AN INVETERATE NOVEL READER.
While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren
Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic
residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house,
and there are no noisy children to go romping about. It is thus with
Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal
guardian already alluded to. But, though presiding over the
establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since
she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a
skilled housekeeper who carries the keys.
Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton's taste, being a dame of the
antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back
to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth,
she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of
flirting, at the Regency balls. No longer able to indulge in such
delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and
she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _Morning Post_ with
a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _Court Journal_, and other
distributors of fashionable intelligence. In addition she reads no end
of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most
romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. Of
the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers
of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing
also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within
the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus
transgress the moralities.
Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow,
any more than the limpid waters of the Wye. Nor has she; but reads on,
devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press,
and are sent her from the Circulating Library.
At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so
occupy herself. Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature
rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of
doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the
warm Spring sun--Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the
drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of
printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a
certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his
tenant farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much
likelihood of succeeding. If he fail, it will not be for want of will on
his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. He will
make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add
interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book.
Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give
way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the
drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed
to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress.
To her command "Come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in
hand, on which is a card.
She is more than annoyed, almost angry, as taking the card, she reads--
"REVEREND WILLIAM MUSGRAVE."
Only to think of being thus interrupted on the eve of such an
interesting climax, which seemed about to seal the fate of the farmer's
daughter.
It is fortunate for his Reverence, that before entering within the room
another visitor is announced, and ushered in along with him. Indeed the
second caller is shown in first; for, although George Shenstone rung the
front door bell after Mr. Musgrave had stepped inside the hall, there is
no domestic of Llangorren but knows the difference between a rich
baronet's son and a poor parish curate, as which should have precedence.
To this nice, if not very delicate appreciation, the Reverend William is
now indebted more than he is aware. It has saved him from an outburst of
Miss Linton's rather tart temper, which, under the circumstances,
otherwise he would have caught. For it so chances that the son of Sir
George Shenstone is a great favourite with the old lady of Llangorren;
welcome at all times, even amid the romantic gallantries of Lord
Lutestring. Not that the young country gentleman has anything in common
with the titled Lothario, who is habitually a dweller in cities.
Instead, the former is a frank, manly fellow, devoted to field sports
and rural pastimes, a little brusque in manner, but for all well-bred,
and, what is even better, well-behaved. There is nothing odd in his
calling at that early hour. Sir George is an old friend of the Wynn
family--was an intimate associate of Gwen's deceased father--and both he
and his son have been accustomed to look in at Llangorren Court _san
ceremonie_.
No more is Mr. Musgrave's matutinal visit out of order. Though but the
curate, he is in full charge of parish duties, the rector being not only
aged but an absentee--so long away from the neighbourhood as to have
become almost a myth to it. For this reason his vicarial representative
can plead scores of excuses for presenting himself at "The Court." There
is the school, the church choir, and clothing club, to say nought of
neighbouring news, which on most mornings make him a welcome visitor to
Miss Linton; and no doubt would on this, but for the glamour thrown
around her by the fascinations of the dear delightful Lutestring. It
even takes all her partiality for Mr. Shenstone to remove its spell, and
get him vouchsafed friendly reception.
"Miss Linton," he says, speaking first, "I've just dropped in to ask if
the young ladies would go for a ride. The day's so fine, I thought they
might like to."
"Ah, indeed," returns the spinster, holding out her fingers to be
touched, but, under the plea of being a little invalided, excusing
herself from rising. "Yes; no doubt they would like it very much."
Mr. Shenstone is satisfied with the reply; but less the curate, who
neither rides nor has a horse. And less Shenstone himself--indeed
both--as the lady proceeds. They have been listening, with ears all
alert, for the sound of soft footsteps and rustling dresses. Instead,
they hear words, not only disappointing, but perplexing.
"Nay, I am sure," continues Miss Linton, with provoking coolness, "they
would have been glad to go riding with you; delighted--"
"But why can't they?" asked Shenstone impatiently, interrupting.
"Because the thing's impossible; they've already gone rowing."
"Indeed!" cry both gentlemen in a breath, seeming alike vexed by the
intelligence, Shenstone mechanically interrogating:
"On the river?"
"Certainly?" answers the lady, looking surprised. "Why, George; where
else could they go rowing? You don't suppose they've brought the boat up
to the fishpond!"
"Oh, no," he stammers out. "I beg pardon. How very stupid of me to ask
such a question. I was only wondering why Miss Gwen--that is, I am a
little astonished--but--perhaps you'll think it impertinent of me to ask
another question?"
"Why should I? What is it?"
"Only whether--whether she--Miss Gwen, I mean--said anything about
riding to-day?"
"Not a word--at least not to me."
"How long since they went off--may I know, Miss Linton?"
"Oh, hours ago! Very early, indeed--just after taking breakfast. I
wasn't down myself--as I've told you, not feeling very well this
morning. But Gwen's maid informs me they left the house then, and I
presume they went direct to the river."
"Do you think they'll be out long?" earnestly interrogates Shenstone.
"I should hope not," returns the ancient toast of Cheltenham, with
aggravating indifference, for Lutestring is not quite out of her
thoughts. "There's no knowing, however. Miss Wynn is accustomed to come
and go, without much consulting me."
This with some acerbity--possibly from the thought that the days of her
legal guardianship are drawing to a close, which will make her a less
important personage at Llangorren.
"Surely they won't be out all day," timidly suggests the curate; to
which she makes no rejoinder, till Mr. Shenstone puts it in the shape of
an inquiry.
"Is it likely they will, Miss Linton?"
"I should say not. More like they'll be hungry, and that will bring them
home. What's the hour now? I've been reading a very interesting book,
and quite forgot myself. Is it possible?" she exclaims, looking at the
ormolu dial on the mantel-shelf. "Ten minutes to one! How time does fly,
to be sure! I couldn't have believed it near so late--almost luncheon
time! Of course you'll stay, gentlemen? As for the girls, if they are
not back in time they'll have to go without. Punctuality is the rule of
this house--always will be with me. I shan't wait one minute for them."
"But, Miss Linton, they may have returned from the river, and are now
somewhere about the grounds. Shall I run down to the boat-dock and see?"
It is Mr. Shenstone who thus interrogates.
"If you like--by all means. I shall be too thankful. Shame of Gwen to
give us so much trouble. She knows our luncheon hour, and should have
been back by this. Thanks, much, Mr. Shenstone."
As he is bounding off, she calls after--
"Don't you be staying too, else you shan't have a pick. Mr. Musgrave and
I won't wait for any of you. Shall we, Mr. Musgrave?"
Shenstone has not tarried to hear either question or answer. A luncheon
for Apicius were, at that moment, nothing to him; and little more to the
curate, who, though staying, would gladly go along. Not from any rivalry
with, or jealousy of, the baronet's son: they revolve in different
orbits, with no danger of collision. Simply that he dislikes leaving
Miss Linton alone--indeed, dare not. She may be expecting the usual
budget of neighbourhood intelligence he daily brings her.
He is mistaken. On this particular day it is not desired. Out of
courtesy to Mr. Shenstone, rather than herself, she had laid aside the
novel; and it now requires all she can command to keep her eyes off it.
She is burning to know what befel the farmer's daughter!