A NEW FRIEND.
The result of this interview was that Geoff, as was natural, threw
himself body and soul into the cause of Wild Bampfylde. When he had once
made up his mind to this, a certain comic element in the matter
delighted him and gave him double fervour. The idea of defeating justice
was delightful to the young man, not much older than a schoolboy. He
talked to all the people he met about the case of this wild man of the
woods, this innocent savage, to whom all the sylvan sins came by nature;
and he engaged the best lawyer who could be had to defend him, and if
possible get the wild fellow free. Where was the harm? Wild Bampfylde
had never been guilty of violence to any human creature, he ascertained.
It was only the creatures of the woods he waged war against, not even
the gamekeepers. And when Sir Henry, coming home from Quarter Sessions,
informed the party that Wild Bampfylde had managed to get off by some
quibble, the magistrates being fairly tired of convicting him, everybody
was delighted to hear of the safety of Geoff’s _protégé_ except the two
elder ladies, who showed no satisfaction. Neither of them were glad,
notwithstanding that Geoff was so much interested; Lady Stanton from a
vague concern for her son, and Mary because of the prejudice in her
which all her gentleness could not eradicate. She looked at Geoff with
tears in her eyes. “You will have nothing to do with them,” she said;
“him nor any of them? Oh, Geoff, promise!” which was inconsistent, as it
was she herself who had put the old mother in his way. But Geoff only
laughed, and asked what he could have to do with them, and made no
promise. This episode had not interfered with the business of life, with
the afternoon party or the dinner, the dancing or the croquet. All had
“gone off” as well as possible. Laura and Lydia had “enjoyed
themselves” to their hearts’ content. They had been admired and praised
and fêted, and every one had said it was a delightful party. What more
could any young lady of nineteen desire? Geoff was very good-natured,
and did everything that was asked of him. And Laura wore his bracelet,
which was much admired by her friends, and gave rise to many pleasant
suggestions. “He is just the very person for you,” Lydia said
reflectively, as she examined it. “Now I should have liked emeralds or
diamonds, or grown-up jewels; but the turquoises are the very thing for
you. He sees your taste. If he were not Lord Stanton, just for simple
suitableness you should marry Geoff--he is the very person for you.”
“I do not see why I should be made to marry any one for simple
suitableness, as if I were a baby,” was Laura’s protestation; but she
liked the turquoises, and she did not dislike the hints and smiling
gossip. And when young Lord Stanton and his mother went away, the house
regretted them from the highest to the lowest. The little girls stood
behind backs, crying, when the carriage drove away. “I should like to
know what they have to cry about,” Lydia said; “what is Geoff to them?
It is such nonsense; but they always are encouraged in everything. You
two little things, stop that, and be off with you! You are always in
some one’s way.”
“He is as much our cousin as yours,” said Fanny, who was always known to
be saucy; but they skimmed away in a panic when Lydia turned round upon
them, not knowing what she might do. “Oh, how nice it would be to have
nothing but a mamma!” they said to each other as they alighted in her
room, where it was always quiet, and smoothed down their ruffled plumes.
Poor little doves! it was not for Geoff alone they were crying, for
Geoff’s mother had been very good to them. They had hung about her for
hours, and had stories told to them, and the world seemed an empty sort
of place when these two visitors went away.
The mother and son drove home to their own house, he a little sorry, she
a little glad. It was wrong perhaps to be glad, implying a kind of tacit
censure on the people she had left; but there was no harm in being
happy to get home. Stanton Hall was not an immemorial place like
Penninghame, nor a cosy unpretending country house like Elfdale, but a
great mansion intended to be grand and splendid, and overawe the
country. The splendour had fallen into a little disuse during Geoff’s
long minority, but as he had lived chiefly at home with his mother, it
had proportionately gained in comfort and the home aspect which only
being lived in can give to a house. They lived chiefly in one wing,
leaving the state part of the mansion almost unoccupied. Geoff had not
been brought up as most youths of his age are brought up. His mother had
been too timorous, both physically and spiritually, to trust her child
amid all the appalling dangers and indulgences of a public school. And
he had not even, more wonderful still, gone to any university. She was
his sole guardian, no one sharing her powers, for it never had been
supposed that little Geoff would be anybody in particular, or that it
was of the least importance how his mother brought him up. His education
had therefore been chiefly conducted at home by a tutor, chosen rather
for his goodness than his learning. Did it matter very much? Geoff was
not very clever, and it does not require much learning, as Mrs.
