A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
It was shortly after my arrival at Thornleigh that I first saw the man
whose story I had heard in the study at Cumber Priory. Milly and I had
been together about a fortnight, and it was the end of January--cold,
clear, bright weather--when we set out early one afternoon for a ramble
in our favourite wood, Milly furnished with pencils and sketch-book, in
order to jot down any striking effect of the gaunt leafless old trees.
She had a hardy disregard of cold in her devotion to her art, and would
sit down to sketch in the bitter January weather in spite of my
entreaties.
We stayed out longer than usual, and Milly had stopped once or twice to
make a hasty sketch, when the sky grew suddenly dark, and big drops of
rain began to fall slowly. These were speedily succeeded by a pelting
storm of rain and hail, and we felt that we were caught, and must be
drenched to the skin before we could get back to Thornleigh. The
weather had been temptingly fine when we left home, and we had neither
umbrellas nor any other kind of protection against the rain.
'We had better scamper off as fast as we can,' said Milly.
'But we can't run four miles. Hadn't we better go on to Cumber, and
wait in the village till the weather changes, or try to get some kind
of conveyance there?'
'Well, I suppose that would be best. There must be such a thing as a
fly at Cumber, I should think, small as the place is. But it's nearly a
mile from here to the village.'
'Anything seems better than going back through the wood in such a
weather,' I said.
We were close to the outskirts of the wood at this time, and within a
very short distance of the Priory gates. While we were still pausing in
an undecided way, with the rain pelting down upon us, a figure came
towards us from among the leafless trees--the figure of a man, a
gentleman, as we could see by his dress and bearing, and a stranger. We
had never met any one but country-people, farm-labourers, and so on, in
the wood before, and were a little startled by his apparition.
He came up to us quickly, lifting his hat as he approached us.
'Caught in the storm, ladies,' he said, 'and without umbrellas I see,
too. Have you far to go?'
'Yes, we have to go as far as Thornleigh,' Milly answered.
'Quite impossible in such weather. Will you come into the Priory and
wait till the storm is over?'
'The Priory! To be sure!' cried Milly. 'I never thought of that. I know
the housekeeper very well, and I am sure she would let us stop there.'
We walked towards the Priory gates, the stranger accompanying us. I had
no opportunity of looking at him under that pelting rain, but I was
wondering all the time who he was, and how he came to speak of Cumber
Priory in that familiar tone.
One of the gates stood open, and we went in.
'A desolate-looking place, isn't it?' said the stranger. 'Dismal
enough, without the embellishment of such weather as this.'
He led the way to the hall-door, and opened it unceremoniously,
standing aside for us to pass in before him. There was a fire burning
in the wide old-fashioned fireplace, and the place had an air of
occupation that was new to it.
'I'll send for Mrs. Mills, and she shall take your wet shawls away to
be dried,' said the stranger, ringing a bell; and I think we both began
to understand by this time that he must be the master of the house.
'You are very kind,' Milly answered, taking off her dripping shawl. 'I
did not know that the Priory was occupied except by the old servants. I
fear you must have thought me very impertinent just now when I talked
so coolly of taking shelter here.'
'I am only too glad that you should find refuge in the old place.'
He wheeled a couple of ponderous carved-oak chairs close to the hearth,
and begged us to sit there; but Milly preferred standing in the noble
old gothic window looking out at the rain.
'They will be getting anxious about us at home,' she said, 'if we are
not back before dark.'
'I wish I possessed a close carriage to place at your service. I do,
indeed, boast of the ownership of a dog-cart, if you would not be
afraid of driving in such a barbarous vehicle when the rain is over. It
would keep you out of the mud, at any rate.'
Milly laughed gaily.
'I have been brought up in the country,' she said, 'and am not at all
afraid of driving in a dog-cart. I used often to go out with papa in
his, before he married.'
'Then, when the storm is over, I shall have the pleasure of driving you
to Thornleigh, if you will permit me that honour.'
Milly looked a little perplexed at this, and made some excuse about not
wishing to cause so much trouble.
'I really think we could walk home very well; don't you, Mary?' she
said; and I declared myself quite equal to the walk.
