
"Well, Miss, you see, people don't like staying in their troubles where
they've seen better days; and the Moat's bought from right over their
heads you know."
"Is it? I didn't know; I thought they sold it to my father because they
wanted some money."
"Aye, more shame for them that did it that's in a foreign land; but
there's no blame for it to them, or to your father, little Miss, so
don't put the cap on the wrong head; it's got a thorn or two in it,
depend upon that."
"I see," said Miss Evelyn, looking very profound. "And tell you what,
Mr. Spadeley, they shall come back again and be happy here, or else I'm
not Evelyn Hazelwood; you'll see, Mr. Spadeley; good morning to you,
you'll see." And shaking her little head as she looked back at him, she
darted off with a new light in her mind.
"I'll see!" repeated Mr. Spadeley in immense admiration. "I shan't see
anything prettier nor you one while. Bless your little heart, it's a
pity you can't do all you'd like to."
And leaning over the handle of his spade, the worthy sexton made a long
meditation. Then suddenly lifting himself up, he struck it vigorously
under a weed.
"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That 'll do! And, my little lady, as you
say, we'll see,—yes, yes, we'll see what we shall see, and be right
glad and satisfied, after all's said and done!"
What vision brightened the end of the vista through which he had been
mentally looking, possibly his daughter Jane and the landlord of the
"Falconers' Arms" might know soon, but there was no one near to whom to
tell it at that moment.
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