FIRST IMPRESSIONS.
"RUDHAM, Sunday Evening.
"DEAR SALLY,
"I did not, until now, believe myself a creature of impulse. That I am
one is proved by the fact that, as I dropped my last letter to you into
the post-box, I made up my mind to run down here and have a look round;
and here I am. My surroundings I will describe later. I told you I
had decided not to go to poor old Major Lessing's funeral for various
reasons. I have a horror of humbug; and to pose as sole and chief
mourner at the funeral of a man who had made me his heir by a fluke,
and if he had lived an hour longer would have altered his will, seemed
humbugging, to my mind. Also the funeral service, beautiful as it
appears to those who can believe in it, means absolutely nothing to me;
and I have scruples about appearing as if it did. Two surprises
awaited me at Rudham: first, that by the same train by which I arrived
Mrs. and Miss Webster got out upon the platform; and the beauty who
fascinated you 'all of a heap' at Brussels, turns out to be the tenant
of Rudham Court--_my_ tenant, in fact!--a judgment upon me, you will
say, for my unreasoning prejudice. Secondly, the extreme difficulty of
getting a night's lodging, unless your character and circumstances are
well known, was borne in forcibly upon my mind! An under-gardener of
Mrs. Webster's took me up in the cart which carried your charmer's
luggage.
"Judging by the size and number of the boxes, beauty needs a great deal
of adorning, by the way! Then I was handed over to the village
blacksmith, and, under the shelter of his name, I persuaded a Mrs.
Macdonald to take me in. You would describe her as 'quite a darling!'
"She and her husband are Scotch by birth, and still retain the soft
intonation and pretty accent. They have no children--indeed, Mrs.
Macdonald informs me that they have not long been married; and she must
be fifty, and 'my John,' as she calls him, some ten years older; but I
have never seen two people more in love with each other. If
surroundings are an index to character they must be very nice people
indeed. Let me try and describe my room, which is furnished with the
solid simplicity of a hundred years ago. A grandfather clock ticks
solemnly in the corner, two oak chairs stand on either side of the
fireplace, with down cushions in print covers on the seats--a
concession to modern luxury. In place of the cheap modern sideboard an
open oak cupboard, whereon are displayed my dinner and tea-things,
furnishes one side of the room, leaving just sufficient space for two
Windsor chairs, polished to such a dangerous brightness that to sit
upon them without sliding off requires more careful balance than to
ride a bicycle. An oak table with twisted legs, and flaps that let up
or down at will, is in the centre of the room. One almost expects
clean rushes strewed upon the floor; instead there is linoleum of a
neat design--black stars upon a white ground; and Mrs. Macdonald prides
herself not a little upon the far-sighted policy that made her decide
upon linoleum rather than carpet.
"'It can be wiped over with a damp cloth every day, sir, and kept sweet
and clean; and if you're feet are cold, I'm not saying that I'll mind
your putting them on the rug, although I made it all myself'--which was
kind of Mrs. Macdonald! My attention being thus drawn to the
hearthrug, I discover that it's a work of art, in its way, knitted in
with rags and tags of cloth, grave or gay in colouring, but harmonious
in the general effect. You will think that I am developing a passion
for detail, but it is rather that I wish to photograph exactly my first
impressions of the place. There seems a primitive simplicity about it
that must vanish at the first touch of modern progress like a pretty
old fresco exposed to the light, and I feel myself like a traitor in
the camp. If I decide to live here I shall probably be the motive
force that will set the ball of progress rolling. Life here is almost
stagnant, I fancy, unlike the river, which runs swift and strong along
the side of the village. It separates from, rather than connects it
with the outer world, for there are dangerous currents which make it
not too safe for navigation; and to cross it you must either go to the
ferry, half a mile off, or make for the bridge at Nowell four miles
away. I found out all this by a stroll after tea, last evening, and a
gossip with my new acquaintance, the blacksmith Allison. Gradually the
talk turned to things parochial, and I discovered some characteristics
of the go-ahead parson, whose appointment to the living my godfather
gently deplored; and this was how it came about. A tall,
powerful-looking man came swinging down the road at a brisk pace,
nodding in quick, alert fashion to one and another as he passed,
recognizing me as a stranger, but bidding Allison a cheerful good night
as he passed on in the direction of the inn. By his dress I knew he
must be the parson of the place. Allison, who had acknowledged his
greeting only by a sideways nod, gave a grunt of assent when I asked
him if it were so.
