"And so at length with the fading year;
There comes a tender time once more,
And the year clings more fondly to life and light,
Now that its labour is over and done.
And the woods grow glorious with purple and red,
As bright as the flowers of spring."
_Songs of Two Worlds_.
The next morning was dull and rainy. It was dull enough at Hathercourt
Rectory, but far worse at Hathercourt Edge, and even Arthur Beverley's
unfailing good spirits felt the influence of the outside dreariness.
"I wish I hadn't gone over to the Rectory yesterday," he said to
himself, "it would have been something to do to-day. I can't go again
till to-morrow, at soonest, and it is so horribly dull here. I wonder
what those girls do with themselves on such a day as this. Their life
must be very monotonous, though they look happy enough. I can't
understand why Laurence doesn't like them. I wonder if that old fool is
going to give me any breakfast?" He turned from the window to look at
the table; it was covered with a very crumpled and coarse cloth, the
forks and spoons, etc, were of the homeliest description, there was
nothing in the shape of eatables but the half of a stale loaf, and an
uninviting-looking lump of evidently salt butter, on a cracked plate.
Captain Beverley eyed it all rather disconsolately. Then he went to the
door--he had to stoop to avoid knocking his head on the lintel--and
called down the narrow, red-tiled passage leading to the kitchen.
"Mrs Bowker, I say. Aren't you going to give me any breakfast this
morning?"
No Mrs Bowker appeared in answer to his summons, but out of the depths
of the kitchen a voice replied:
"I'm a-bringin' it, sir."
"And what is it? Bacon?"
"No, sir--heggs," was the reply.
"Heggs," he repeated, as he turned back again into the parlour, "of
course. I might have known, by this time, if it wasn't bacon it would
be `heggs.' I declare, if I were that Mrs Western, and she I, I
wouldn't be so inhospitable. She might have asked me to go to
breakfast, or luncheon, or something. I am sure those nice girls would
if they could. Ah! well, here comes the heggs, and letters, too!--
What's going to happen, Mrs Bowker? The postman's not above half an
hour late this morning!"
"May be he walks fast to get out of the wet," Mrs Bowker suggested,
composedly, as she left the room.
There were three letters, two manifestly uninteresting, and Captain
Beverley tossed them aside. The third had the postmark "Paris." It was
from Mr Cheviott, and his cousin opened and read it eagerly. It was
rather a long letter, once or twice he smiled, and once, when he came to
a passage close to the end, a slight frown contracted his good-humoured
face.
"Laurence takes up such unreasonable prejudices," he said to himself,
with some irritation. "What can he know about it?"
This was the passage that annoyed him: "I hardly think the man you
mention would be experienced enough for your situation--in any case I
would not, if I were you, consult the Hathercourt clergyman about him,
for by all accounts _he_ is far from a practical person as to such
matters, and I rather fancy there is nothing superior about the Rectory
family. They are desperately poor for one thing, but, of course, you
will not need to make friends with them; it is not as if Hathercourt
were to be your head-quarters."
Captain Beverley ate his breakfast and pondered over his letter. Then
he got up and went to the window, and looked out at the rain.
"It is very annoying of Cheviott to have taken up this prejudice against
Owen," he thought. "I believe he is the very man for me, and, at any
rate, it is necessary to hear all I can about him. And as for what
Cheviott says about the Westerns I think nothing of it whatever, and he
himself would be the first to own he had been mistaken if he saw the
sort of people they really are. I can understand their not being
popular well enough; they are proud and won't stand being patronised."
His meditations ended in his deciding to walk over again to Hathercourt
that very afternoon--it would not do to put off hearing about Owen and
settling the matter, and this he could easily explain to Mr Western, as
an excuse for troubling him about it. And, having arrived at this
decision, things in general began to look considerably less gloomy--he
got out the plans for the new farm-house, and examined them critically,
rolling them neatly up again, when the idea struck him that it would be
well to take them with him to the Rectory, in the afternoon.
"Mr Western may like to see them," he thought, "and, as he is the
clergyman of the parish, it will gratify him to be consulted."
