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UNDER THE MENDIPS.
Under the Mendips
_A TALE_
_By_ EMMA MARSHALL
_Author of_ IN COLSTON'S DAYS, LIFE'S AFTERMATH,
IN THE EAST COUNTRY, &c.
SIXTH THOUSAND
[Illustration: Bristol Harbour.]
LONDON
SEELEY AND CO., LIMITED, ESSEX STREET, STRAND
1892
PREFACE
I am greatly indebted to that very interesting book, "Bristol Past and
Present," for the details of the Bristol Riots, in the autumn of 1831,
which are introduced into this story. It closes with the birth of the
new year, 1832; and therefore the special commission appointed to try
the prisoners does not come within its limits.
But anyone who may be interested in the fate of Colonel Brereton, may,
by referring to "Bristol Past and Present," and other contemporary
records, learn his sad and most lamentable end.
Feeling the evidence of the Court Martial was entirely against him, he
forestalled his sentence with his own hand, and shot himself through the
heart, on Thursday night, January the 14th, 1832.
With all the many complications of Colonel Brereton's position it is not
for us to deal, nor judge him harshly for apparent failure in duty at a
time when the hearts of many brave men sank within them, for looking on
these things which were coming on their ancient city. But this, his
last act, must ever awaken one of the saddest memories of those sad
times, casting a shadow over the name of an English officer, and
presenting the most painful and pathetic picture of what a man may do,
who, in a moment of despair and helplessness, cannot cry to the strong
for strength.
WOODSIDE, LEIGH WOODS,
CLIFTON, BRISTOL
_Nov. 1, 1885._
CONTENTS.
PART I.
CHAP. PAGE
I. FAIR ACRES 1
II. THE CITY OF THE DEEP SPRINGS 31
III. THE PALACE 59
IV. THE LADY OF BARLEY WOOD 83
V. SUNDAY AT FAIR ACRES 108
VI. AMONGST THE HEATHER 126
VII. ON SION HILL, CLIFTON 150
VIII. BARLEY WOOD 176
IX. A DARK CLOUD OVER FAIR ACRES 200
X. THE FIFTH OF NOVEMBER 226
XI. MEETING 260
PART II.
XII. ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL 285
XIII. A LULL IN THE STORM 314
XIV. THE STORM BURSTS 332
XV. TUMULT 358
XVI. "FIRE SEVEN TIMES HEATED" 372
PART III.
CHAPTER THE LAST. AT ABBOT'S LEIGH 405
PART I.
An English Home: grey twilight poured
On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep: all things in order stored;
A haunt of ancient Peace.
TENNYSON.
CHAPTER I.
FAIR ACRES.
It was a fair morning of early summer, when the low beams of the eastern
sun, threw flickering shadows across the lawn, which lay before Fair
Acres Manor, nestling under the shelter of the Mendip Hills, somewhere
between Wells and Cheddar.
Truth compels me to say, that the lawn was covered with daisies, and
that their bright eyes looked fearlessly up into the blue sky; for
mowing machines were unknown, and the old gardener, coachman, and
universal out-of-door servant sharpened his scythe, only at long
intervals, to lay the heads of the flowers low, so that the daisies grew
and flourished, and had a good time of it.
I know that daisy-speckled turf is considered an offence in the eyes of
the modern gardener. I know with what zeal the spud is used; how large
bare places are regarded with delight; how seed is scattered over them,
which the birds watch with cunning glances from the neighbouring shrubs
and trees, and pounce down upon, as soon as the diligent master of the
place, has straightened his aching back and turned it upon the scene of
his labours.
The dewy lawn before Fair Acres, with its beautiful mosaic of white and
gold, fringed with circles of deepest crimson here and there, would not
suit the taste of the conventional gardener of these days; nor would the
low, irregular building which overlooked it, be considered an attractive
or fitting residence, for the sons and daughters of the small country
squire in the ninth decade of the century.
But in the second decade, in which my story opens, things were
different. The country squire lived a country life. He farmed his own
acres, he walked over his own fields; his 'stock' were individual cows
and horses to him; he could pat each one and call it by its name. His
house was his home, and the restlessness of travel, and longing for
excitement had not as yet, for the most part, disturbed either him or
his children.
Now the resonant steam eagle, as it flies across the country side, seems
to call upon the dwellers in rural districts to follow where it leads,
and an isolated manorial farm like Fair Acres, and a family like the
Falconers who inhabited it, are all but impossible to find nowadays.
