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MITCHELHURST PLACE
A Novel
BY
MARGARET VELEY
AUTHOR OF "FOR PERCIVAL"
"Que voulez-vous? Helas! notre mere Nature,
Comme toute autre mere, a ses enfants gates,
Et pour les malvenus elle est avare et dure!"
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1884
_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved._
Bungay:
CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
TO
BARBARA'S BEST FRIEND
_ELFRIDA IONIDES_
HER STORY IS MOST AFFECTIONATELY
AND GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
TREASURES DROPPED AND PICKED UP 1
CHAPTER II.
AN UNEXPECTED INVITATION 19
CHAPTER III.
"WELCOME TO MITCHELHURST PLACE" 48
CHAPTER IV.
DINNER AND A LITTLE MUSIC 73
CHAPTER V.
AN OLD LOVE STORY 95
CHAPTER VI.
REYNOLD'S RESOLUTION 124
CHAPTER VII.
A GAME AT CHESS 160
CHAPTER VIII.
BARBARA'S TUNE 192
CHAPTER IX.
OF MAGIC LANTERNS 209
CHAPTER X.
AN AFTER-DINNER DISCUSSION 237
MITCHELHURST PLACE
CHAPTER I.
TREASURES DROPPED AND PICKED UP.
"Dans l'air pale, emanant ses tranquilles lumieres
Rayonnait l'astre d'or de l'arriere-saison."
There was nothing remarkable in the scene. It was just a bit of country
lane, cut deeply into the side of a hill, and seamed with little pebbly
courses, made by the streams of rain which had poured across it on their
downward way. The hill-side faced the west, and, standing on this ledge
as on a balcony, one might look down into a valley where cattle were
feeding in the pastures, and where a full and softly-flowing river
turned the wheel of a distant mill, and slipped quietly under the arched
bridge of the lower road. Sometimes in summer the water lay gleaming,
like a curved blade, in the midst of the warm green meadows, but on this
late October day it was misty and wan, and light vapours veiled the pale
globe of the declining sun. Looking upward from the valley, a broad
slope of ploughed land rose above the road, and the prospect ended in a
hedge, a gate, through whose bars one saw the sky, and a thin line of
dusky, red-trunked firs. But from the road itself there was nothing to
be seen in this direction except a steep bank. This bank was crowned
with hawthorn bushes, and here and there a stubborn stunted oak, which
held its dry brown leaves persistently, as some oaks do. With every
passing breath of wind there was a crisp rustling overhead.
This bit of road lay deserted in the faint yellow gleams. But for a wisp
of straw, caught on an overhanging twig, and some cart-tracks, which
marked the passage of a load, one might have fancied that the pale sun
had risen, and now was about to set, without having seen a single
wayfarer upon it. But there were four coming towards it, and, slowly as
two of them might travel, they would yet reach it while the sunlight
lasted. The little stage was to have its actors that afternoon.
First there appeared a man's figure on the crest of the hill. He swung
himself over the gate, and came with eager strides down the field, till
he reached the hedge which divided it from the road. There he stopped,
consulted his watch, and sheltering himself behind one of the little
oaks, he rested one knee on a mossy stump, and thus, half-standing,
half-kneeling, he waited. The attitude was picturesque, and so was the
man. He had bright grey-blue eyes, hair and moustache brown, with a
touch of reddish gold, a quick, animated face, and a smiling mouth. It
was easy to see that he was sanguine and fearless, and on admirable
terms with himself and the world in general. He was young, and he was
pleasant to look at, and, though he could hardly have dressed with a
view to occupying that precise position, his brown velvet coat was
undeniably in the happiest harmony with the tree against which he
leaned, and the withered foliage above his head.
To wait there, with his eyes fixed on that unfrequented way, hardly
seemed a promising pastime. But the young fellow was either lucky or
wise. He had not been there more than five minutes by his watch, when a
girl turned the corner, and came, with down-bent head, slowly sauntering
along the road below him. His clasping hand on the rough oak-bark
shifted slightly, to allow him to lean a little further and gain a wider
range, though he was careful to keep in the shelter of his tree and the
hawthorn hedge. A few steps brought the girl exactly opposite his
hiding-place. There she paused.
She sauntered because her hands and eyes were occupied, and she took no
heed of the way she went. She paused because her occupation became so
engrossing that she forgot to take another step. She wore long, loose
gloves, to guard her hands and wrists, and as she came she had pulled
autumn leaves of briony and bramble, and brier sprays with their bunches
of glowing hips. These she was gathering together and arranging, partly
that they might be easier to carry, and partly to justify her pleasure
in their beauty by setting it off to the best advantage. As she
completed her task, a tuft of yellow leaves on the bank beside her
caught her eye. She stretched her hand to gather it, and the man above
looked straight down into her unconscious upturned face.