Hardcastle concluded in the case of her son Tony Lumpkin, to spend
fifteen thousand a year. Geoff had learned a great many things which
university men do not much meddle with, and he had forgotten as
successfully as any university man could do. He had a great deal less
Greek, but a good deal more French than most of those heroes; and he was
a good, honest, simple-hearted boy, as, Heaven be praised, in spite of
their many advantages, a great many of those same university men manage
to be. And, in short, he was very much like his contemporaries, though
brought up so very differently--a fact which would have wounded his
mother’s feelings more than anything else you could have said; for if
the result is just about the same as it would have been by the other
process, what is the good of taking a great deal of additional trouble?
Mr. Tritton, the tutor, had been all alone at Stanton during this visit
to Elfdale. He was a very good man. He had been as kind as a father to
Geoff from the moment he took charge of him, and had watched over him
with unfailing care; indeed he was like a second mother as
well--perhaps more like that than the other--very anxious not to
“over-tire” his pupil, or to put any strain on his faculties. They were
the most peaceful household that could be conceived, and Geoff,
according to all rule, ought to have grown up a very feminine youth. But
by good luck he had not done so. In that demure household he got to be a
lively, energetic, out-door sort of person, and loved adventure, and
loved life perhaps all the better in consequence of the meek atmosphere
of quietness which surrounded him. To tell the truth it was he who, for
a long time, had held the helm of the house in his hand, and had
everything his own way.
Mr. Tritton was upon the steps to welcome them, and the servants, who
were glad to see them back after the week of quiet. Who does not know
the kind of servants Lady Stanton would have?--men and women who had
seen the boy grow up, and thought or seemed to think there was nobody in
the world like Geoff--a housekeeper to whom her mistress was very
obsequious and conciliatory, but whom Geoff treated with a familiarity
which sometimes froze the very blood in his mother’s veins, who would
not for the world have taken such liberties; and a butler, who felt
himself an independent country gentleman, and went and came very much at
his own pleasure, and governed his inferiors _en bon prince_, but with a
lively sense of his own importance. These all received the travellers
with cordiality at the door, and brought them tea and were very kind to
them. It was quite touching and gratifying to Lady Stanton that they
should always be so kind. Harris, the butler, took her little
travelling-bag, and carried it into the drawing-room with his own hand;
and Mrs. Benson herself came to pour out her cup of tea. “I hope your
ladyship is not too much tired with your long drive,” Mrs. Benson said;
and Harris kindly lingered to hear her reply, and to assure her that all
had been going on well at Stanton while she was away.
Geoff did not pay so much attention to the kindness of the servants. He
went off to the stables to give some orders, leaving Mr. Tritton with
his mother. Geoff called his tutor Old Tritton as easily as if he had
mixed in the world of men at Eton or Oxford, and went off about his own
business unconcerned. But when he had turned the corner of the house to
the stables, Geoff’s whistle stopped suddenly. He found a man standing
there with his back against the wall, whose appearance startled him. A
poacher is a thing that is obnoxious to every country gentleman, however
easy his principles may be on the question of game; and a tramp is a
thing that nobody with a house worth robbing can away with. The figure
that presented itself thus suddenly before Lord Stanton’s eyes was the
quintessence of both; a tall, loose-limbed man, with strong black locks
and an olive skin, in coarse velveteen and gaiters, and a coat with
multitudinous pockets, with a red handkerchief knotted round his neck, a
soft felt hat crushed into all manner of shapes, and a big stick in his
hand. He stood in a careless attitude, at his ease, leaning against the
wall. What had such a man to do there? and yet there he was for a
purpose, as any one could see, lying in wait; was it to rob, or to kill?
