On this particular July afternoon Mr. Alwynn, or, as his parishioners
called him, "The Honorable John," was sitting in his arm-chair in the
little drawing-room of Slumberleigh Rectory. Mrs. Honorable John was
pouring out tea; and here, once and for all, let it be known that meals,
particularly five o'clock tea, will occupy a large place in this
chronicle, not because of any importance especially attaching to them,
but because in the country, at least in Slumberleigh, the day is not
divided by hours but by the meals that take place therein, and to write
of Slumberleigh and its inhabitants with disregard to their divisions of
time is "impossible, and cannot be done."
So I repeat, boldly, Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn were at tea. They were alone
together, for they had no children, and Ruth Deyncourt, who had been
living with them since her grandmother's death in the winter, was now
staying with her cousin, Mrs. Ralph Danvers, at Atherstone, a couple of
miles away.
If it had occasionally crossed Mr. Alwynn's mind during the last few
months that he would have liked to have a daughter like Ruth, he had
kept the sentiment to himself, as he did most sentiments in the company
of his wife, who, while she complained of his habit of silence, made up
for it nobly herself at all times and in all places. It had often been
the subject of vague wonder among his friends, and even at times to Mr.
Alwynn himself, how he had come to marry "Fanny, my love." Mr. Alwynn
dearly loved peace and quiet, but these dwelt not under the same roof
with Mrs. Alwynn. Nay, I even believe, if the truth were known, he liked
order and tidiness, judging by the exact arrangement of his own study,
and the rueful glances he sometimes cast at the litter of wools and
letters on the newspaper-table, and the gay garden hats and goloshes,
hidden, but not concealed, under the drawing-room sofa. Conversation
about the dearness of butchers' meat and the enormities of servants
palled upon him, I think, after a time, but he had taken his wife's
style of conversation for better for worse when he took her gayly
dressed self under those ominous conditions, and he never showed
impatience. He loved his wife, but I think it grieved him when
smart-colored glass vases were strewn among the cherished bits
of old china and enamel which his soul loved. He did not like
chromo-lithographs, or the framed photographs which Mrs. Alwynn called
her "momentums of travel," among his rare old prints, either. He bore
them, but after their arrival in company with large and inappropriate
nails, and especially after the cut-glass candlesticks appeared on the
drawing-room chimney-piece, he ceased to make his little occasional
purchases of old china and old silver. The curiosity shops knew him no
more, or if he still at times brought home some treasure in his hat-box,
on his return from Convocation, it was unpacked and examined in private,
and a little place was made for it among the old Chelsea figures on the
bookcase in his study, which had stood, ever since he had inherited them
from his father, on the drawing-room mantle-piece, but had been silently
removed when a pair of comic china elephants playing on violins had
appeared in their midst.
Mr. Alwynn sighed a little when he looked at them this afternoon, and
shook his head; for had he not brought back in his empty soup-tin an old
earthen-ware cow of Dutch extraction, which he had long coveted on the
shelf of a parishioner? He had bought it very dear, for when in all his
life had he ever bought anything cheap? And now, as he was tenderly
wiping a suspicion of beef-tea off it, he wondered, as he looked round
his study, where he could put it. Not among the old Oriental china,
where bits of Wedgwood had already elbowed in for want of room
elsewhere. Among his Lowestoft cups and saucers? Never! He would rather
not have it than see it there. He had a vision of a certain bracket,
discarded from the hall, and put aside by his careful hands in the
lowest drawer of the cupboard by the window, in which he kept little
stores of nails and string and brown paper, among which "Fanny, my love"
performed fearful ravages when minded to tie up a parcel.
Mr. Alwynn nailed up the bracket under an old etching and placed the cow
thereon, and, after contemplating it over his spectacles, went into the
drawing-room to tea with his wife.
Mrs. Alwynn was a stout, florid, good-humored-looking woman, with a
battered fringe, considerably younger than her husband in appearance,
and with a tendency to bright colors in dress.
"Barnes is very poorly, my dear," said Mr. Alwynn, patiently fishing out
one of the lumps of sugar which his wife had put in his tea. He took one
lump, but she took two herself, and consequently always gave him two.
"I should say a little strong soup would--"
At this juncture the front door-bell rang, and a moment afterwards "Mr.
Dare" was announced.
The erect, light gray figure which had awakened the curiosity of Mrs.
Eccles came in close behind the servant. Mrs. Alwynn received a deep bow
in return for her look of astonishment; and then, with an eager
exclamation, the visitor had seized both Mr. Alwynn's hands, regardless
of the neatly folded slice of bread and butter in one of them, and was
shaking them cordially.
Mr. Alwynn looked for a moment as astonished as his wife, and the blank,
deprecating glance he cast at his visitor showed that he was at a loss.
The latter let go his hands and spread his own out with a sudden
gesture.
"Ah, you do not know me," he said, speaking rapidly; "it is twenty years
ago, and you have forgotten. You do not remember Alfred Dare, the little
boy whom you saw last in sailing costume, the little boy for whom you
cut the whistles, the son of your old friend, Henry Dare?"
"Good gracious!" ejaculated Mr. Alwynn, with a sudden flash of memory.
"Henry's other son. I remember now. It _is_ Alfred, and I remember the
whistles too. You have your mother's eyes. And, of course, you have come
to Vandon now that your poor brother--We have all been wondering when
you would turn up. My dear boy, I remember you perfectly now; but it is
a long time ago, and you have changed very much."
"Between eight years and twenty-eight there is a great step," replied
Dare, with a brilliant smile. "How could I expect that you should
remember all at once? But _you_ are not changed. I knew you the first
moment. It is the same kind, good face which I remember well."
