HALCYON DAYS.
There were no bonfires or floral arches, no rejoicings of tenantry
or farm labourers, when John Treverton and his wife came home to
Hazlehurst Manor. They came unannounced one fine July afternoon,
arriving in a fly hired at Beechampton, much to the distress of
Mrs. Trimmer, who declared that there was absolutely nothing in the
house. Yet many an anxious city housekeeper would have considered the
noble array of hams, pendant from the massive beams of the kitchen
ceiling, the flitch of bacon, the basket of new-laid eggs, the
homely saffron-hued plum cakes, the dainty sweet biscuits, the ox
tongues and silver side of beef in pickle, the chickens waiting to be
plucked--worthy to count as something.
‘You might have sent me a telegram, mum, and then I might have done
myself credit,’ said Mrs. Trimmer, dolefully. ‘I don’t believe there’s
a bit of fish to be had in Hazlehurst. I was in the village at twelve
o’clock this blessed day, and there was one sole frizzling on the
slates at Trimpson’s, and I’ll warrant he’s been sold by this time.’
‘If he isn’t sold he must be pretty well baked, so we won’t have
anything to say to him,’ said John Treverton, laughing. ‘Don’t worry
yourself about dinner, my good creature; we are too happy to care what
we eat.’
And then he put his arm round his wife’s waist and led her along the
corridor that ended in the book-room, where she had left him in his
despair seven little months ago. They went into this room together, and
he shut the door behind them.
‘Dear love, to think that I should enter this room the happiest of men.
I, who sat by that table in such anguish as few men are ever called
upon to suffer. Oh, Laura, that was the darkest day in my life.’
‘Forget it,’ she said earnestly; ‘never let the past be named between
us. There is so much of it that is still a mystery to me. You have told
me so little of your early life, John, that if I were to think of the
past I might begin to doubt you. Oh, love, I have trusted you blindly.
Even when all things looked dark I went on trusting you; I clung to my
belief in your goodness. I don’t know whether it was my weakness or my
strength which made me so confident.’
‘It was your strength, dearest, the strength of innocence, the strength
of that divine charity which “thinketh no evil.” Dear love, it shall be
the business of my life to prove you right, to show myself worthy of
your trust.’
They roamed about the house together, looking at everything, as if
each object were new to both, happy as children. They recalled their
first meeting--their second--and confessed all they had felt on each
occasion. It was delightful to them to travel backward through the
history of their love, now that life was bright and the future seemed
all secure.
So their life went on for many days, Laura initiating her husband
in his position as Squire of Hazlehurst. She took him round to all
the cottages and introduced him to their inmates, and together they
planned improvements which were to make Hazlehurst Manor one of the
most perfect estates in the country. Above all things was there to be
happiness for every one. Drainage and sanitation were to be so improved
that fever and infection would be almost an impossibility. Every farm
labourer was to have a clean and comfortable shelter, and a patch of
ground where he might grow his cabbages, and, if blessed with a love
of the beautiful, rear roses and carnations that might vie with the
flowers in a ducal garden. Here in this mild western world, where frost
and snow were almost strangers, the labouring man might clothe his
cottage wall with myrtle, and grow fuchsias as big as apple-trees.
To John Treverton, sick to the heart of cities, the novelty of this
country life was full of delight. He was interested in the stables, the
home farm, the gardens, even the poultry yard. He had a kindly word for
the lowest hind upon his land. It seemed as if, in the great happiness
of his married life, he had opened his heart to all mankind.
‘And are you really happy, Laura?’ he asked one day, when he and his
wife were dawdling through the August afternoon beside the river where
they had met in the June moonlight. ‘Do you honestly believe that your
adopted father made the best possible provision for your future when he
gave you to me?’
He asked this question in a moment of delicious idleness, lying at his
wife’s feet, she sitting in a natural easy chair formed by two blocks
of granite, moss-grown, ferny, luxurious, books and work half-forgotten
by her side, and by his an idle fishing-rod. He had little doubt as to
the answer to his question, or he would hardly have asked it.
‘I think dear papa must have had a prophetic power to choose what was
best for me,’ she said, smiling down at her husband.
And then they went on in a strain which was very sweet to them both,
travelling step by step over those early days when they were almost
strangers, recalling with a studious minuteness what he had felt and
thought, what she had dreamed and hoped. How he had begun with a fixed
determination to detest her; and how that gloomy resolve had slipped
out of his mind at their first interview, despite his endeavour to hold
it fast.
‘There is one question that I have wanted to ask you, Laura,’ he said,
presently, growing suddenly grave, with a look in which there was a
shadow of trouble, ‘but I have shrunk from asking it, somehow, and put
it off indefinitely. And yet it is a very natural curiosity on my part,
and can hardly offend you.’
Her face was even more serious than his by this time, and wore a look
of fear. She answered not a word, but sat, with lips slightly parted,
waiting for him to go on.
‘You remember your interview with a gentleman whom you admitted to
the garden after dark, and whom you described to me afterwards as a
relation. How is it, love, that in all our confidential talk you have
never told me anything about that man?’
‘The answer is simple enough,’ she said quietly, yet he could but
wonder to see how pale she had grown. ‘In all our talk together we have
spoken of things that belong to our happiness. You have never touched
upon the dark passages in your life, nor I on those in mine. You
remember what Longfellow says:--
“Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.”
The relation of whom you speak is one who has not done well in this
world. My dear adopted father was prejudiced against him, or at any
rate he thought so. From time to time he has appealed to me secretly
for aid, and I have helped him secretly. I am sorry for him, deeply
sorry, and I am glad to help him, at a distance; but there are reasons
why I have never sought, why I never should seek, to bring him nearer
to me.’