Then he answered Mr Cheviott's letter, saying nothing about his visit
to Hathercourt, and merely mentioning that he was making further
inquiries about the man Owen, ending with a description of Mrs Bowker
for Alys's benefit, and a hearty wish that they were all back at Romary.
This important task accomplished, he looked at his watch and saw that it
was eleven o'clock, so he sauntered out for a stroll round the farm and
a talk with his head man. The rain was ceasing, and there was no sort
of reason why he should not walk over to the Rectory in the afternoon;
besides, to-morrow would be Saturday, a day on which clergymen,
proverbially, dislike to be interrupted. So, having dispatched a couple
of rather tough mutton chops, which was all Mrs Bowker condescended to
allow him in the way of luncheon, by half-past two o'clock Captain
Beverley found himself more than ready for his second expedition to
Hathercourt. It was really too early to call, however, but the day had
grown pleasant out of doors, and inside the old farm-house he felt it
impossible to kill any more time. A "happy thought" occurred to him--
why not go round by the Balner woods? It was a long walk and he might
probably lose his way, but if he did he could but try to find it again--
anything was better than hanging about Hathercourt Edge doing nothing.
It was November now, but who that has really _lived_ in the country--
lived in it "all the year round," and learned every change in the
seasons, every look of the sky, all the subtle combinations of air, and
light, and colour, and scent, which give to outdoor life its
indescribable variety and unflagging interest, who of such initiated
ones does not know how marvellously delicious November can sometimes be?
How tender the clear, thin, yellow tone of the struggling sunbeams, the
half frosty streaks of red on the pale blue-green sky, the haze of
approaching winter over all! How soft, and subdued, and tired the world
seems--all the bustle over, ready to fall asleep, but first to whisper
gently good-night! And to _feel_ November to perfection, for, after
all, this shy autumnal charm is not so much a matter of sight, as of
every sense combined, sound and scent and sight together, lapsing into
one vague consciousness of harmony and repose--the place of places is a
wood. A wood where the light, faint at the best, comes quivering and
brokenly through the not yet altogether unclothed branches, where the
fragrance of the rich leafy soil mingles with that of the breezes from
the not far distant sea, where the dear rabbits scud about in the most
unexpected places, and the squirrels are up aloft making arrangements
for the winter--oh! a wood in late autumn has a strange glamour of its
own, that comes over me, in spirit, even as I write of it, far, far away
from country sights and sounds, further away still from the long-ago
days of youth and leisure, and friends to wander with, in the Novembers
that then were never gloomy.
Arthur Beverley was by no means sentimental--he whistled cheerily as he
went along, and thought more of the probable amount of shooting in the
Balner woods than of the beauty around him, yet he was not insensible to
it.
"How jolly it seems after the rain," he said to himself. "After all,
there's nowhere like England, fogs and all--it's fresh, and wholesome,
and invigorating, even in murky weather, like what we've had lately,"
and he stood still and looked round him approvingly.
Suddenly a sound, a faint sound only, caught his ear. He listened. It
came again. This time he distinguished it to be that of cheerful voices
approaching him, then a merry laugh, a little exclamation, and the laugh
again. Arthur Beverley's face lighted up with interest; he felt sure he
knew that laugh. He hastened on and, after a few moments' quick
walking, a little turn in the path brought him in sight of a group of
figures just in front of him; they were the Western girls, the Western
girls in great force, for, besides the two he knew already, there were
the younger ones, Alexa and Josephine, and little Francie. And the
laugh had been Lilias's--he was not mistaken.
She was standing with her back towards him, and so was Mary, but the
tiny girl beside them drew their attention to his approach.
"A gentleman, sister," she exclaimed, pulling Miss Western's skirt. And
Lilias, turning round, met his hearty look of pleasure.
"I thought it was you," he said, as he shook hands, "I heard you laugh."
"How do you know it _was_ my laugh?" said Lilias, smiling.
"I recognised it," he said, quietly.