Nor would we grumble that the stream of Progress bears us all upon its
breast with the strong resistless current, of which we are scarcely
conscious. The busy rush of life has its brighter side, for there are
wider fields of service opened out for our sons, and the selfishness
which was apt to spring from a secluded life in the heart of the hills,
is counteracted by contact with many men, and many minds. Human sympathy
is quickened, and love is drawn forth, and the labourers who long for
work in the harvest field have the way made easy for them; tools are put
into the hands of our daughters with which they may, if they will, carve
their own lot in life, and none can complain now that life is wasted for
lack of opportunity, for opportunities start up on every side in this
active, zealous, go-a-head age in which we find ourselves.
But in spite of all such advantages and due acknowledgment of their
value, it is refreshing to turn to quiet and peaceful habitations like
Fair Acres, and live again a quieter and less complex life than that
which we have grown to believe is necessary in these later times.
As the sun threw its level beams from the east across the lawn,
thousands of diamond drops sparkled and shimmered in the light, and it
touched with radiance the figure of a young girl who was standing by a
white gate which led into a copse sloping upward to the crest of a hill,
behind the old manor, and crowned by a belt of fir-trees.
Joyce had her hand on the latch of the gate, but paused for a moment to
look back on the landscape which lay stretched out before her.
A peaceful valley was below, where the tower of Fair Acres church rose
against a background of trees, now in their first fresh beauty. A few
cottages with red roofs clustered round the church, and two or three
farms were sprinkled at a farther distance. A rugged outline of hills at
a higher level, showed where the Ebbor rocks open out a miniature
Cheddar, and on the other side of that little gorge lay the open
country, where the city of the deep springs lies, with its noble
cathedral, and quaint Close, and stately baronial Palace--the beautiful
cathedral village of Wells.
Joyce Falconer was looking forth upon life as upon this goodly
landscape. She was in the fresh spring-time of seventeen summers. Her
father called her Sunshine, and her brothers Birdie; while her mother,
who was a plain, practical person, and who indulged in no flights of
fancy, would say, "Joyce is the child's name; and what can suit her
better? I don't like nick-names."
Nevertheless the nick-names held their own, and as Joyce stood by the
white gate, a voice was heard resounding from the lawn below:
"Hallo, Sunshine!"
"Father, come up the hill. It is so lovely this morning."
The squire advanced with steady, even footsteps. He was a fine, stalwart
man, dressed in a stout suit of corduroy, and with leggings buttoned up
to his knees. He carried a gun under his arm--more from habit than from
any idea of using it just then--and close at his heels walked, with
sedate and leisurely bearing, his chief friend and companion, a large
retriever, Duke; while two little terriers, Nip and Pip, bustled about
in every direction, scenting with their sharp noses, and occasionally
turning upon each other to have a playful passage of arms which, though
accompanied by ominous growls, meant nothing but fun.
"I am up first to-day, daddy!" Joyce exclaimed, as she went down the
gentle descent and linked her arm in her father's. "I am first, and is
not it beautiful to be alive on such a day?"
The squire paused, and putting his arm round his daughter's waist, he
said, looking down at her with eyes of loving pride:
"Beautiful! yes," thinking, though he did not say so, that the most
beautiful thing in all that beautiful world was his little Sunshine, his
darling Joyce.
"I hope the weather will keep fine for the hay," he said; "but the glass
went up with a gallop yesterday; still, it looks fair enough this
morning."
"When are we to begin to cut the grass, daddy?"
"To-morrow, in the home meadow," was the reply. "I am going into Wells
to-day, for the magistrates' meeting."
"May I come, father?"
"Well, I've no objection, if mother has not," was the answer. "You must
ask her leave."
"I expect she will let me come. She is sure to have some shopping to do;
and you don't like commissions at shops, daddy."
The squire gave a significant shrug of his broad shoulders, and then the
two began to thread their way through the copse, and came out at last on
the side of the grass-covered hill, up which Joyce skipped with the
light step of a young fawn, with Nip and Pip scuffling along with her in
the highest glee, while the squire and Duke followed more slowly.
As she stood there in the light of the morning, Joyce Falconer was a
fair picture of happy, joyous maidenhood. Her figure was lithe and
supple, and though I am afraid her lilac cotton frock would be despised
as only fit for a maid-servant in these days, it became her well. It was
made with a full skirt and a loose body, cut rather low at the neck,
with sleeves which were large on the shoulder, gradually tightening to
the wrist, and displayed to advantage a well-rounded arm. Joyce's shoes
were thick; but though, perhaps, a trifle clumsy, they did not spoil the
symmetry of her pretty ankle and high-arched instep. Snowy "tuckers" of
crimped muslin were sewn into the neck and wrists of her gown, and she
wore an apron with a bib; an old-fashioned apron, guiltless of bows or
lace.