"'Curzon,' he said; 'that's his name, a meddlesome chap, if ever there
were one! Now the last rector were a real gentleman! You could please
yourself about going to church or staying at home; but he were
wonderful kind in sickness and such.'
"'And you miss the attention, I daresay?"
"'Well, I'm not saying that exactly. Mr. Curzon's wonderful took up
with the sick folks and children, but it's us well ones he can't leave
alone. His work's never done, as you may say. Now what do you suppose
he's after to-night?' in a tone of angry argument.
"'I really can't guess.'
"'No; it's not likely you would. He makes believe as he's gone for a
walk, but he'll be turning back again about such time as the men are
turning out of the public there! Then, come next week, he'll be
droppin' into one cottage or another about such time as the man comes
in from work, and it'ull be, 'So and so, I'm afraid you had a glass too
much on Saturday night. I wouldn't do it, if I was you;' and then he's
sure to put in something about coming to church on Sunday."
"And do they?' I asked.
"'Some on 'em. Most of 'em, if I speaks the truth, gets tired of being
told of it, I think, and goes just to pacify him, as you may, say; but
I don't hold with it myself.'
"Apparently this faithful shepherd does succeed in driving a very large
proportion of his flock to church on Sunday. Allison and I are
distinctly in a minority. I was nearly being carried there forcibly
myself to-night; and I only escaped, I believe, because Mrs. Macdonald
has evolved, from the label on my portmanteau that I am the coming
squire, and must be allowed some liberty of opinion.
"'You'll be going to church to-night, sir,' she said, beginning the
attack with gentle firmness. 'John and I lock up the house and hide
the key under the mat, in case you come back before we do. We have a
walk these summer evenings when church is over.'
"'Thank you, Mrs. Macdonald, you can leave the key in the door; I have
writing to do.'
"'But you'll be going to church, for sure; you were not there this
morning, I'm thinking, and the rector's sure to say something of him
that's gone.'
"I had not the courage of my opinions, like Allison. How could I
grieve the kindly eyes that looked into mine? So I took refuge in weak
evasion.
"'I've been over-worked and over-worried, Mrs. Macdonald, and my head
aches, and I need rest and quiet.'
"'Well there, sir; you'll forgive my making so bold, but it will grieve
the good man, if he knows you've come. And there's a-many will be
disappointed not to catch a sight of you, besides.'
"'Whom do you mean by the good man?'
"'There now! it slipped out without thinking. But it's what my John
and I call Mr. Curzon, for we've never come across such a one as he.'
"'And why am I to be a sort of show to the others?' I asked with some
curiosity.
"'Ah! Because some of them begin to guess now who you are--not that
John nor I are much given to talk. But when a neighbour asks your
name, we couldn't keep it no longer--could we, sir?'
"'Certainly not. And they will all see me sooner or later, though it
won't be at church to-night. I hope soon to know every one in the
place.'