And Mary glanced up at him brightly. "Yes," she said, "it was Lilias.
She was laughing at Alexa, who screamed because a rabbit ran across the
path. That's not like a country girl, is it, Captain Beverley?"
"Alexa screams if a butterfly settles on her," said Josephine,
disdainfully, trying to balance herself on the hooked handle of her
umbrella, which she was holding upside-down for the purpose.
Captain Beverley looked at her and at Alexa with good-humoured
curiosity. Alexa looked pretty and frightened, but Josey, her long thin
legs emerging from a shabby waterproof, her "touzled" fair hair tumbling
out from under a still shabbier hat, was rather a remarkable object.
"These are your younger sisters, I suppose?" he said, turning to Lilias.
"Yes," she answered, rather shortly; "we all came out for a ramble as
soon as the rain cleared off. It is so miserable to be shut up in the
house all day."
"Just what I have been feeling," he replied. "Not that I mind the rain,
but still one can't exactly set off for a walk in it unless one has
something to do or somewhere to go. It is very lucky for me that I met
you; I was just making up my mind to losing my way."
"I dare say we can direct you," said Lilias, "but we are not going your
way. We are going home; it must be about half-past three now, and we
have been out ever since dinner-time. Mary, don't you think we should
be going home?--it is a good walk from here, you know. You can direct
Captain Beverley to Hathercourt Edge better than I, I think."
"But I don't want to be directed to Hathercourt Edge," said Captain
Beverley, with a very slight touch of annoyance in his tone. "I have
just come from there. Of course, if you won't let me walk with you, I
must submit; but I _was_ bound for Hathercourt Rectory. I am very
anxious to see Mr Western, and thought I might again take my chance of
finding him at home. That is to say, if he will not think me very
troublesome."
"Of course he will not," answered Mary, heartily; "he was very sorry to
have missed you yesterday, and I know he will be at home all this
afternoon. Which way shall we go back, Lilias--by the Southmore road,
or all the way through the wood?"
"By the wood decidedly, _I_ should say," answered Captain Beverley.
"Miss Western," he went on, quickly, "you have got _such_ a bramble on
your skirt--there, now, I have got him--step forward, please--yes,
that's it."
By this manoeuvre he had managed to get Lilias and himself a little in
front of the others, and he maintained his ground by walking on beside
her. Francie was at her other side, so the arrangement into threes
seemed to come about quite naturally, Mary following with Alexa and
Josephine. By degrees Lilias lost the slight constraint which her
manner had shown at first, and became her usual happy, winning self.
The sound of her voice, and now and then of her laugh, was enough to
make Mary happy too, and well content to keep behind at a reasonable
distance, so that Lilias should not be annoyed by the exhibition before
a stranger of Alexa's foolish shyness or Josey's uncalled-for remarks.
The sun came out more brightly, and gleamed and quivered down the wood
alleys before them. What did they talk of, those two, as they walked on
quietly, little Francie beside them, trotting along, lost in her own
pretty baby dreams of fairies and brownies and the like, with which her
small head was filled, all unconscious of the old, old drama beginning
once more to be re-enacted in the old, old way that is ever new? What
did they talk of? Could they have told, or did it matter? All about
everythings and nothings, no doubt, so-called "small talk," which yet
seemed full of interest, nothing very wise or weighty--so much, at
least, is certain--but certain too that the walk through the Balner
woods that sweet November afternoon was neither wearisome nor long to
Lilias Western and the new owner of the old Edge farm.
The sunshine had tempted Mr Western out too. He was walking about the
garden when his five daughters, escorted by Captain Beverley, reached
the Rectory. A momentary expression of surprise crossed his face as he
came forward to meet them, at first sight of the stranger, but it was
succeeded by a look of gratification and pleasure, which quickly set the
young man's mind quite at rest, and left him no doubt of being welcome.
"I was quite intending to walk over to Hathercourt Edge to see you, to
thank you for the friendly visit yesterday, which I was sorry to have
missed," said the Rector, with a slight touch of old-fashioned
formality, not unbecoming to his tall, thin, refined-looking figure and
gentle face, as he shook hands with Captain Beverley, "and now I see I
must thank you also for taking care of my girls."