'It would be impossible for you to get back to Thornleigh before dark,'
the gentleman remonstrated. 'I shall be quite offended if you refuse
the use of my dog-cart, and insist on getting wet feet. I daresay your
feet are wet as it is, by the bye.'
We assured him of the thickness of our boots, and gave our shawls to
Mrs. Mills the old housekeeper, who carried them off to be dried in the
kitchen, and promised to convey the order about the dog-cart to the
stables immediately.
I had time now to look at our new acquaintance, who was standing with
his shoulders against one angle of the high oak mantelpiece, watching
the rain beating against a window opposite to him. I had no difficulty
in recognising the original of that portrait which Augusta Darrell had
looked at so strangely. He was much older than when the portrait had
been taken--ten years at the least, I thought. In the picture he looked
little more than twenty, and I should have guessed him now to be on the
wrong side of thirty.
He was handsome still, but the dark powerful face had a sort of rugged
look, the heavy eyebrows overshadowed the sombre black eyes, a thick
fierce-looking moustache shrouded the mouth, but could not quite
conceal an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, that lurked about
the lowered corners of the full firm lips. He looked like a man whose
past life held some sad or sinful history.
I could fancy, as I looked at him, that last bitter interview with his
mother, and I could imagine how hard and cruel such a man might be
under the influence of an unpardonable wrong. Like Mrs. Darrell, I was
inclined to place myself on the side of the unfortunate lovers, rather
than on that of the mother, who had been willing to sacrifice her son's
happiness to her pride of race.
We all three remained silent for some little time, Milly and I standing
together in the window, Mr. Egerton leaning against the mantelpiece,
watching the rain with an absent look in his face. He roused himself at
last, as if with an effort, and came over to the window by which we
stood.
'It looks rather hopeless at present,' he said; 'but I shall spin you
over to Thornleigh in no time; so you mustn't be anxious. It is at
Thornleigh Manor you live, is it not?'
'Yes,' Milly answered. 'My name is Darrell, and this young lady is Miss
Crofton, my very dear friend.'
He bowed in recognition of this introduction.
'I thought as much--I mean as to your name being Darrell. I had the
honour to know Mr. Darrell very well when I was a lad, and I have a
vague recollection of a small child in white frock, who, I think, must
have been yourself. I have only been home a week, or I should have done
myself the pleasure of calling on your father.'
'Papa is in Paris,' Milly answered, 'with my stepmother.'
'Ah, he has married again, I hear. One of the many changes that have
come to pass since I was last in Yorkshire.'
'Have you returned for good, Mr. Egerton?'
'For good--or for evil--who knows?' he answered, with a careless laugh.
'As to whether I stay here so many weeks or so many years, that is a
matter of supreme uncertainty. I never am in the same mind very long
together. But I am heartily sick of knocking about abroad, and I cannot
possibly find life emptier or duller here than I have found it in
places that people call gay.'
'I can't fancy any one growing tired of such a place as the Priory,'
said Milly.
'"Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage." "'Tis in
ourselves that we are thus or thus." Cannot you fancy a man getting
utterly tired of himself and his own thoughts--knowing himself by
heart, and finding the lesson a dreary one? Perhaps not. A girl's life
seems all brightness. What should such happy young creatures know of
that arid waste of years that lies beyond a man's thirtieth birthday,
when his youth has not been a fortunate one? Ah, there is a break in
the sky yonder; the rain will be over presently.'
The rain did cease, as he had prophesied. The dog-cart was brought
round to the door by a clumsy-looking man in corduroy, who seemed half
groom, half gardener; and Mr. Egerton drove us home; Milly sitting next
him, I at the back. His horse was very good one, and the drive only
lasted a quarter of an hour, during which time our new acquaintance
talked very pleasantly to both of us.
I could not forget that Mr. Darrell had called him a bad man; but in
spite of that sweeping condemnation I could not bring myself to think
of him without a certain interest.
Of course Milly and I discussed Mr. Egerton as we sat over our snug
little _tête-à-tête_ dinner, and we were both inclined to speak of his
blighted life in a pitying kind of way, and to blame his mother's
conduct, little as we knew of the details of the story. Our existences
were so quiet that this little incident made quite an event, and we
were apt to date things from that afternoon for some time afterwards.