Her abundant chestnut hair was gathered on the top of her small head,
and fell in curls on either side of her smooth white brow; not concealed
now by the large Dunstable straw bonnet, which was hanging to her arm by
the strings, and left the gentle breeze of the morning free, to play
amongst the clustering curls, at their own sweet will.
Joyce's features were regular, and her complexion rosy and healthy.
Indeed, everything about her seemed to tell of youth and the full
enjoyment of the gifts which God had given her.
"A perfect little rustic!" her aunt in the Vicar's close at Wells called
her sometimes, and would suggest to her father that a year or two at a
"finishing school" would be an advantage.
But the squire could not bring himself to part from his only daughter,
and her education had been, I am afraid, sadly neglected.
"Well, little one," Mr. Falconer said, as he seated himself on a rough
wooden bench, "what is this?" touching the cover of a book that peeped
from her apron pocket.
"It is a book, father, Charlotte lent me: Mrs. Hemans' poems."
"Ah! poetry is a good thing when it is kept in its right place."
"I have been learning a long poem called 'Edith,' and I repeat it when I
am darning stockings, picking up a stitch for every word. Don't you
understand, father?"
"I never darned a stocking," he said, laughing.
"Ah! happy father! Mother has now given me six pairs of Melville's new
socks, to strengthen the heels. In and out, in and out with the long
needle; I have to try very hard not to grumble, so I say 'Edith' as a
comfort, and to help me on."
'The woods--oh! solemn are the boundless woods
Of the great Western world when day declines,
And louder sounds the roll of distant floods,
More deep the rustling of the solemn pines;
When darkness gathers o'er the stilly air,
And mystery seems o'er every leaf to brood,
Awful it is for human heart to bear
The weight and burden of the solitude.'
"Father," she said, suddenly stopping, "you are thinking of something
that troubles you. I know it by the deep line on your forehead, between
your eyes. May I know, father?"
"Well, Sunshine, I am troubled about Melville; he wants to go and see
the world, he says. I have given him as good an education as befits his
station in life. He has made little use of it; and the bills for the
last term at Oxford have been enormous."
"How shameful!" Joyce exclaimed.
"Things are so different from what they were when I was a boy," the
squire said. "Why, I never dreamed of anything beyond doing my duty
here. I took the farming business off your grandfather's shoulders
before I was five-and-twenty. I was his steward, as Melville ought to be
mine, and leave me free. As it is, I have to pay Watson, and look into
everything myself, when I have a son of three-and-twenty, who ought to
do all this for me. I suppose it can't be helped," the squire said,
stretching out his legs, and taking up the gun which had been resting
against the bench, "and as far as I can see the younger boys will be
very little, if any, better than Melville."
"Oh! yes, father. Ralph will do anything you wish, I know; and Hal and
Bunny are very good at school. Remember what the master said of them at
Christmas."
"Yes, yes; they are good little fellows. Then there is poor Piers; he
must always be an anxiety, poor boy!"
"I don't think any of us can be happier than Piers," Joyce said. "He
never complains because he is lame; and he is as contented as possible,
making his collection of moths and butterflies, and bird's eggs, and
things. No, father, don't be unhappy about Piers."
"Do you think, Joyce, I ever forget that it was my carelessness which
made the boy a cripple? I never forget it."
"No one else thinks of it, dear daddy," Joyce said, slipping her hand
into her father's, as it rested on his knee. "No one else thinks of it;
and you know the colt had been broken in, and----"
"The child ought never to have put his legs across it, Joyce; and I
lifted him on, and told him not to be a coward. Ah!" said the squire,
suddenly starting to his feet. "I cannot speak of it; I dare not."
He began an abrupt descent the way that they had come. Nip and Pip, who
had been sleeping with their noses on their paws, and one eye open,
raced off, while Duke drew himself into a standing position, and walked
demurely down the steep bit of turf, with the brush of his tail waving
from side to side as he went.