Geoff’s heart gave a little leap at the sight of the intruder. He had
not had much experience of this kind.
“What are you doing here?” he asked sharply, the instincts of property
and authority springing up in disapproval and resistance. What had such
a fellow to do here?
“I am doing nothing,” said the man, not changing his attitude, or even
taking off his hat, or showing the smallest mark of respect. He
continued even to lounge against the wall with rude indifference. “I am
here on your business, not on mine,” he said, carelessly.
“On my business! Yes, I know,” said Geoff, suddenly bethinking himself;
“you are Bampfylde? I am glad you’ve got off; and you come to me
from----”
“Old ’Lizabeth; that is about it. She’s a funny woman: whatever silly
thing she wants she always gets her way. She wants you now, and I’ve
come to fetch you. I suppose you’ll come, since she says it. And you’d
better make up your mind soon, for it does not suit me to stay here.”
“I suppose not,” said Geoff, scarcely noticing what he said.
“Why should you suppose not!” said the man, rousing himself with an air
of offence. He was taller than Geoff, a lanky but muscular figure. “I
have eyes and feelings as well as you. I like a fine place. Why
shouldn’t I take my pleasure looking at it? You have a deal more, and
yet you’re not content.”
“We were not discussing our feelings,” said Geoff, half contemptuous,
half sympathetic. “You have brought me a message, perhaps from your
mother?”
“I’ve come from old ’Lizabeth. She says if you like to start to-night
along with me we’ll talk your business over, and if she can satisfy you
she will. Look you here, my young lord, your lordship’s a deal of
consequence to some, but it’s nothing to her and me. Come, if you like
to come; it’s your business, not our’s. If there’s danger it’s your own
risk, if there’s any good it’s you that will have it, not us----”
“Danger!” said Geoff; “the danger of a walk up the fells! and good--to
me? Yes, you can say it is to me if you like, but you ought to be more
interested than I am. However, words don’t matter. Yes, let us say the
good is mine, and the danger, if any, is mine----”
“Have it your own way,” said Bampfylde. “I’ll come back again, since
you’ve made up your mind, at ten to-night and show you the way.”
“But why at night?” said Geoff; “to-morrow would be better. It is not
too far to go in a day.”
“There’s the difference between you and us. Night is our time, you see.
It must be by night or not at all. Would you like to walk with me across
country, my lord? I don’t think you would, nor I wouldn’t like it. We
shouldn’t look natural together. But at night all’s one. I’ll be here at
ten; there’s a moon--and a two hours’ walk, or say three at the most,
it’s nothing to a young fellow like you.”
This was a very startling proposition, and Geoff did not know what to
make of it. It grew more and more like a mysterious adventure, and
pleased him on that side; but he was a modern young man, with a keen
perception of absurdity, and everything melodramatic was alarming to
him. Why should he walk mysteriously in the middle of the night to a
cottage about which there need be no mystery on a perfectly innocent and
honest errand? He stared at his strange visitor with a perplexity beyond
words.
“What possible object could be gained,” he said at last, “by going in
the night?”
“Oh, if you’re afraid!” said this strange emissary, “don’t go--that’s
all about it: neither me nor her are forcing you to hear what we may
happen to know.”
“I am not afraid,” said Geoff, colouring. It was an accusation which was
very hard to bear. “But there is reason in all things. I don’t want to
be ridiculous--” The man shrugged his shoulders--he laughed--nothing
could have been more galling. Geoff standing, looking at him, felt the
blood boiling in his veins.
“Quite right too,” said Bampfylde. “What can we know that’s worth the
trouble? You’ll take a drive up some day in your coach and four, and
oblige us. That is just what I would do myself.”
“In Heaven’s name, what am I expected to do?” cried Geoff; “make a
melodramatic ass of myself, and go in the middle of the night?”
“I’m no scholar: long words are not my sort. Do or don’t, that’s the
thing I understand, and it is easy to settle. If you’re not coming, say
No, and I’ll go. If you are coming, let me know, and I’ll be here.
