IN THE TOILS.
Sir Charles Mitford had not been guilty of any exaggeration when he
announced his intention of filling his house at Redmoor with a very
pleasant set of people. If a man have a kindly genial temper, a sense
of humour, a desire to be pleasant to his fellow-creatures, such
qualities, however they may have hitherto been concealed, will make
themselves felt during a sojourn at a friend's well-filled
country-house. There the heavy man, who has sat by one at a dozen
dinner-parties during the season and never opened his mouth except to
fill it, is discovered to be full of antiquarian erudition about the
old castles and abbeys in the neighbourhood; and imparts his
information, pleasantly studded with quaint anecdote and pungent
remark. There Lady Katherine gives up her perpetual simper, and rests
her aching lips, and occasionally covers her gleaming teeth. There
Mrs. Phillimore mixes for a while with people in her own rank of life,
and temporarily denies herself the pleasure of hunting orphans into
asylums, and dealing out tea and Bibles to superannuated crones.
Grinsby would have gone through life despised as a cockney
_littérateur_,--indeed, they intended to have immense fun out of him
at the Duke's,--if he had not knocked over that brace of woodcock,
right and left barrel; if, in fact, he had not made better shooting
than any other man of the party; and Tom Copus would never have given
that delicious imitation of little Mr. Loudswell, the blatant
barrister, had it not been coaxed out of him during the private
theatricals at Eversholt Park. What glorious flirtations, what happy
marriages, what fun, enjoyable at the time, and lasting source of
retrospective enjoyment for long after, have arisen from the
gatherings in country-houses! In these days of imitation it is also
gratifying to know that country-house society is essentially English.
Monseigneur le Duc de Hausse et Baisse has a gathering at his _terre_,
or the Graf von Hasenbraten fills his ancestral castle at Suchverloren
with intending assistants at a _treibejagd_: but the French people are
very unhappy; they long to be back in Paris, and they seek consolation
in dressing and behaving exactly as if they had never quitted that
city; while the manner of life among the Germans alters never;--to
shoot a very little, to eat and drink a great deal, and the "sooner
it's over the sooner to sleep,"--such are the simple conditions of
Teutonic happiness.
The party at Redmoor was large and well constituted. Captain and Mrs.
Charteris, whom everybody knew, were there. Tom Charteris had been in
the Enniskillens; had run through all his money, and was in daily
expectation of being sold up, when his uncle, the senior partner in a
large distillery, died, leaving Tom such a share in the business as
would bring him in an excellent income, on the sole condition that he
should leave the army, and personally attend to the management of the
distillery. It is probable that Tom would have been sufficiently
idiotic to refuse compliance with these conditions; but, fortunately,
he had taken to himself a wife, a young lady who was the daughter of
the church-organist in a little town where the Enniskillens had been
quartered, and who gave lessons in music and singing to the resident
gentry. She was a pretty _piquante_ little person; and Tom, lounging
out of the barrack-window while he smoked his after-breakfast pipe,
had seen her tripping to and fro, always neat, active, and sprightly,
and always displaying a remarkably pretty foot and ankle. Admiration
of pretty feet and ankles was among Tom's weaknesses, and he watched
the little music-mistress with great interest, and began to look
forward to her daily appearance with delight. Then he got an
introduction to her,--without any definite end or aim, for good or for
bad, but simply to amuse himself; then he became fascinated by her,
and finally he married her. It was Mrs. Tom who insisted upon big
jolly old Tom giving up the army and taking to the distillery and the
money. She was a funny little woman, and would make her intimates
shout with laughter at her imitation of Tom striding about the
counting-house among the clerks (he never could get rid of his
dragoon-swagger), and talking a haw-haw to the publicans who came to
borrow money or beg for time. They had a pretty little house in
Clarges Street, whence Tom would bowl away every morning at 9.30 to
the distillery in Barbican, remaining there till half-past four, when
Mrs. Tom would call for him in the brougham, and air him in the park
till dinner-time. Everybody knew them, and hats were bobbing off over
the iron-railings all down the Drive as they passed. Whenever a
stoppage occurred Tom had to stand a running fire of chaff, being
asked what it was a quartern, whether he'd like a drop of something
short, with other jokes, in which the phrases "white tape" and "blue
ruin" played conspicuous parts. The little house in Clarges Street was
a great resort for a select few after the Opera, and many well-known
men would drop in to have the claw of a lobster and a glass of
champagne, or to smoke a final cigar whilst listening to Mrs. Tom's
brilliant playing--till two A.M., when Tom turned his guests out,
declaring he was a poor tradesman, and had to be up early to business.
