|I DON'T know how it was in the Monkish times in England, but it appears
that the keeping of religious days--always excepting the Sabbath--is not
in accordance with the genius of this country as it exists at present.
By general habit, we are devout, or certainly reverent; and yet the
majority seem unable to discriminate between a fast and a festival.
Christmas Day, for example, is kept by the evangelical folks exactly
like Sunday, which is with them very much the reverse of a feast-day.
With the High Church people, again, it is a Holiday, to be enjoyed after
a certain peculiar fashion of their own; while the great mass of the
population outrage both these parties by treating half the day as a fast
and the other half as a festival. After morning church, it is generally
understood that one may enjoy one's self--that is, within the limit of
the domestic circle. There is the rub. It is not every disposition which
can appreciate forfeits and snap-dragon. My own respected grandfather
used to thank Heaven with much devotion that he had always been a
domestic man, who knew how to enjoy a peaceful Christmas in the bosom of
his family; but then he always went to sleep immediately after dinner,
and nobody ventured to wake him until the servants came in to prayers,
after which he went to bed.
It is a pleasant sight, says Holy Writ, to see brethren dwelling
together in unity; but the remark would not have been put on record had
the spectacle been a very common one. It is a sad confession to make,
but I think most of us must own that the “family gathering” in
the country, even at Christmas-tide, is not the most agreeable sort of
social entertainment. There is too much predetermination to be jolly
about such festivities, too much resolution to put up with Polly's
temper and Jack's rudeness, and to please grandpapa (who is funded)
at all hazards. When we find ourselves in the up-train again after that
domestic holiday-week, we are not altogether displeased that it is over,
and secretly congratulate ourselves that there has not been a row. I
am, of course, speaking of ordinary folks, such as the world is mainly
composed of, and not of such exemplary people as my readers and myself.
_We_ have no family jealousies, no struggles for grandpapa's favour,
no difficulties in having common patience with Polly, no private
opinion--if he was not our brother--about Jack; no astonishment at
Henry's success, no envy at Augusta's prospects. But with the
majority of grown-up brothers and sisters, this is not so. Since they
parted from one another under the paternal roof, their lines of life
have diverged daily; their interests, so far from being identical, have
become antagonistic. Margaret is as nice as ever, but Penelope is not
a bit improved, and yet one must seem to be as glad to see one as the
other. One must not only forgive, but forget; it is not (unhappily)
necessary that we should be polite, but we must be affectionate; nay, we
must not only be affectionate--grandpapa will think it extremely odd if
we are not “gushing.”
The Lisgard family circle was not large, though, as we have seen, there
was room in it for disagreement; moreover, there was not a “dead
set” of domestic element, the consanguinity being relieved by the
presence of Miss Rose Aynton. If grandpapa were wise, this should always
be the case; for it prevents Courtesy from taking leave of the company,
which she is only too apt to do, under the mistaken notion that near
relations can afford to do without her. It was with no such intention,
however, that my Lady had asked Miss Aynton to visit Mirk. She would
have thought it hard, indeed, if her two sons could not have spent a
week together under the same roof without the presence of a stranger to
prevent their quarrelling. Rose had been a school-friend of Letty, and
the latter young lady had asked permission to invite her young friend
to the Abbey for Christmas. She had no home of her own to go to, poor
thing, having neither father nor mother. She lived with her aunt, Miss
Colyfield, a fashionable old lady in Mayfair, very popular among her
acquaintance, but a sort of person, not uncommon in that locality, whom
it is not altogether charming to reside with as a dependent. Miss
Aynton was evidently accustomed to suppression. It made a man positively
indignant to see one whose youth and intelligence entitled her to be
the mistress of all who approached her, so humble, so unegotistic, so
grateful. It was evident that she had plenty of natural good spirits,
and every faculty for enjoyment, if she had only dared exhibit them. Her
very accomplishments, which were numerous, were timidly concealed, and
peeped forth one by one, almost, as it seemed, by compulsion. She might
have left Mirk, for instance, without a soul knowing of her taste for
ecclesiastical decoration, if it had not been for a sore throat which
prevented Letty from superintending the Christmas ornamentations in the
chancel.