There’s nothing to make such a wonder about.”
Geoff was in great doubt what was best to do. The adventure pleased him;
but the idea of ridicule held him back. “It is not pleasant to be
thought a fool,” he said. Then, nettled by the jeer in the face of this
strange fellow who kept his eyes--great, dark, and brilliant as they
were--fixed upon him, the young man cut the knot hurriedly. “Then never
mind the absurdity; be here at ten, as you say, and wait if I am not
ready. I don’t want everybody to know what a fool I am,” he said.
“You are coming then?” said the man with a laugh. “That’s plucky
whatever happens. You’re not afraid?”
“Pooh!” cried Geoff, turning away. He was too indignant and annoyed to
speak. He went on impatiently to the stables, leaving the stranger where
he stood. He was not afraid; but his young frame thrilled in every fibre
with excitement. Had not adventures of this kind sounded somewhat
ridiculous to the ideas of to-day, the mysterious expedition would have
been delightful to him. But that uneasy sense of the ridiculous kept
down his anticipations. What could old ’Lizabeth have to tell that could
justify such precautions? But if she chose to be fantastic about her
secret, whatever it was, he must humour her. When he went in again,
there was no sign of his visitor, except the half-effaced mark of a
footstep on the soft gravel. The man had ground the heel of his boot
into it while he stood talking, and there it was, his mark to show the
place where he had been.
The evening passed very strangely to young Lord Stanton. He heard his
mother and Mr. Tritton talking calmly of to-morrow. To-morrow the old
family lawyer was expected, and some of the arrangements attendant on
his coming of age, which was approaching, were to be discussed; and he
was asked, What he would like--in one or two respects. Should this be
done, or that, when his birthday came? Geoff could not tell what curious
trick of imagination affected him. He caught himself asking, Would he
ever come of age? Would to-morrow be just as the other days, no more and
no less? How absurd the question was! What could possibly happen to him
in a long mountain walk, even though it might be through the darkness?
There is nothing in that homely innocent country to make midnight
dangerous. Wild Bampfylde might be an exciting sort of companion; but
what more? As for enemies, Geoff remembered what he had said so short a
time before. He did not believe in them; why should he? he himself, he
felt convinced, possessed no such thing in all the world.
But it was astonishing how difficult it was that evening to get free.
Lady Stanton, who generally was fatigued with the shortest journey, was
cheerful and talkative to-night, and overflowing with plans; and even
Mr. Tritton was entertaining. It was only by saying that he had letters
to write that Geoff at last managed to get away. He disliked writing
letters so much that the plea was admitted with smiles. “We must not
balk such a virtuous intention,” the tutor said. He went into the
library with a beating heart. This room had a large window which opened
upon the old-fashioned bowling-green. Geoff changed his dress with great
speed and quiet, putting on a rough shooting suit. The night was dark,
but soft, with stars faintly lighting up a hazy sky. He stepped out from
the big window and closed it after him. The air was very fresh, a little
chilly, as even a midsummer night generally is in the north country. He
gave a little nervous shiver as he came out into the darkness and
dullness. “There’s some one walking over your grave,” said a voice at
his elbow. Geoff started, to his own intense shame and annoyance, as if
he had received a shot. “Very likely,” he said, commanding himself;
“over all our graves perhaps. That harms nobody. You are there,
Bampfylde? That’s well; don’t talk, but go on.”
“You’re a good bold one after all,” said the voice by his side. Geoff’s
heart beat uneasily at the sound, and yet the commendation gave him a
certain pleasure. He was more at his ease when they emerged from the
shadow of the house, and he could see the outline of his companion’s
figure, and realize him as something more than a voice. He gave a
somewhat longing look back at the scattered lights in the windows as he
set out thus through the silence and darkness. Would any one find out
that he was gone? But his spirit rose as they went on, at a steady pace,
swinging along under the deep hedgerows, and across the frequent bridges
where so many streamlets kept crossing the road, adding an unseen tinkle
to the sounds of the summer night.