"So finally I've been left in charge of the cottage, and have been
writing ever since this long rigmarole to you. Mrs. Macdonald's words
have given me food for reflection, and, the more I reflect, the more
fully convinced I am how thoroughly unfitted I am to fill the place
allotted to me. Had Major Lessing left me money enough to carry out my
own wishes, I should have been inclined to put his property in the
hands of a capable, fair agent, and do with it as Major Lessing
suggested, and keep things very much as they are; but I find that I
shall have little independent income apart from the property. To keep
things in really working repair I shall probably have to raise the
rents--which are absurdly low--which, of course, will be a very
unpopular movement; and my being willing to live as simply as any of my
tenants, will not in the least soften their feeling towards me. I
shall not do anything in a hurry, but I shall first try and master my
position. After so many years of a non-resident squire of a strictly
conservative type, there must be need for improvements; but here again
comes in the question of money. I am afraid that trip abroad must be
put off for the present. How would it be for you to come here for a
bit? I will sound Mrs. Macdonald on the subject to-morrow. If I
undertake the management of things here myself, you would help me with
accounts, etc., and I could take you on as my paid secretary! However
this is looking too far ahead. I will keep this letter open and tell
you the result of my advances to-morrow."
"Monday Evening.
"I approached Mrs. Macdonald with much diplomacy this morning. She
gave me the opening I sought by saying, when I ordered my dinner--
"'I suppose you'll be leaving to-day or to-morrow, sir.'
"'On the contrary, you are making me so comfortable, that I was going
to ask you to take me on for a few weeks, at any rate.'
"'But it isn't right or fitting that the likes of you should be living
in a cottage such as this. The whole place belongs to you, I'm
thinking.'
"'I suppose it does. But if I come to live here I shall start either
in a cottage, or quite a small house, with a sister of mine who has no
home, poor child! How she would like to join me here, by the way.'
"Mrs. Macdonald played nervously with the string of her apron. I could
see I had appealed to her motherly heart by representing you as a
motherless orphan.
"'I suppose you haven't a second bedroom,' I suggested, following up my
advantage.
"'It's a slip of a thing; not fit for a lady, sir.'
"'After all, ladies are much the same as other women; and my sister
might have the bigger bedroom and I the smaller.'
"'There's my John,' doubtfully.
"'Doesn't he like ladies?'
"'Not all of them, sir,' with a sudden burst of confidence. 'There's
Mrs. Webster; she called here one day to know if I'd take in some of
the washing--and he'd just come in from work,--and she marched into the
kitchen and talked very loud. Though he's deaf he don't like no notice
taken of it; and he told her it 'ud be time enough for me to work when
he was laid by, and then he'd be sorry if I had to do it.'
"'But, of course, if Macdonald does not like us we will leave at once,'
I said, assuming that Mrs. Macdonald had agreed to have you. So you're
to come, Sally; come as quickly as you can. Don't bring much luggage,
for there is nowhere to put it; and pray remember to talk gently to our
host. I cannot see why we should not double the size of this
cottage--put in a bath-room, and get Mrs. Macdonald to do for us; but
this will entirely depend upon your manners, you see. I was preparing
to go out, when I saw a child's invalid carriage barring the entrance
to the gate, and a child's clear voice was giving very impressive
orders about the contents of a certain basket which was to be carried
up to the door.
"'You won't spill them, Nurse. You'll be sure not to spill them;
they're so _very_ ripe they'd burst if you did.'
"'No, darling; I'll carry them as carefully as new-laid eggs.'
"The woman spoke like a lady; her tone was so gentle and refined.
"I was standing at the open door of the cottage, and went down the path
to meet her, asking if I could take in the basket to Mrs. Macdonald.
"'But they are not for her; they're for you. But I'm afraid you're
better and don't want them,' said the voice from the carriage outside.
"'Whatever is inside that basket I'm sure to want,' I said, going out
to my odd little visitor; 'but I don't quite know why you are so kind
as to bring me things. I'm afraid there's some mistake; I shall be so
disappointed if there is.'
"The blue eyes that looked up into mine began to smile.
"'Shall you really? There can't be any mistake, because last night, as
Nurse wheeled me out of church, I heard daddy talking to Mrs.
Macdonald; and she said she'd got the new squire at home, but he'd a
dreadful headache and couldn't come.'
"I could scarcely help laughing; I certainly had not intended my words
to be accepted so literally.
"'Who are you?' I asked, 'and what's in that basket? It wouldn't be
manners to peep inside, would it?'