“Can't _you_ do it, my dear?” said Letty, a little peevish at
the disappointment, and hopeless that her place could be satisfactorily
filled by a London-bred girl like Rose, who had never seen
holly-berries except in the greengrocers' shops, or at the artificial
florist's. “Now, do try, and Richard and Walter will both help.”
“I will do my best, dear,” this young lady had answered simply.
And never had anything so beautiful been seen in the county, as was the
result of her efforts. So much was said of them that Letty had ventured
to go to church that morning, despite her ailment, and was as earnest
in her praise as any in the congregation. There was no such thing as
jealousy in her composition, and the success of her friend was a genuine
pleasure to her.
“O mamma, you have missed such a sight!” cried she, as Lady Lisgard
made her first appearance that morning at the luncheon-table, looking a
little grave and pale, but gracious and dignified as a queen in exile,
as usual. “Not only the chancel, but the whole church a perfect
bower of evergreens, and everything so exquisitely done! The pillars,
alternately ivy and laurel; and under the gallery, beautiful texts
in holly-berries set in green. As for the wall at the back of the
altar--the decorations there are such that it makes one cry to think
they are ever to be taken down again. Oh, I do hope you will feel well
enough, dear mamma, to come to church this afternoon and see them.”
“Really, Lady Lisgard,” said Miss Aynton, blushing deeply, and with
her soft eyes looking very much inclined to be tearful, “you must not
believe all that Lefty's kindness induces her to say about me.”
“Nay, but it's true, mother,” broke forth Sir Richard. “I never
could have dreamt of anything so beautiful being made out of leaves and
berries. The old church looks enchanted, and Miss Aynton is the fairy
that has done it.”
“Sir Richard suggested the centre design himself,” returned Rose
gravely; “and the fact is, I am nothing but a plagiarist in the whole
affair. Our curate in Park Street gives himself up to floral religion,
and dresses up his church in a dozen different garbs according to
the season. I am one of its volunteer tiring-women, and am therefore
accustomed to the business--that is all.”
“It is very honest of you to tell us that, Rose,” said my Lady
approvingly.
“Yes, mamma,” broke in Letty; “but it was very wicked of her
not to tell Mr Mosely, who came to thank her in the churchyard after
service. He actually made an allusion to her in his sermon--talked about
her 'pious hands.' She never told him one word about this London
curate.”
Letty's laugh rang merrily out as she thus twitted her friend, but her
brothers did not echo it. Neither of them relished this mention of the
Mayfair clergyman. They had each in turn enjoyed that religious work, in
which they had been fellow-labourers with Miss Aynton, and each perhaps
flattered himself that she had been most pleased when his own fingers
were looping the berries for her, or holding the ivy while she fastened
it in its place. Of course there was nothing serious between either of
them and herself. Sir Richard would naturally look higher for a bride
than to the dependent niece of a fickle old woman of fashion; while as
to Walter, with his comparatively small fortune and expensive tastes, it
was absolutely necessary that he should “marry money,” and not mere
expectations. Still, no man is altogether pleased to hear that a young
girl he admires is engaged to somebody else; and although this had not
been said of Rose, yet Mayfair curates are dangerous persons, and church
decoration (as they were aware by recent experience) is a fascinating
occupation when indulged in by both sexes at the same time.
So Letty had all the laughter to herself.
“How strange it was to hear the people when they first came in,”
continued she. “Their 'Ohs!' and Ahhs!' and 'Well I nevers!'
were quite irrepressible.”
“Especially the gentleman in the gallery, who expressed his opinion
that it was for all the world like May-day,” observed Walter
slily. “Miss Aynton's _chef-d'oeuvre_ reminded him, it seems, of
Jack-in-the-Green.”
“Yes, was it not shocking, mamma?” exclaimed Letty. “He spoke
quite loud. I shouldn't suppose that the creature had ever been in a
church before. How he did stare about him!”
