NEW PLANS.
Notwithstanding all the hinderances that envious fate could send, the
news so important to the family got itself circulated among them at
last, with the result that the strangest excitement, elation, and
despondency, a complication of feelings utterly unknown in their
healthful history, took possession of the Penton family. They had made
up their minds to one thing--they now found themselves and all their
projects and plans swallowed up in another. They had adapted themselves,
the young ones with the flexibility of youth, to the supposed change in
their fortunes. They had now to go back again, to forget all those
innumerable consultations, arrangements, conclusions of all kinds, and
take up their old plans where they had been abandoned. It had been
dreadful to give up Penton. It was scarcely more agreeable to take it
back again. And yet an elation, an elevation was in all their minds.
Penton was theirs, that palace of the gods. They were no longer
nobodies, they were people of importance. The girls found it beyond
measure uncomfortable, distracting, insupportable, that on this day of
all others, when they had a thousand things to say to each
other--questions to ask, suggestions to make, the most amazing
revolution to talk over, there should be a stranger always between them,
one whom, with that civility which was born with them, and in which
they had been trained, they felt themselves constrained to explain
everything to, whom they would not leave out of their conversation or
permit to feel that she was an intruder. She was an intruder all the
same. She was in the way, horribly in the way, at this eventful moment.
The family was dissolved by her presence. The father and mother retired
together to the book-room to talk there, a thing they never would have
done but for the stranger. And Walter strolled off on his side, scarcely
saying a word to his sisters, whom he could not approach or communicate
his sentiments to in consequence of Mab. It was a heavy task to the two
girls to have to entertain her, to go round and round the garden with
her, to point out the views of Penton, to explain to her what it was
about, when one or another would burst out into some irrestrainable
exclamation or remark; but the fate of womankind in general was upon
these devoted young women. They had to entertain the visitor, to occupy
themselves with the keeping up of appearances, and to put everything
that interested them most aside in their hearts.
“We put this seat here because it is the best view of Penton. No, it
isn’t very shady in summer, it is a little exposed to the wind, but then
Penton--”
“We used to be so much interested in every view. Is this the best, or
the one from the top of the hill?”
“Oh, the one on the top of the hill. Oh, I wish Penton was at the bottom
of the sea!”
“I don’t,” cried Anne. “After all it is only the confusion with having
changed our minds. It is so much better not to change one’s mind, that
lets so many new thoughts come in.”
“And most likely the old thoughts were the best,” said Ally, softly,
with a little sigh. Then she added, “You must think us so strange: but
it is only just to-day, for we are all excited and put out.”
“One would think you did not like coming into your fortune,” said Mab.
“Is it because of old Sir Walter? But Aunt Gerald said you scarcely knew
him.”
“We never saw him: but it is terrible to think of being better off
because some one has died--”
“And it is more than that. It is because we thought we were to give it
all up, and now it seems it is all ours--”
“And we were always brought up to think so very much of it,” Ally said.
And then she added, “Shouldn’t you like to come round and see where the
children have their gardens? it is quite high and dry, it is beyond the
highest mark. No flood has ever come up here.”
This was the supreme distinction of the terrace and that part of the
garden that lay beyond it. They were quite proud to point out its
immunity from the floods: as they passed they had a glimpse through the
windows of the book-room of Mr. and Mrs.--nay, of Sir Edward and Lady
Penton, sitting together, he with a pencil in his hand jotting down
something upon a piece of paper, she apparently reckoning up upon the
outstretched fingers of her hand. Ally and Anne looked at each other;
they would all have been deep in these calculations together if Mab had
not been there.
Walter went upon his own way. Perhaps had the visitor been a man he
might have had the same confinement, the same embarrassment: but
probably he would have undertaken nothing of the sort. Probably he would
have thrown over his guest upon the girls. What were girls good for but
to undertake this sort of thing, and set more important persons free?
For himself he did not feel able for anything but to realize the new
position; to turn everything over in his mind, to hurry away to the
neighborhood, at least, of the one creature in the world who (he
thought) might look at it from his point of view and care what he felt.