The house was a pleasant one, where there was a certain amount of
_laissez-aller_ freedom, but where Tom took care that his wife was
thoroughly respected.
Then Mrs. Masters, always spoken of as "pretty Mrs. Masters," or "the
pretty widow," was of the party,--a tall handsome woman with large
eyes and masses of floating light brown hair, relict of old Dr.
Masters, who had left her a capital income, which she seemed
determined to keep to herself. Not more than eight-and-twenty, and
eminently attractive, she was a source of wonder to her friends, who
could not understand why she did not marry again. She had numbers of
visitors, male and female; she went into society constantly, and did
her due share of dancing and flirtation; but the latter was so mild in
kind, and so general in its nature, that no man's name had ever been
coupled with hers. Her most intimate enemies raised a report that she
was at one time madly in love with Colonel Alsager; but if there was
any truth in the rumour, she managed her madness so admirably as never
to show a trace of it. She was invaluable in a country-house, for she
was thoroughly good-tempered, entered heart and soul into everything
that was proposed, and was a great bait for vain bachelors, whose
vanity was specially piqued at her long resistance to the charms of
their sex. With Mrs. Masters came her cousins, two young ladies named
Tyrrell, whose father was a judge in India, who were of the ordinary
stamp of pretty, pert, self-satisfied twenty-year-olds.
The other ladies in the house do not call for description. Chief
amongst the men was Captain Bligh, who, as he walked about and
inspected the alterations which had been made under his directions,
wondered whether his old father would ever relent, and whether he
should have a chance of putting the old hall down in Norfolk in order
for himself; or whether he should go on betting and billiard-playing
and steeplechase-riding until he "went a tremendous mucker," and
either blew his brains out or levanted. And there was Major Winton,
who, dressed in a pair of enormous thigh-boots, a dreadnaught, and a
sou'-wester, and accompanied by a keeper, went away every morning at
dawn to lie out in the marshes for snipe and wild-fowl, and who did
not return till dinner-time; immediately after which meal he was
accustomed to retire to his bed-room, where a case-bottle of brandy, a
jar of Cavendish tobacco, a huge meerschaum-pipe, and the adventures
of the Chevalier Faublas, were awaiting him; and with these he would
occupy himself until he went to bed. Laurence Alsager was at Redmoor
also, though his visit to his father was yet unpaid; and so was Lord
Dollamore. The officers of the garrison had called, and the officers
of the frigate cruising off Torquay, and the neighbouring gentry; and
the whole party seemed to enjoy themselves except Sir Charles
Mitford,--whose happiness was not to be long delayed, for the Hammonds
were expected on a certain day, which now dawned upon the impatient
master of Redmoor.
He had returned home after luncheon, leaving the shooting party under
the charge of Captain Bligh, and had been in a state of undisguisable
anxiety all the afternoon, unable to settle himself to anything; now
playing a stroke or two at billiards, and looking on at Tom Charteris,
who was practising certain hazards preparatory to a match with Bligh;
now strolling through the drawing-room, where Alsager was talking to
Lady Mitford and Mrs. Masters; now interrupting Lord Dollamore, who
was stretched out in an easy-chair in the library reading Montaigne.