“You must have been looking in his direction yourself, miss,”
returned the young dragoon, “as, indeed, were all the female part of
the congregation. We don't see such awful beards as his in Mirk church
every Sunday.”
“How touchy dear Walter is upon the subject of beards,” observed
Letty demurely.
The captain's smooth face coloured like a girl's, while Miss Rose
Aynton sought concealment in her pocket-handkerchief. Even Lady Lisgard
forced herself to smile at the embarrassment of her handsome boy. But
Sir Richard did not smile; he was not on sufficiently good terms with
his younger brother to enjoy even so innocent a joke at his expense.
“You have not yet seen this distinguished stranger, I suppose,
mamma?” resumed Letty, without whom--what with Rose's shyness and
the coldness between the two young men--the conversation would have
languished altogether.
“What stranger do you mean, my dear?” said my Lady coldly.
“Why, the man that came with the Waits last night, and sang beneath
your window. Surely you must have noticed his voice, so different from
poor old Ash and the rest of them.”
“Now you mention it, Letty, I think I did remark that there was a
strange singer among them. He had a voice like Mr Steve's.”
“Very probably, my dear mother,” observed Walter laughing; “for
they both use the same tuning-key--the Spigot. Steve is said to be quite
jealous because this gentleman from foreign parts can take two glasses
to his one, although it cannot be added that he doesn't shew it. Steve
can look like a Methodist parson when he pleases, whereas his new friend
has made a sacrifice of his very countenance to Bacchus; and yet he must
have been a handsome fellow at one time.--Don't you think so, Miss
Aynton?”
“I really scarcely looked at him,” returned the young lady
addressed. “I should hesitate to pass an opinion upon this
distinguished----”
“O Rose,” interrupted Letty archly; “how dare you!--Why, Walter,
she told me herself, only five minutes ago, while we were taking off our
bonnets, that she thought his expression 'magnificent '--that was
her very word--and that she would like to take him in chalks.”
“I must confess,” said Rose, “without venturing to call it
good-looking or otherwise, that his countenance, artistically speaking,
seems to me very striking. He is just one of those wicked people,
I fancy, in whom one feels a sort of interest in spite of one's
self.--Now, don't you think so, Sir Richard?”
“My dear Miss Aynton,” returned the baronet with an air of hauteur
that neutralised the familiarity implied by his words, “if this person
has won your sympathy, he is fortunate indeed; but I must say that
I don't see that he deserves it. His beard, which is certainly a
handsome one, has also--as it seems to me--the great advantage of
obscuring half his countenance. I confess, I think he looks to be a
scoundrel of the first salt-water.”
“That's what Rose _means!_” cried Letty, clapping her hands.
“He's one of those dear handsome villains who used to--ah, infest--yes,
that's the phrase--who used to infest the Spanish Main. How charmingly
mysterious was the very place in which they carried on their profession!
If it was not for seasickness, I should like to have had something to do
in the Spanish Main myself. I have not the shadow of a doubt that this
Mr Derrick--evidently an assumed name---- What's the matter, dearest
mother?”
My Lady had uttered a low cry, such as is evoked by sudden and acute
physical pain.
“Nothing, my love--nothing: it was a passing spasm, nothing more. A
tinge of my old rheumatism again, I fear, which is a sign of old age,
and therefore a malady I do not wish to be taken notice of.--Now,
don't distress yourselves, my dears”--for all had risen with looks
of genuine and affectionate anxiety, except Miss Aynton, who had rapidly
poured out a glass of wine.--“Thank you, Rose; that was all I wanted.
Nobody offered me any sherry, so I thought I would try whether I
could not obtain it medicinally.--What were you saying, Letty, about
this--this person?”
“I was merely remarking that he had probably been a buccaneer,
mamma.”
“In other words, that he deserves hanging,” observed Sir Richard
gruffly. “I hope he will soon take himself out of the parish, for we
have got tipplers enough in it already.”
“Dear, dear, dear!” said Letty sedately; “to make such an
observation as that, just after mamma has been craving for sherry!
Besides, how can this gentleman annoy _you_, Sir Richard? He isn't
come here to dispute the title, is he?”