Could he still think, after the reception she had given him that
morning, after the blank which he had found in her, the incapacity to
understand him--could he believe still that his tumultuous feelings now
and all the ferment in his mind would awaken in her that ideal sympathy
and understanding of which he had dreamed? Alas, poor Walter! he knew so
little in reality of _her_: what he knew was his own imagination of
her--a perfect thing, incapable of failure, sure to sympathize and
console. What he had learned from the failure of the morning was only
this, that it must have been his fault, who had not known how to
explain--how to make his story clear. It was not she who was to blame.
He rushed up the hill with his heart a-flame, thinking of everything. He
was now no disinherited knight, no neglected youth whose fate his elders
decided without consulting him. Oh, no; very different. He was the heir
of Penton! He had attained what he had looked for all his life. He
stood trembling upon the verge of a new existence, full of the
tumultuous projects, the unformed resolves that surge upward and boil in
the mind of a youth emancipated, whose life has come to such promotion,
whose career lies all before him. And to what creature in the world
after himself could this be of the same importance as to her who
might--oh, wonderful thought!--share it with him? He had been far from
having this thought in the morning. Then he was but a boy, without any
definite plan, with only education before him and vague beginnings, and
no certainty of anything. Now he was Walter Penton of Penton, with a
position which no man could take from him--not his father even! Nobody
could touch him in his rights. Not an acre could be alienated without
his consent; nothing could be taken away. And then there was that story
about “providing for the boy” which his father had touched on very
lightly, but which came back in the strongest sense to the mind of the
boy who was to be provided for. He felt the wildest impatience to tell
her all this. She would understand him now. She did not know what he
meant in the morning, which was, no doubt, his fault. How could she be
expected to understand the fantastic discontent that was in his mind?
But she would understand now. He had a certainty of this, which was
beyond all possibility of mistake, and though he knew that it was very
unlikely he should see her at this hour, yet the impulse of his heart
was such that nothing else was possible to him but to hurry to the spot
where she was--to be near her, to put himself in the way if perchance
she should pass by. The painful impression with which in the morning he
had seen her in a moment change herself and her aspect, and step down
from the position on which she met him to that of Crockford’s niece,
passed altogether from his mind--or rather it remained as a keen
stimulant forcing him to a solution of the mystery which intertwined the
harmony with a discord as is the wont of musicians. There could not be
any such jarring note. He must account for the jarring note; it was a
tone of enchantment the more, a charm disguised.
These were the things he said to himself--or rather he said nothing to
himself, but such were the gleams that flew across his mind like
glimmers of light out of the sky. He went quickly up the steep hill,
breasting it as if his fortune lay at the top, and a moment’s delay
might risk it all--until he came within sight of Crockford’s cottage,
its upper windows twinkling over the rugged bit of hedge that fenced off
the little grass-plot in front. Then his pace slackened--the goal was in
sight; there was no need for haste--in short, even had she been visible,
Walter would have dallied, with that fantastic instinct of the lover
which prolongs by deferring the moment of enjoyment. And then at a
little distance he could examine the windows, he could watch for some
sign or token of her, as he could not do near at hand. He lingered, he
stood still on a pretense of looking at the hedge-rows, of examining a
piece of lichen on a tree, his eyes all the time furtively turning
toward that rude little temple of his soul. What a place to be called by
such a name! And yet the place was not so much to be found fault with.
The hedge was irregular and broken, raised a little above the path, with
a rough little bit of wall, all ferns and mosses, supporting the bank of
earth from which it grew; above it, glistening in the low red rays of
the afternoon sun, were the lattice windows of the upper story, with the
eaves of an uneven roof--old tiles covered with every kind of
growth--overshadowing them; a cottage as unlike as possible to those
dreadful dwellings of the poor which are the result of sanitary science
and economy combined; a little human habitation harmonized by age and
use with all its surroundings, and which no one need be ashamed to call
home. So Walter said to himself as he stood and looked at it in the
light of romance and the afternoon sun. It was as venerable as Penton
itself, and had many features in common with the great house. It was
more respectable and more lovely than the damp gentility of Penton Hook,
which was old-new, with plaster peeling off, and a shabby modernism in
its vulgar walls. Crockford’s cottage pretended to nothing, it was all
it meant to be. It was in its way a beautiful place, being so harmonized
by nature, so well adapted to its uses. Walter’s estimate of it
increased as the moments went on. He felt at last that to bring his
bride from such an abode was next door to bringing her from an ideal
palace of romance; perhaps better even than that, seeing that there
would be all the pleasure of setting her in the sphere which she would
adorn; for would not she adorn--it was an old-fashioned phrase, yet one
that suited the occasion--any sphere?