"We don't need to be taken care of that way, papa," said Josephine, "we
were only in the Balner woods, and Captain Beverley was coming here,
anyhow."
"He only tookened care of Lily and me," said Francie, importantly, but
the observation was a happy one. It was impossible not to laugh at it,
and Josey's abruptness passed unrebuked.
"I certainly deserve no thanks," said Captain Beverley. "My visit
yesterday was a selfish one, and as for to-day--why, all my thanks are
due to you, Francie! I should have been lost in the woods, and perhaps
eaten up by Red Riding-hood's wolf if I had not met you, and been shown
the way here."
"But that wolf was killed long ago, Lily says," said Francie, staring up
with great bewilderment in her blue eyes. "It couldn't have eatened you
up when it was killed itself."
"Indeed. I am very glad to hear it," replied Captain Beverley, gravely,
"then I needn't be afraid of coming through the Balner woods; it is a
good thing to know that. It is a much pleasanter walk than by the
road," he went on, turning again to Mr Western. "I really was on my
way here when I met your daughters. I am afraid you will think me very
troublesome."
His manner was certainly boyish, but not in the least awkward. That Mr
Western was "taken" with him was quickly evident.
"Indeed, no," he said, heartily. "Living here so completely out of the
world, as you see, it is very seldom that we have the pleasure of
showing even the little hospitality we have in our power. But, such as
it is, I hope you will accept it. Lilias, Mary," he continued, turning
to his daughters, the younger ones having by this time disappeared,
"tell your mother that Captain Beverley is here."
"I will," said Mary, hastening away with a great excitement in her
thoughts, "I do believe papa is going to ask him to stay to tea. What
will mamma say?" and not knowing whether she was pleased or distressed,
she hurried in to break the momentous tidings to her mother, and to
consult the cook.
Lilias was following her, but her father called her back. "You need not
both go, my dears," he said with sudden remembrance of unwritten letters
awaiting him in his study, which must be seen to before four o'clock
post-time. "Perhaps Captain Beverley would like to have a look at the
church again, if you will take him to see it. I will follow you in a
few minutes, but I have a letter or two I must finish, which I was
forgetting."
"_Pray_ don't let me interrupt you," exclaimed Captain Beverley, with
anxiety almost disproportionate to the occasion. "I should very much
like to look at the church, for there are some tablets there I want to
examine. And if Miss Western will explain them a little, I shall be
very much obliged."
Lilias hesitated. "Mary understands them better than I do," she began,
but her father interrupted her.
"I will send her after you, if you go on, and I will finish my letters
as quickly as I can, and then, Captain Beverley, I shall be at your
service. Mrs Western tells me you want to hear about Joseph Owen. You
will stay and--I can't say _dine_ with us--we are very uncivilised, you
see; we have a mongrel meal at six!"
He spoke with a slight nervousness, which made Lilias's cheek grow hot.
"Poor dear father!" she ejaculated, mentally. But the guest seemed
blissfully unconscious of his host's hesitation.
"You are very kind indeed," he said, eagerly. "I should very much like
to stay, if I shall not be a trouble. It is so wretchedly dull and
uncomfortable at the Edge, I don't think I could have stood it much
longer, unless--if you had not taken pity on me," he added, laughingly,
as Lilias led the way across the grass to the old church.
Mary joined them there in a few minutes, and while Captain Beverley was
examining the old coat-of-arms on the tablet in memory of his
ancestress, she found time to whisper to her sister,--
"Mamma knows that papa has asked him to stay to tea. I don't think she
minds much."
"But what will there be for tea?" said Lilias, in consternation.
"Oh! that will be all right," replied Mary, re-assuringly.
And, somewhat to Lilias's surprise, her mother showed herself far more
amiably disposed for Captain Beverley, on further acquaintance, than
might have been anticipated.