Sir Charles's impatience and restlessness was not unobserved by any of
these. Tom Charteris supposed he was already sick of the quiet of the
country, and contemplated recommending him a turn in the distillery by
way of a cure. Lady Mitford could not understand his restlessness, and
feared Charley had been annoyed about something. Mrs. Masters ascribed
it to want of _savoir faire_ on the Baronet's part, Only Colonel
Alsager and Lord Dollamore guessed its real cause. The former frowned
portentously as he watched his host; and the latter vas considerably
amused.
"This is positively a very delicious experience of life," thought
Dollamore, as he laid aside his book; "I could not have had a more
charming field for study. So many different characters too! There is
that remarkably uncouth person our host, who is so horribly raw and
undisciplined as to be unable to behave himself decently when
expecting the last object of his calf-love, And there's that modern
Bayard, Alsager, who has undoubtedly a _tendresse_ for our hostess,
and who as undeniably wore Laura Hammond's colours a little time ago,
and bolted because of some inexplicable row with her. And there's
Laura Hammond herself--delicious creature--with a newly-caught mouse
in her mouth; and yet her eye constantly roving over the late captive
playing round her, lest he should escape beyond possibility of
recapture. There's that good-looking widow, too, who is as cold as
ice, but who is supposed to have thawed a little once in Bayard's
favour. And then there's Lady Mitford herself, who is worth all the
rest of the women put together. What grace, what beauty, what
thoroughly unsophisticated charms and real naturalness of manner! By
Jove! compared to her, the widow is a giraffe, and the Hammond a
dairy-maid. Talk of their birth and breeding! why this country-parson's
daughter has the air and manner of a duchess. They will try and set
upon her when she comes to town,--that old Clanronald, who looks like a
cook, and the Tappington with her three daughters like grenadiers in
petticoats; but if she has any pluck--and I think she has, under all
that quietude--she'll ride them down right and left; and she'll have
all the men on her side, though I don't know that that's any pull.
Meantime this oaf is entertaining an angel unawares, and neglecting
her,--is standing at the door of his tent ogling the daughters of the
Cities of the Plain. So much the better for Bayard and--and for others.
But the _imbroglio_ is delightful, and I couldn't wish for better fun
than to stand by and watch the play; cutting-in of course when I see a
chance of holding winning cards."
And then Lord Dollamore rubbed his hands with great gusto, and applied
himself with renewed delight to his volume of French philosophy.
At length the noise of wheels on the hard drive was heard, and
Sir Charles rang the bell and summoned the servants, and, had the
hall-door thrown open, and stood on the steps ready to receive his
guests in person. Drawn by four horses at full gallop, Mr. Hammond's
carriage came thundering along the drive, and ere it pulled up at the
door Lady Mitford had joined her husband, prepared to echo his words
of welcome. With her came Colonel Alsager,--carrying in his hand a
light shawl, which he pressed upon her acceptance when he saw the door
open, and felt the rush of the cold air, which sent the flames roaring
up from the great open fireplace,--and also Lord Dollamore, who smiled
placidly to himself as he saw this act of attention. "None but your
regular Bayard would have done that," said he to himself; "wonderfully
thoughtful fellows they are, by Jove!" He suffered under a slight
lameness, and always carried a Malacca cane, with an ivory
crutch-handle, declared by the men at the club to be his familiar, the
recipient of his confidence, and the suggester of many of his
iniquities. He carried it now, and rapped it against his teeth, and
laid it to his ear, as though he were listening to its counsel.
"There they are," he continued, "in a close carriage of course,
because of my husband's health; but I'm at the open window, and
remarkably well I look. Blue always became me, and my eyes are bright,
and I've got a high colour. How do you do? My hand out at the window,
and a very palpable squeeze to the oaf, who is blushing, by Jove, like
a great schoolboy,--a very palpable squeeze. Steps down now, and,
leaning heavily on his arm, out we jump, and--O yes, dear Lady
Mitford! Kiss, kiss--you she-Judas!--and--hallo! rather astonished at
seeing Bayard, eh? How do you do, Colonel Alsager? I scarcely thought
you would be here. No, of course not; one string too many for her bow.