She was not more than eighteen or nineteen, and by a touch of innocent
shyness in her glances and movements she might have been judged to be
still younger. She was slight and dark, with a soft loose cloud of dusky
hair, and a face, not flower-like in its charm, but with a healthful
beauty more akin to her own autumn berries--ripe, clear-skinned, and
sweet. As she looked up, with red lips parted, it was hardly wonderful
that the lips of the man in ambush, breathlessly silent though he was,
made answer with a smile. She plucked the yellow leaves and turned away,
and he suffered his breath to escape softly in a sigh. Yet he was
smiling still at the pretty picture of that innocent face held up to
him.
It was all over in a minute. She had come and gone, and he stood up,
still cautiously, lest she should return, and looked at the broad brown
slope down which he had come so eagerly. Every step of that
lightly-trodden way must be retraced, and time was short. But even as he
faced it he turned for one last glance at the spot where she had stood.
And there, like coloured jewels on the dull earth, lay a bunch of hips,
orange and glowing scarlet, which she had unawares let fall. In a moment
he was down on the road, had caught up his prize, and almost as quickly
had pulled himself up again, and was standing behind the sheltering tree
while he fastened it in his coat. And when he had secured it, it seemed,
after all, as if he had needed just that touch of soft bright colour,
and would not have been completely himself without it.
"Barbara's gift," he said to himself, looking down at it. "I'll tell her
of it one of these days, when the poor things are dead and dry! No, that
they never shall be!" He quickened his pace. "They shall live, at any
rate, for me. It would not be amiss for a sonnet. _Love's
Gleaning_--yes, or _Love's Alms_," and before the young fellow's eyes
rose the dainty vision of a creamy, faintly-ribbed page, with strong yet
delicately-cut Roman type and slim italics. Though not a line of it was
written, he could vaguely see that sonnet in which his rosy spoil should
be enshrined. He could even see Barbara reading it, on some future day,
while he added the commentary, which was not for the world in general,
but for Barbara. It became clearer to him as he hurried on, striking
across the fields to reach his destination more directly. Snatches of
musical words floated on the evening air, and he quickened his pace
unconsciously as if in actual pursuit. To the east the sky grew cold and
blue, and the moon, pearl white, but as yet not luminous, swam above him
as he walked.
So the poet went in quest of rhymes, and Barbara, strolling onward,
looked for leaves and berries. She had not gone far when she spied some
more, better, of course, than any she had already gathered. This time
they were on the lower bank which sloped steeply downward to a muddy
ditch. Barbara looked at them longingly, decided that they were
attainable, and put her nosegay down on the damp grass that she might
have both hands free for her enterprise.
She was certain she could get them. She leaned forward, her finger-tips
almost brushed them, when a man's footsteps, close beside her, startled
her into consciousness of an undignified position, and she sprang back
to firmer ground. But a thin chain she wore had caught on a thorny
spray. It snapped, and a little gold cross dropped from it, and lay,
rather more than half-way down, among the briers and withered leaves.
She snatched at the dangling chain, and stood, flushed and
disconcerted, trying to appear absorbed in the landscape, and
unconscious of the passer-by who had done the mischief. If only he
_would_ pass by as quickly as possible, and leave her to regain her
treasure and gather her berries!
But the steps hesitated, halted, and there was a pause--an immense
pause--during which Barbara kept her eyes fixed on a particular spot in
the meadow below. It appeared to her that the eyes of the unknown man
were fixed on the back of her head, and the sensation was intolerable.
After a moment, however, he spoke, and broke the spell. It was a
gentleman's voice, she perceived, but a little forced and hard, as if
the words cost him something of an effort.
"I--I beg your pardon, but can I be of any service? I think you dropped
something--ah! a little cross." He came to her side. "Will you allow me
to get it for you?"
Barbara went through the form of glancing at him, but she did not meet
his eyes. "Thank you," she said, "but I needn't trouble you, really."
And she returned to her pensive contemplation of that spot where the
meadow grass grew somewhat more rankly tufted.
He paused again before speaking. It seemed to Barbara that this young
man did nothing but pause. "I don't think you can get it," he said,
looking at the brambles. "I really don't think you can."
If Barbara had frankly uttered her inmost sentiments she would have
said, "Great idiot--no--not if you don't go away!" But, as it was, she
coloured yet more in her shyness, and stooped to pick up her nosegay
from the ground. He had been within an inch of treading on it.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" he exclaimed, starting back. "How clumsy of
me!"
Something in his tone disarmed her. She feared that she had been
ungracious, and moreover she was a little doubtful whether she would not
find it difficult to regain her trinket without his help. "You haven't
done any harm," she said. Then, glancing downward, "Well, if you will be
so kind."
The new-comer surveyed the situation so intently that Barbara took the
opportunity of surveying him.