Mr. Alwynn blushed a faint blush, which any word of praise could always
call up; and then, reminded of the presence of Mrs. Alwynn by a short
cough, which that lady always had in readiness wherewith to recall him
to a sense of duty, he turned to her and introduced Dare.
Dare made another beautiful bow; and while he accepted a cup of tea from
Mrs. Alwynn, Mr. Alwynn had time to look attentively at him with his
mild gray eyes. He was a slight, active-looking young man of middle
height, decidedly un-English in appearance and manner, with dark roving
eyes, mustaches very much twirled up, and a lean brown face, that was
exceedingly handsome in a style to which Mr. Alwynn was not accustomed.
And this was Henry Dare's second son, the son by his French wife, who
had been brought up abroad, of whom no one had ever heard or cared to
hear, who had now succeeded, by his half-brother's sudden death, to
Vandon, a property adjoining Slumberleigh.
The eager foreign face was becoming familiar to Mr. Alwynn. Dare was
like his mother; but he sat exactly as Mr. Alwynn had seen his father
sit many a time in that very chair. The attitude was the same. Ah, but
that flourish of the brown hands! How unlike anything Henry would have
done! And those sudden movements! He was roused by Dare turning quickly
to him again.
"I am telling Mrs. Alwynn of my journey here," he began; "of how I miss
my train; of how I miss my carriage, sent to meet me from the inn; of
how I walk on foot up the long hills; and when I get there they think I
am no longer coming. I arrived only last night at Vandon. To-day I walk
over to see my old friend at Slumberleigh."
Dare leaned forward, laying the tips of his fingers lightly against his
breast.
"You seem to have had a good deal of walking," said Mr. Alwynn, rather
taken aback, but anxious to be cordial; "but, at any rate, you will not
walk back. You must stay the night, now you are here; mustn't he,
Fanny?"
Dare was delighted--beaming. Then his face became overcast. His eyebrows
went up. He shook his head. Mr. and Mrs. Alwynn were most kind, but--he
became more and more dejected--a bag, a simple valise--
It could be sent for.
Ah! Mr. Alwynn was too good. He revived again. He showed his even white
teeth. He was about to resume his tea, when suddenly a tall white figure
came lightly in through the open French window, and a clear voice began:
"Oh, Uncle John, there is such a heathen of a black poodle making
excavations in the flower-beds! Do--"
Ruth stopped suddenly as her eyes fell upon the stranger. Dare rose
instinctively.
"This is Mr. Dare, Ruth," said Mr. Alwynn. "He has just arrived at
Vandon."
Ruth bowed. Dare surpassed himself, and was silent. All his smiles and
flow of small-talk had suddenly deserted him. He began patting his dog,
which had followed Ruth in-doors, and a moment of constraint fell upon
the little party.
"She is shy," said Dare to himself. "She is adorably shy."
Ruth's quiet, self-possessed voice dispelled that pleasing illusion.
"I have had a very exhausting afternoon with Mrs. Eccles, Aunt Fanny,
and I have come to you for a cup of tea before I go back to Atherstone."
"Why did you walk so far this hot afternoon, my dear? and how are Mrs.
Danvers and Lady Mary? and is any one else staying there? and, my dear,
_are_ the dolls finished?"
"They are," said Ruth. "They are all outrageously fashionable. Even
Molly is satisfied. There is to be a school-feast here to-morrow," she
added, turning to Dare, who appeared bewildered at the turn the
conversation was taking. "All our energies for the last fortnight have
been brought to bear on dolls. We have been dressing dolls morning,
noon, and night."
"When is it to be, this school-feast?" said Dare, eagerly. "I will buy
one--three dolls!"
After a lengthy explanation from Mrs. Alwynn as to the nature of a
school-feast as distinct from a bazaar, Ruth rose to go, and Mr. Alwynn
offered to accompany her part of the way.
"And so that is the new Mr. Dare about whom we have all been
speculating," she said, as they strolled across the fields together. "He
is not like his half-brother."
"No; he seems to be entirely a Frenchman. You see, he was educated
abroad, and that makes a great difference. He was a very nice little boy
twenty years ago. I hope he will turn out well, and do his duty by the
place."
The neighboring property of Vandon, with its tumble-down cottages, its
neglected people, and hard agent, were often in Mr. Alwynn's thoughts.
"Oh, Uncle John, he will, he must! You must help him and advise," said
Ruth, eagerly. "He ought to stay and live on the place, and look into
things for himself."
"I am afraid he will be poor," said Mr. Alwynn, meditatively.
"Anyhow, he will be richer than he was before," urged Ruth, "and it is
his duty to do something for his own people."
When Ruth had said it was a duty, she imagined, like many another young
soul before her, that nothing remained to be said, having yet to learn
how much beside often remained to be done.
"We shall see," said Mr. Alwynn, who had seen something of his
fellow-creatures; and they walked on together in silence.
The person whose duty Ruth had been discussing so freely looked after
the two retreating figures till they disappeared, and then turned to
Mrs. Alwynn.
"You and Mr. Alwynn also go to the school-feast to-morrow?"
Mrs. Alwynn, a little nettled, explained that of course she went, that
it was her _own_ school-feast, that Mrs. Thursby, at the Hall, had
nothing to do with it. (Dare did not know who Mrs. Thursby was, but he
listened with great attention.) She, Mrs. Alwynn, gave it herself. Her
own cook, who had been with her five years, made the cakes, and her own
donkey-cart conveyed the same to the field where the repast was held.
"Miss Deyncourt, will she be there?" asked Dare.
Mrs. Alwynn explained that all the neighborhood, including the Thursbys,
would be there; that she made a point of asking the Thursbys.
"I also will come," said Dare, gravely.