‘I feel sure that whatever you have done has been wise and right,
dearest. There must be a black sheep in every family. I have played the
part myself, and ought to sympathize with all such delinquents.’
Delicacy prevented his pursuing the subject further. Could he do less
than trust her fully, who had shown such noble confidence in him?
A life so happy would have been bounded within a very narrow circle
had John Treverton and his wife consulted only their own inclination;
but society expects something from a well-born country gentleman with
fourteen thousand a year. The Lady Parkers and Lady Barkers, of whom
Celia had spoken somewhat disparagingly, came in state, swinging
lightly on C springs in their old family carriages, to call upon the
young couple.
Invitations to ceremonious dinners followed in due course, and were
reluctantly accepted, since it would have seemed ungracious to refuse
them: and by-and-by Mrs. Trimmer, the housekeeper, suggested that the
Manor House ought to give a series of dinners, such as she remembered
when she was a giddy-pated young kitchen-maid in the service of Jasper
Treverton’s father and mother.
‘They used to send out invitations for two or three dinner parties when
the pheasant shooting began, and get it over,’ said Mrs. Trimmer, ‘for
they were homely people, and didn’t care much for company. The old
gentleman was wrapped up in his books, and the old lady was wrapped up
in her garden; but when they gave a dinner there was no mistake about
it.’
Laura submitted to inexorable custom.
‘We have eaten people’s dinners, and I suppose we must invite them
here,’ she said, with an air of serio-comic vexation, ‘or they will
consider us dishonest. Shall I make a list of the people to be asked,
Jack, and shall we give Trimmer _carte blanche_ about the dinner?’
‘I suppose that will be best,’ assented John, whose Christian name
affection had corrupted to Jack. ‘Trimmer is a capital cook of
the substantial English school. Her _menu_ may be wanting in
originality, but it will be safe.’
‘Well, I am glad you are awaking to the necessity of living like
civilized Christians, instead of spooning all day in the seclusion of
a house, compared with which Robinson Crusoe’s island must have been a
vortex of dissipation,’ exclaimed Celia Clare, who was present at this
discussion. ‘I am glad that at last, if it were only for my sake, you
are going to conform to the laws of society. How am I to get a husband,
I should like to know, unless I meet people here? There is no other
house worth visiting in the neighbourhood.’
‘We’ll take your necessities into consideration, my dear girl,’
answered John, gaily, ‘and if you can suggest any eligible bachelors,
we’ll ask them to dinner.’
‘That’s exactly what I cannot do,’ said Celia, with a despairing shrug.
‘There are no eligible bachelors indigenous to the soil. The only plan
would be to put a _nota bene_ to your cards of invitation, “If you
have any nice young men about you, pray bring them.”’
‘Laura might give a dance at Christmas, and then we might beat up for
young men,’ answered John. ‘I’m afraid as long as we confine ourselves
to dinner parties, we shall not be able to do much for you, my poor
Celia.’
‘But are you not going to have people to stay in the house when the
pheasant shooting begins?’ inquired Celia, with uplifted eyebrows. ‘Are
not your old friends going to rally round you? I thought they always
did when a man came into a fortune.’
‘I believe that is one of the characteristics of friendship,’ said
John. ‘But I lost sight of my old friends--the friends of my soldiering
days, that is to say--nearly seven years ago, and I don’t care about
digging them out.’
‘I wonder they don’t come to the surface of their own accord,’ said
Celia. ‘And how about the friends you have made since you sold out? You
can’t have existed seven years without society.’
‘I have existed quite as long as that without what you would call
society.’
‘Ah, I see,’ assented Celia; ‘the people you have known are not people
you would care to bring here, or to introduce to your wife.’
‘Precisely.’
‘Poor Laura!’ thought Celia, and then there followed a pause, brief but
uncomfortable.
‘Shall I write the list of invitations?’ asked Laura, who was sitting
at her davenport. They were in the book-room, the fresh autumnal air
blowing in across beds and borders filled with September’s gaudy
flowers.
‘Yes, dear, beginning, of course, with Sir Joshua and Lady Parker, and
descending gradually in the social scale to----’
‘My father and mother,’ interrupted Celia, ‘if you mean to ask them.
I’m sure you can’t go lower than the parson of the parish; for he’s
generally the poorest man in it.’
‘And often the most beloved,’ said John Treverton.
‘Do you think I should give my first dinner party without inviting your
father and mother, Celia?’ asked Laura, reproachfully. ‘They will be my
most honoured guests.’
‘Heaven knows how the mater is to get a new gown,’ ejaculated Celia;
‘but I’m sure she can’t come in the old one. That gray satin of hers
has been to so many dinner parties that I should think it could go by
itself, and would know how to behave, without having poor mother inside
it. How well all the servants hereabouts must know the back of that
dress, and the dark patch on the shoulder, where Lady Barker’s butler
spilt some lobster sauce. It is like the blood-stain on Lady Macbeth’s
hand. All the benzine in the world won’t take it out. Oh, by-the-bye,’
pursued Celia, rattling on breathlessly, ‘if you really don’t mind
being overrun with the Clare family, would you write a card for Ted?’
‘With pleasure,’ said Laura; ‘but is he not in London?’
‘At this present moment he is; but we are expecting him daily at the
Vicarage. The fact is he has not made his mark, poor fellow, and he is
rather tired of London. I suppose there are too many young men there,
all wanting to make their mark.’