Now for me!--Needn't ask you how you are, Mrs. Hammond; never saw you
looking more charming.--And she smiles and passes on. Lord help us! is
this Percy Hammond, this unfortunate object that they are helping out
now? Why, he's only a year or two older than I; left Haileybury while
I was at Eton; but what an awful wreck he is! What on earth made him
marry a second time,--especially such a woman as this! Hallo! who have
we here? Tall young woman; severely got up, but a neat figure, and a
good stepper too. Very cold bow from Sir Charles; little hand-shake
from my lady. Must be the governess. O yes, that's it; and there's the
child. Now, then, all the characters are assembled; ring up the
curtain--the play's begun."
Lord Dollamore was right; it had been a palpable hand-squeeze,
palpable to him, palpable to Laurence Alsager, palpable to her from
whom it should have been specially hidden--Lady Mitford. She saw it,
but could scarcely believe she had seen aright; but then she noticed
the manner in which Mrs. Hammond leaned on Sir Charles's arm, and a
certain look which passed between them as she alighted. The next
instant her guest had caught hold of both her hands, and was embracing
her with effusion; but just before Georgie had had time to steal one
glance at Laurence Alsager's face, and to read in the lowering brow
and compressed lips that he too had noticed the _empressement_ of the
meeting. The whole thing was so thoroughly strange to her, so utterly
unexpected, that she did not know how to act. Her first impulse was to
drag herself out of Mrs. Hammond's embrace, to call her a false bad
woman, and to go off in a flood of tears; but fortunately she did not
attempt this experiment. She did the very best thing under the
circumstances, and that was--nothing. She freed herself from her
visitor's embracing arms when she had unresponsive received her kiss,
and murmured a few commonplaces about her delight at seeing her; and
then she went forward to say a passing word of kindness to Mr. Hammond
as he was helped past her by his servants, to exchange salutations
with Miss Gillespie, and to kiss the child's forehead. By this time
she was perfectly ready to do the honours of her house, and to follow
her husband, on whose arm Mrs. Hammond was already leaning, to the
suite of rooms prepared for the guests. These were, as Sir Charles had
said, the best in the house; and as they entered them, Georgie
remembered how he had specially reserved them for the Hammonds, and
she winced as her eye lighted on a splendid bouquet of hot-house
flowers arranged in a vase on the writing-table. The fires burned
brightly, and there was a sufficient air of comfort to justify Mrs.
Hammond in clasping her hands and exclaiming, "How very, very
charming! Everything in such exquisite taste; and oh, what lovely
flowers, Lady Mitford! you know my passion for flowers, and have
indeed taken pains to gratify it. Georgie bowed in an icy manner, and
Sir Charles glowed from his head to his feet.
"It's too late to look out now, but I've no doubt that the prospect's
delightful."
"Looks towards the south. Good for Hammond, and that kind of thing,"
said Sir Charles, explanatorily.
"We'll leave you now, Mrs. Hammond; the first dinner-bell has just
rung," said Georgie, moving towards the door.
"Anything you want you've only to ring for, you know; so find out
something to ask for by dinner-time. Do! you know you've only to ask
and have in this house."
Georgie did not hear this last remark. She was hurrying as quickly as
she could towards her own room; and on reaching it she flung herself
on a sofa, and burst into tears.
It was the custom at Redmoor to assemble previous to the announcement
of dinner in the library,--a large room, rather solemn with its dark
oak bookcases, and when lighted only by two or three moderator-lamps,
placed on small tables. Such was Sir Charles's whim; he had a notion
that the removal from darkness to light awoke a corresponding
cheerfulness; and though it had been often combated by Georgie, on
this occasion she was grateful for any respite from the public gaze,
and every opportunity of recovering her wonted calmness. Clang! goes
the gong. "Dinner is served." Through the indistinct gloom Mrs.
Hammond is seen sailing away on the arm of Sir Charles. Alsager
has the widow for his companion, and feels a thrill run up his
coat-sleeve, to which the arm within his coat-sleeve does not respond.