He was interrupted in these thoughts by the sound of steps approaching.
All was silent, alas! in the cottage. The door was shut, for it was very
cold weather, and no one appeared at a window; there was not a movement
of life about. Walter knew that the room in which they lived (_i. e._
the kitchen) looked to the back. The approaching passenger, therefore,
did not convey any hopes to his mind, but only annoyed him, making him
leave off that silent contemplation of the shrine of his love, which he
had elaborately concealed, by a pretended examination of the lichens on
the tree. If any one was coming, that pretense, he felt, was not enough,
and he accordingly continued his walk very slowly up the hill in order
to meet the new-comer whoever he might be. When he came in sight he was
not, as Walter had expected, a recognizable figure, but unmistakably a
stranger--a man whose dress and appearance were as unlike as possible to
anything which belonged to the village. He was a young man, rather
undersized, in a coat with a fur collar, a tall hat, a muffler of a
bright color, a large cigar, and a stick of the newest fashion. He was
indeed all of the newest fashion, fit for Bond Street, and much more
like that locality than a village street. Walter was not very learned in
Bond Street, but he laughed to himself as he made this conclusion,
feeling that Bond Street would not acknowledge such a glass of fashion.
The stranger was looking at Crockford’s cottage with a glass stuck in
his eye, and a sort of contemptuous examination, which proved that he
made a very different estimate of it from that which Walter had just
done. When he in his turn heard Walter’s step upon the road, he seemed
to wake up to the consciousness of being looked at, in a way which
aroused the contempt of the young native. He gave himself various little
pulls together, took his cigar from his mouth with an energetic puff,
put up his disengaged hand to his cravat with an involuntary movement to
arrange something, and settled his shoulders into his coat--gestures
corresponding to the little shake and shuffle with which some women
prepare themselves to be seen, however elaborate their toilet may have
been before. Then he quickened his steps a little to meet Walter, who
came toward him slowly, with a quite uncalled-for sentiment of contempt.
Why should a youth in knickerbockers, in the rough roads of his native
parish, feel himself superior to a gentleman visitor in the apparel of
the higher orders, coming (presumably) out of Bond Street? Who can
explain this mystery? No doubt it was balanced by a still stronger
feeling of the same kind on the other side. The stranger came forward
evidently with the intention of asking information. He was a
sandy-haired and rather florid young man, with a badly grown mustache
and little tufts of colorless beard. His hat was a little on one side,
and the hair upon which it was poised glistened and shone. The level sun
came in his eyes and made him blink; it threw a light which was not
flattering over all his imperfections of color and form.
“Beg your pardon,” he said, with a slight stammer as they approached
each other, “you couldn’t tell me, could you, where one--Crockton or
Croaker, or some such name, lives about here?”
“Croaker?” said Walter. With Crockford’s cottage before his eyes, what
could be more simple? The suggestion was too evident to be mistaken, as
was also the other suggestion, which came like a flash of lightning, and
made his eyes shine with angry fire. “I know nobody of the name,” he
said, quietly, making a rapid step forward; and then it occurred to him
that the information thus sought might be supplied easily by any
uninterested passer-by, and he paused, feeling that it was necessary to
plant himself there on the defense. “What sort of a man do you want?
What is he?” he asked.
“Ah, no sort of a man at all--it’s--it’s a cottage, I believe. He may be
a cobbler or a plow-boy, or a--anything you please. Am I the sort of
person to know such people’s trades? It’s a--it’s a--Look here, I’ll
make it worth your while if you’ll help me. It’s a lady I want.”
“Oh, a lady!” said Walter. He felt the blood flush to his face; but this
the inquirer, occupied with his own business, did not remark. He came
close, turning off the smoke of his cigar with his hand.
“Look here,” he said, in a loud whisper, “I’ll make it worth your while.