"Though, indeed," said Mary, when, at night, they were talking over in
their own room the pleasant evening they had had, "it would be difficult
_not_ to feel amiably disposed to him! He is so unaffected and hearty,
and yet not by any means a goose. He liked talking to papa about
sensible things, I could see."
"He talked sensibly to me, too," said Lilias, dryly, "though, of course,
I cannot answer for what he may have said to you."
"Lilias!" exclaimed Mary, "don't be so silly. You know--"
"What do I know?"
"That I am not the sort of girl likely to have anything but sensible
things said to me, especially when _you_ are there."
Lilias laughed merrily. "Really, Mary, you are very complimentary. You
trust to me to absorb all the nonsense, and leave the sense for you! I
think I shall keep out of the way, if Captain Beverley comes here
again."
"Then he wouldn't come any more," said Mary. "Lily, I'm sleepy, say
good-night, please."
"Good-night, though I am not sleepy at all," said Lilias, cheerfully.
What had become of all her low spirits? thought Mary, with a little
bewilderment Lilias was not usually so changeable. The evening had
certainly been a very pleasant one; even the younger girls had somehow
shown to advantage; and Captain Beverley had not merely ignored, he had
seemed perfectly unconscious of the homeliness of their way of living--
the crowded tea-table, the little countrified waiting-maid, the absence
of the hundred and one small luxuries which to him could not but be
matters of course. And his unconsciousness had reached favourably on
his entertainers; Mr Western lost his nervousness, Mrs Western her
gentle coldness, and every one seemed at ease and happy. Any stranger
glancing in would have thought them all old friends, instead of new
acquaintances, of the handsome young man who was the life and soul of
the party.
"Mary," said Lilias again, just as Mary was falling asleep, "Captain
Beverley will be at the Brocklehurst ball this year. He is to be
staying at Romary."
"I thought you said you were never going again," said Mary, who had her
wits about her, sleepy though she was.
"But you would hot like to go without me, I know," replied Lilias,
meekly. "Oh, Mary, I do wish we could have new dresses for once!"
Mary did not consider this observation worth waking up to answer. But
her dreams were a strange medley--Captain Beverley dancing at a ball
with his great grandmother Mawde, dressed all in scarlet, as if she were
Red Riding-hood, but with a face like Lilias's. And what Lilias's
dreams were, who can say?
But the Brocklehurst ball was three weeks off as yet, and there was no
lack of opportunities of discussing it with Captain Beverley.
Surely November this year must have been an exceptionally fine one, for
there seemed few days on which Arthur Beverley did not find his way
through the woods, or by the road, to the Rectory, with some excuse in
the shape of further plans to be shown to Mr Western, or a book to lend
to the girls or their mother, or without any, save the sight of his own
bright face, and an eager proposal that they should all set off on a
long ramble somewhere or other, instead of wasting one of the few fine
days of late autumn, moping in the house. And by degrees it came to be
a matter of course that, if the owner of Hathercourt Edge chose to drop
in at any or every meal, he should be welcome, and that if he stayed
away he should be missed, and Mrs Western's fears and vague
apprehensions gradually softened, now that this terrible wolf had
actually taken up his quarters in the midst of her flock without, so
far, any of them being the worse!
"He seems like a sort of elder brother among them all," she said to her
husband. "I wish Basil had been at home--contact with such a man would
have done him good."
Mr Western agreed with her, for he, too, had greatly "taken" to the
young stranger. It was pleasant to him to find that he had not
altogether fallen out of the ways of his class, that cares, and small
means, and living out of the world had not crusted over his former self
past recognition. Arthur Beverley had not been at college, but he, as
well as his host, had been an Eton boy, and poor George, to whom the
name of Eton was that of a forbidden Paradise, listened with delight to
the many reminiscences in common of his father and his guest,
notwithstanding the quarter of a century which divided their
experiences. So everybody in his or her own way felt pleased with
Captain Beverley, and his coming seemed to have brought new life and
sunshine into the Rectory. Lilias alone spoke little of him, and Mary
sometimes lay awake at night "thinking."