My Lady kept her lips closed this time; but an anguish passed over her
face that would have been easy to see, had not the eyes of those at
table been otherwise engaged.
Letty was looking at her friend, in hopes that she should get her to
laugh at her high and mighty brother; Rose did not dare look up, for
fear she should do so. Walter, his handsome lips slightly curled, was
contemptuously watching the baronet, who stared, Sphinx-like, right
before him, as was his custom whenever he was in one of his autocratic
humours, as at present.
“I don't choose to have persons of that sort in the parish,” said he
with icy distinctness.
“But, my dear Richard, you can't turn him out,” reasoned Letty,
rather vexed by an exhibition of her brother's pride before her
school-friend beyond what she had calculated upon. “He has a right to
stop at the _Lisgard Arms_ as long as he pleases.”
“And _I_ have a right to turn Steve out as a tenant”----
“You have nothing of the kind, Richard,” interposed Walter quietly;
“you have no more right than I--not even legal right, for the inn is
not yet yours, and as for moral right, it would be the most monstrous
piece of territorial oppression ever heard of out of Poland. So long as
the man behaves himself”----
“He does _not_ behave himself,” put in Sir Richard angrily. “He is
a drunkard, and a brawler in church.”
“Gracious mercy! how you must have been looking up Burn's _Justice_.
But you will not be a magistrate, a _custos rotulorum_, till you are of
age, remember, so that he is safe for six months. In the meantime, he
certainly means to stay here. He is so good as to say he likes Mirk, I
understand; and the village folks like _him_. He is a great addition to
the choir; and I shall certainly ask him, in case he remains, to join
our Mirk volunteers: Steve tells me he is a most admirable shot with a
rifle, and will do the corps credit.”
“That is all the worse,” quoth Sir Richard violently; “he is only
the more likely to be a poacher. We have more than enough of that sort
already, and I beg that you will give none such your encouragement.”
“Encouragement!” returned Walter airily. “What patronage have _I_
to offer? I am not Sir Richard, who can make a man happy with a word.”
“Very well,” continued the baronet with suppressed passion, “let
him take care how he trespasses upon the Abbey-lands--that's all.”
“Nay, you'll see him at the Abbey itself,” laughed Walter
carelessly, “and that pretty often, unless I quite misinterpreted
Mistress Forest's manner when she parted from him at the Lych Gate: I
never saw two people more affectionate upon so short an acquaintance.”
“A most ineligible suitor, I am sure,” broke forth the baronet. “I
trust Mary is not fool enough to disgrace herself at her time of life by
any such alliance.”
“She is almost old enough to choose for herself,” responded Walter
drily. “The selection of a husband for one's servant is scarcely
the privilege of even a lord of the manor, and when the servant is not
one's own”----
“I believe, sir,” interrupted Sir Richard hastily, “that I am only
speaking the sentiments of her mistress, in whose hands, of course, the
matter lies.--Mother, do you not agree with me that it would be
very unwise to encourage any attachment between Mary Forest and this
reprobate stranger, Derrick?”
It was plain my Lady had not recovered from her late ailment, of
whatever nature the attack might have been; otherwise, she would have
interfered between the brothers before a direct appeal for her decision
had been made by either of them, it being a rule with her never to place
herself in an invidious position with respect to her children. To the
astonishment of the baronet himself, however, Lady Lisgard now forced
her pale lips to utter deliberately enough: “I think it would be very
unwise.”
“And therefore,” pursued Sir Richard, hastening to push his
advantage, “it would be worse than unwise, it would be absolute
cruelty, since you do not intend her to marry this fellow, that
opportunities should be afforded her of meeting him under the same roof.
I do not say that his offence of brawling in church this morning is a
sufficient ground of itself for forbidding him the house, although
to most persons with any sense of decency it would be a serious
misdemeanour: but would it not be well, under these particular
circumstances, to treat it so?”
“Yes,” returned my Lady, rising from the table, white as a ghost,
“you are right, Richard; let this Mr Derrick be forbidden the
house.”