She was familiar, in novels, with heroes and heroines who were not
precisely beautiful, yet possessed a nameless and all-conquering charm.
Perhaps for that very reason she was slow to recognize good looks where
this charm was absent. The tall young fellow who stood a few steps away,
gazing with knitted brows at the little wilderness of briers, was really
very handsome, but he was not certain of the fact. Beauty should not be
self-conscious, but it should not despondently question its own
existence. This man seemed to be accustomed to a chilly, ungenial
atmosphere, to be numbed and repressed, to lack fire. Barbara fancied
that if he touched her his hand would be cold.
In point of actual features he was decidedly the superior of the young
fellow who was climbing the hill-side, but the pleasant colour and grace
were altogether wanting. Yet he was not exactly awkward. Neither was he
ill-dressed, though his clothes did not seem to express his
individuality, except perhaps by the fact that they were black and grey.
Any attempt at description falls naturally into cold negatives, and the
scarlet autumn berries which were just a jewel-like brightness in the
first picture would have been a strange and vivid contrast in the
second.
His momentary hesitation on the brink of his venture was not in reality
indecision, but the watchful distrust produced by a conviction that
circumstances were hostile. He wished to take them all into account.
Having briefly considered the position of the cross, and the steepness
of the bank, he stepped boldly down. In less than half a second the
treacherous earth had betrayed him; his foot slipped, he fell on his
back, and slid down the short incline to the muddy ditch at the bottom,
losing his hat by the way.
Barbara, above him, uttered a silvery little "Oh!" of dismay and
surprise. She was not accustomed to a man who failed in what he
undertook.
The victim of the little accident was grimly silent. With a scrambling
effort he recovered his footing and lost it again. A second attempt was
more successful; he secured the cross, clambered up, and restored it to
its owner, turning away from her thanks to pick up his hat, which
luckily lay within easy reach. Barbara did not know which way to look.
She was painfully, burningly conscious of his evil plight. His boots
were coated with mire, his face was darkly flushed and seamed with a
couple of brier scratches, a bit of dead leaf was sticking in his hair,
and "Oh," thought Barbara, "he cannot possibly know how muddy his back
is!"
She stood, turning the little cross in her fingers. "Thank you very
much," she said nervously. "I should never have got it for myself."
"Are you quite sure?" he asked, with bitter distinctness. "I think you
would have managed it much better."
"I'm sure I would rather not try." She dared not raise her eyes to his
face, but she saw that he wore no glove, and that the thorns had torn
his hand. He was winding his handkerchief round it, and the blood
started through the white folds. "Oh, you have hurt yourself!" she
exclaimed. He answered only with an impatient gesture of negation.
"How am I to thank you?" she asked despairingly.
"Don't you think the less said the better, at any rate for me?" he
replied, picking a piece of bramble from his sleeve, and glancing aside,
as if to permit her to go her way with no more words.
But Barbara held her ground. "I should have been sorry to lose that
cross. I--I prize it very much."
"Then I am sorry to have given you an absurd association with it."
"Please don't talk like that. I shall remember your kindness," said the
girl hurriedly. She felt as if she must add something more. "I always
fancy my cross is a kind of--what do they call those things that bring
good luck?"
"Amulet? Talisman?"
"Yes, a talisman," she repeated, with a little nod. "It belonged to my
godmother. I was named after her. She died before I was a year old, but
I have heard my mother say she was the most beautiful woman she ever
saw. Oh, I should hate to lose it!"
"Would your luck go with it?" He smiled as he asked the question, and
the smile was like a momentary illumination, revealing the habitual
melancholy of his mouth.
"Perhaps," said Barbara.
"Well, you would not have lost it this afternoon, as it was quite
conspicuously visible," he rejoined.
By this time he had brushed his hat, and, passing his hand over his
short waves of dark hair, had found and removed the bit of leaf which
had distressed Barbara. She advanced a step, perhaps emboldened a little
by that passing smile. "Oh, I beg your pardon," she said, "but when you
slipped you got some earth on your coat." (She fancied that "earth"
sounded a little more dignified than "mud" or "dirt," and that he might
not mind it quite so much.) "Please let me brush it off for you." She
looked up at him with a pleading glance and produced a filmy little
feminine handkerchief.
He eyed her, drawing back. "No!" he ejaculated; and then, more mildly,
"No, thank you. I can manage. No, thank you."
"I wish----" Barbara began, but she said no more, for the expression of
his face changed so suddenly that she looked over her shoulder to
discover the cause.
A gentleman stood a few steps away, gazing at them in unconcealed
surprise. A small, neat, black-clothed gentleman, with bright grey eyes
and white hair and whiskers, who wore a very tall hat and carried a
smart little cane.
"Uncle!" the girl exclaimed, and her uplifted hand dropped loosely by
her side.