There are officers from the garrison, who file off with the Tyrrell
girls and with the young ladies, members of the neighbouring families;
and the procession is closed by Lady Mitford, escorted by Lord
Dollamore, who takes the opportunity of saying, "Charming woman Mrs.
Hammond; so frank, ingenuous, and open! So devoted to her poor invalid
husband--don't you think so?" And when Lady Mitford responds, "Yes, O
yes, quite so," Lord Dollamore lifts the ivory crutch-handle of his
Malacca cane to his mouth, and seems whispering to it untellable
jokes.
The dinner was very good; but that was more due to Bligh than to any
one else, even to Lady Mitford. The _chef_ who had been let to the
Mitfords with the house in Eaton Place had stuck to his bargain, and
refused to go into the country. He had his club, his _menus plaisirs_,
and he declined to leave them. So the jolly Captain looked about, took
Mrs. Austin the housekeeper into confidence, and found out from her
that there was a woman who had lived as kitchen-maid in the first
families, and who had always thought of bettering herself, but never
had the chance, and was then at Sir John Rumbold's, hard by. This
person was fetched over, and directed to try her prentice-hand at
cooking a steak and a potato for Captain Bligh, that achievement
being, as he opined, the great touchstone of the culinary art; and
having been thoroughly successful, she was borrowed for a few days and
further tried, and finally engaged. The dinner was so good that every
one enjoyed it, even poor Percy Hammond, who had roused himself
sufficiently to come to table, and whose eyes brightened under the
influence of a bottle of the celebrated old Madeira placed at his
side. It was not the old Madeira which caused Mrs. Hammond's eyes to
brighten, but they had never shone more brilliantly, and her spirits
had never been higher. She talked incessantly, addressing her
conversation chiefly to her host, on whose right hand she was seated.
"I suppose you have some charming old places about here, Sir
Charles?--abbeys, and ruins, and castles," said she after a pause.
"I daresay there are, but as I have only just come here, you know, I
can't say. Major Maxse, no doubt, can tell you; they've been quartered
in the neighbourhood for the last twelve months, and know every inch
of it.--Maxse, Mrs. Hammond asks whether there are any old ruins,
castles, abbeys, that sort of thing, in the neighbourhood. I tell her
she should inquire of you, a the likeliest person to know."
Major Maxse, the gentleman addressed, a good-looking middle-aged
man, replied, "Well, I really think I might earn an honest livelihood
by setting up as guide to this region. Though we've been here little
more than a twelvemonth, I've been so horribly bored that I think I
have explored every nook and corner of the country within a circle of
fifty miles; and I am very happy to tell Mrs. Hammond that there are
all sorts of ruins for her to choose from, with all sorts of
architecture, and all sorts of legends attached. For example, there's
Egremont Priory."
"That's Boscastle's place, isn't it?" said Lord Dollamore, from the
other end of the table; "who made the legend about that? one of the
family probably; for there never was a Boscastle yet who was known to
speak truth, even by accident."
"First-rate place for wild-ducks," said Major Winton: "don't send any
confounded picnic people there, Maxse; they'll scare the birds."
"Even at the risk of being considered confounded picnic people, if
it's a pretty place, and has a good story attached to it, I propose
that we make a party and go," said Georgie.
She was a little astonished at herself when she had said this, but she
had said it purposely. She was wondering what it was that had
attracted her husband in Mrs. Hammond which she herself did not
possess; and she thought perhaps it was a certain dash and verve, to
which she had never pretended, but which her rival undoubtedly
displayed. Poor Georgie felt that perhaps she had been a little too
tame and sedate; and this speech was her first attempt in the opposite
direction.
"Charmingly said, Lady Mitford; the very thing," said Mrs. Hammond.
"And I think we could go, even if there were no story at all--"
"There's round tower which is occupied by an old woman, who'll boil
potatoes, and lay the cloth, and that kind of thing--all under
shelter, you know," said Captain Bligh, who was of an eminently
practical turn.
"O no; but we must have the legend," said Lord Dollamore. "Come, Major
Maxse, you don't get off telling us the Boscastle legend."