"'Oh yes, it would,' with a delighted giggle. 'I'm Kitty--Kitty
Curzon,--and daddy says it's my work to look after any one who is not
well; and I'm to think what they will like, and take it to them. So,
when I heard you had such a bad headache, I got Nurse to gather my last
red gooseberries--they are _very, very_ ripe,--and I've brought them
for you; and can I have the basket, please?'
"'Well, I can't accept them on the plea of headache: it's gone, you
see; but perhaps you will be so kind as to leave them all the same, for
if there is one thing I like more than another----"
"'It's gooseberries,' interposed Kitty, eagerly; and I nodded assent.
"The child shot a triumphant glance at Nurse.
"'She said you would not want them, and I'd better ask daddy; but he
likes me to think of things by myself. And then at the end of the day
I tell him where I've been; and he'll be so surprised to-night, for he
didn't know I'd heard about you.'
"I carried off the basket, and brought it back, presently, empty.
"'I have not half thanked you, Kitty; but I am most grateful. How old
are you, I wonder?'
"There was a moment's hesitation. 'I'm not young at all; I'm nine,
although you'd never think it, because I'm so small. Daddy says
running about makes you grow, and I can't run.'
"'Her back is not strong, sir,' said Nurse, hurriedly; and as I looked
at the recumbent figure, I saw that the poor little child was deformed.
It seemed a terrible pity, for the face and head are singularly pretty.
"'That's why daddy says I must think of all the ill ones, because Nurse
and he think so much about me.'
"'Very well. I shall be sure and send for you directly there is
anything the matter. I fancy you would do me more good than a doctor.
And I've a sister coming, before long, and she will want companions.
You will have to come to tea.'
"'Is she as old as I am?'
"'A little older, I think.'
"'I'll come if daddy will let me; but Nurse must come too.'
"'By all means, and if you have any little brothers or sisters----'
"'I have not any. There's only me,' interposed Kitty, shaking her head.
"'I wonder what her name is?'
"'My sister's, do you mean? Sally. Rather a nice name, isn't it?'
"Evidently Kitty did not like it much, for she said she must be going;
and went on her way, kissing her hand graciously, so I took off my hat
and waved it.
"From Mrs. Macdonald I gather that my first visitor is Mr. Curzon's
only child. He is a widower, it seems, and Kitty is the cause of his
holding a country living. By my landlady's account he is simply
wrapped up in her. I have been the round of the village to-day, making
acquaintance with one and another as occasion offered. As I
conjectured there seems plenty to be done; and it must be some months
before I can stir hand or foot, before I can get things even into my
own hands--not that the people here realize this in the very least.
Indeed they are intellectually dead; they seem to possess no ambition
of any sort.
"I went into the parish church on my way home. It is an interesting
one, built about the end of the thirteenth century, with a magnificent
tower that one can see for miles round. I found a great many monuments
to the Lessings--a very virtuous lot, if their memorial tablets are to
be trusted. The church has been carefully restored--quite recently, I
fancy, by the look of it. Then I went into the churchyard, where a
newly-filled-in grave showed me where my poor godfather had been laid.
The sacristan, a very old, infirm man was putting it tidy; and to my
astonishment I saw a low vase of white flowers placed in the very
centre of the grave.
"'I suppose I am not mistaken,' I said. 'This must be Major Lessing's
grave?'
"'Yes, sir.'
"'And who put the flowers?'
"'Miss Kitty, the little maid at the rectory. She said she'd thought
he'd be lonely without any;' and the sacristan straightened his back
with a little smile.
"'I hope you don't mind,' said a voice behind me. 'I've a notion your
relative did not like flowers at a funeral, but I could not upset
Kitty's conviction that he did.'
"It was the rector who had come upon me unawares, and he did not
pretend not to know me.
"'What can it matter now?' I answered. 'He'll know nothing of it.'
"But I must stop, I've no time to describe the good man. Come and see
him for yourself.
"Ever yours,
"PAUL LESSING."