It’ll be as good as a suv--, well, I may say if you’ll really find out
what I want, as good as a fiver in your pocket. Oh, I say, what’s the
matter: I don’t mean no harm.”
“I wonder who you take me for,” cried Walter, whose sudden move forward
had thrown the other back in mingled astonishment and alarm.
The stranger eyed him from head to foot with a puzzled look, which
finally awoke a little amusement in Walter’s angry soul. “Don’t know you
from Adam,” he said, “and I ain’t used to fellows in knickerbockers.
Swells wear them, and gamekeepers wear them. If you’re a swell I beg
your pardon, that’s all I can say.”
This prayer it pleased Walter graciously to grant. He began to enter
into the humor of the situation. And then, to save her from some vulgar
persecutor, was not that worth a little trouble? “Never mind,” he said,
“who I am. I know all the ladies that live here. Which of them is it
that you want?”
“Well, she don’t live here,” said the other. “Yes, to be sure, she’s
here for the moment, with one Croaker, or something like that. But she’s
not one of the ladies of the place; she’s not, perhaps, exactly what you
would call a--Yes, she is though--she’s awfully well educated. She
talks--oh, a great deal better than most of the swellest people you meet
about. I’ve met a good few in my day,” he said, with an air, caressing
his mustache. “I don’t know nobody that comes up to her, for my part.”
He was a little beast--he was a cad--he was a vulgar little beggar: he
was not a gentleman, nor anything like it. But still he seemed to have a
certain comprehension. Walter’s heart softened to him in spite of all
provocations. “I don’t think,” he said, but more gently than he could
have thought possible, “that you will meet any one of that sort here.”
“No? you don’t think so. But they’d keep her very close, don’t you see.
Fact is, she was sent off to keep her out of a young fellar’s way. A
young swell you know, a--a friend of mine, with a good bit of money
coming to him, and his people didn’t think her good enough. Oh, I don’t
think so--not a bit. I’m all on the true love side. But where there’s
money, don’t you know, there’s always difficulties made.”
“I suppose so,” said Walter, with momentary gravity. And there came
before him for a moment a horrible realization--something he had never
thought of before. “But I don’t think,” he added, “that you will find
any such lady here.” He was so young and simple that it was a certain
ease to his conscience to put it in this way. He said to himself that he
was telling no lie. He was not saying that there was no such lady here,
only that he didn’t think the other would find her--which he shouldn’t,
at least so long as Walter could help it. This little equivocation gave
great comfort and ease to his mind.
“Don’t you, though?” said the stranger, discouraged. “But I’m almost
sure this was the village, near the river, and not far from--it answers
to all the directions--if only I could find Croaker--or Crockton, or a
name like that. I’m a dreadful fellow for muddling names.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Walter, “it may be Endsleigh, about two miles
further on; that’s near the river, and not far from Reading, which I
suppose is what you mean--a pretty little village where people go in
summer. And, to be sure, there’s some people named Croaker there; I
remember the name--over a shop--with lodgings to let--that’s the place,”
he cried, with a little excitement. For all this was quite true, and yet
elaborately false in intention, a combination to delight any such young
deceiver. “Come along,” he cried, “I’ll show you the way. It lies
straight before you, and Croaker’s is just as you go into the village.
You can’t miss it. I’ve earned that fiver,” he said, with a laugh, “but
you’re welcome to the information--for love.”
“For love!” cried the other; and he gave the young fellow a very
doubtful look, then threw a suspicious glance around as if he might
possibly find some reasons lying about on the road why this young
stranger should attempt to deceive him. But after all, why should a
young swell in knickerbockers desire to deceive the man of Bond Street?
There could be no reason. He took out his cigar-case, and offered a
large and solid article of that description to Walter’s acceptance, who
took it with great gravity. “I can’t thank you any way else--they’re
prime ones I can tell you,” he said, and with a flourish of his stick,
by way of farewell, took the way pointed out to him. Walter stood and
watched him with a curious mingling of satisfaction and mischief. He
threw the cigar into the ditch. It was a bad one, he had no doubt,
which, perhaps, made it less a sacrifice to throw away this reward of
guile.