"Oh, it's the old story with the usual ingredients--love and a ghost,"
said Major Maxse.
"Yes; but what love? whose ghost?" asked Mrs. Hammond. "You promised
to tell me, Major Maxse, and we're all attention."
"It is simply this. After the Restoration Roger Boscastle, who had
been serving with the Royalists from the beginning of the war, and who
had had to fly the country after Naseby, came back to his estates and
to his wife, who during her husband's absence had been living with her
own family, strict Parliamentarians. Lady Boscastle was a very lovely
woman; but a little strict and rigid, and scarcely suited to a
rollicking swashbuckler like her husband. One day there arrived at
Egremont Priory a troop of horse escorting a beautiful lady and her
father, both foreigners, who had done the king much service in time of
need, and who had known Roger Boscastle when abroad. Roger seemed very
much surprised to see them, and so did Lady Mildred; the latter more
especially when first the old nobleman threw his arms round Roger's
neck and exclaimed, 'Mon fils!' and then the young lady did ditto and
exclaimed, 'Mon amour!' but they were neither of them so astonished as
were the old gentleman and the young lady when Roger led Lady Mildred
forward and presented her as his wife. They were thoroughly taken
aback, and the young lady muttered to Roger under her breath something
which Lady Mildred could not catch, but which, by the expression of
her eyes, must have been very unpleasant. However, they took up their
abode in the castle, whither they had been commended by the king; and
they were very polite, especially the lady, to Mildred, who hated her
with such hatred as is only felt by a woman who suspects another of
carrying on with her husband."
"Bravo, Maxse!" interrupted Lord Dollamore; "gad, that's really quite
graphic,--that last sentence. You've mistaken your profession, Maxse;
you ought to have been an author."
"I'm afraid the last sentence was cribbed from the _Guidebook_ to the
county. However, to cut my story short, one night Lady Mildred
overheard a conversation between her husband and Pepita (that was the
foreign lady's name), from which it was pretty clear that Roger had
represented himself as a single man when abroad, and had actually
married Pepita. Then Mildred had a stormy interview with Roger, and
told him of her intention to leave him the next day and go to her
brother. But the next morning she was found dead, stabbed to the heart
with a dagger, round the handle of which was a scrap of paper,
inscribed 'In a Spaniard's way;' and Pepita, her father, and Roger
Boscastle were all gone. The latter came back when quite an old man,
but was found dead in his bed the morning after his arrival;
frightened, it is supposed, by the ghost of Lady Mildred, which in
stormy weather duly walks the castle, wringing its hands and waving
the bloody dagger in the air."
"No, I don't like the last bit," said Lord Dollamore; "too much like
Richardson's show. All the rest very good and dramatic; don't you
think so, Lady Milford?"
"Oh, very good indeed--thoroughly interesting; and, as usual, the only
innocent person in the story was punished."
"That was because she was innocent," said Lord Dollamore; "there must
have been eligible persons, even among her Roundhead friends; how very
much better to have consoled herself with--"
"As usual, you miss the point of the story, Lord Dollamore," said
Alsager, hotly interrupting; "surely it would have been better to have
been the murdered than the murderess in such a case."
"It's very lucky there are not any such cases now-a-days," said Sir
Charles. "No woman would put a knife into another now."
"Into any one who stood between me and my love I would, for one," said
Mrs. Hammond under her breath; and she looked for a moment so fierce,
that Mitford said, "Gad, I believe you!" in a similar tone.
When the ladies had left the room Laurence Alsager said to Lord
Dollamore: "You had heard that story before?"
"What story, my dear Alsager?"
"The legend of Egremont Priory."
"Had I? Not unlikely. You know I'm a very eccentric reader, and
delight in odd stories."
"It's a pity you did not save Maxse the trouble of telling it again."
"Do you think so? Well, do you know I can't agree with you? Its
recital seemed to bring out the character of some of our friends in
the highest degree; and if there is anything I delight in, it is the
study of character."