Joyce did not follow immediately. Her bright face was clouded with the
sympathy she felt for her father. It all came back to her: the group
before the Manor, the child of eight years old, saying, "I am afraid of
riding Rioter, father." Then the father's answer, "Afraid! Don't be a
coward, Piers; you have a good seat enough for such a little chap. Here,
let me put you on." The boy's white, set face, as he grasped the reins;
and Rioter was off like lightning. "His brothers rode long before they
were his age," the squire had said; "it won't do to tie him to his
mother's apron strings, because he happens to be the youngest." Then the
sound of returning horse's feet, and Rioter rushed up the side drive to
the stables riderless. Another minute and old Thomas appeared with a
lifeless burden in his arms, which the squire took from him, with a
groan of remorse, as he turned into the house with him and said to his
wife, "I have killed the boy."
But Piers was not killed. His injuries were life-long, but his life was
spared.
Whether it was from an instinctive feeling, that his father considered
himself the cause of his lameness and generally invalided condition, or
whether the latent buoyancy of his nature asserted itself above all the
privations which the accident had brought upon him, or whether both of
these causes were at work within him, certain it is that Piers was the
most cheerful and most uncomplaining member of the squire's household,
and never allowed any one to pity him, or to treat him as an object of
compassion. Joyce was right when she said that no one was happier than
Piers. Every bird and insect had a charm for him, and were his friends
and companions. Books of natural history were rare; but Bewick's Birds
sufficed for Piers' needs. The "Natural History of Selborne" and old
Isaak Walton's "Angler" were also amongst the boy's scanty library, and
keen perception and acute observation supplied the place of extraneous
help; and Piers was content.
The cloud soon cleared from Joyce's face as a well-known whistle was
heard from the copse, and Joyce answered it with a clear note of
welcome:
"Here, Piers."
Then the quick, even thud of crutches, and Piers came in sight.
In a moment Joyce was springing down the grassy hill-side, and, with a
hardly perceptible touch on her brother's shoulder, she joined him as he
came up.
"I say, Joyce, if you go to Wells to-day with father, will you take this
little sparrow-hawk to old Plume's to be stuffed? Here, rummage in my
pocket, left-hand side--there he is! He is a perfect specimen, and a
pretty rare one. The stable-boy found him lying on his back under the
dove-cot. Perhaps he got the worst of it in a fight. Anyhow, he is dead,
and I have a nice nook for him in my big case."
"Poor dear little birdie," Joyce said, stroking the soft feathers. "Oh!
Piers, why must everything die? It seems so hard. And this is the
puzzle, that we--you and I--may die to-day, next week, any day; and yet
we don't really behave as if we believed it. I feel on a morning like
this, for instance, so full of life, it is so delicious to live, and as
if I never could die. It is so beautiful to be living, so sad to be
dead! To think, Piers, of this little bird singing sweetly----"
"Sparrow-hawks don't sing very sweetly; they chirrup and whistle," Piers
interrupted.
"Ah, well, he thought he sang sweetly, and so did his mother; so it came
to the same thing. Poor little sweet." And Joyce held the little
lifeless bird against her rounded chin and pressed her lips upon it.
Suddenly Piers said:
"What is wrong about Melville; there's something fresh, for I heard my
mother talking about it before I was up."
"He says he won't come here and take care of the farm. He wants to
travel."
"Well, I don't blame him for that," said Piers.
"But his debts have hampered father dreadfully I know, and he does so
detest his fine gentleman airs. It seems to me," said Joyce, vehemently,
"to be ashamed of a father like ours is--Oh! I have no word bad enough,
and Melville _is_ ashamed, and he does not like mother looking after the
dairy and the butter."
"Well," said Piers, tapping his crutch upon the ground, "I think mother
does fidget and worry too much in the house and about the place; but it
is her way, and no one could alter it."
"I don't know that I wish to alter it," Joyce said, hotly. "Mother has
done so much for us, and I hate to think she is slighted by her
children. Melville _does_ slight her, and when he talks in that
drawling, affected voice, and ties his starched cravats twenty times,
and flings them down again if the bow is crooked. I despise _him_, and
that is the truth."
Piers shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, we must go back to breakfast," he said; "I am hungry, and it must
be nearly eight o'clock."
The brother and sister walked slowly towards the house, and as they
crossed the lawn, from which the sun had kissed away all the dewdrops, a
bell over the stables rang, and a little alert figure appeared in the
porch.
"Joyce, Joyce! What are you dawdling for? It is past eight o'clock.
Getting your feet drenched with the dew, I'll warrant. No, don't bring
any dead birds here, Piers; I won't have it. The house is just like a
pigsty with all your rubbish. Take it round to the back kitchen. I have
a pretty hard morning's work before me, and you must lend a hand, Joyce,
I can tell you."
"Father said I was to go with him to Wells, mother, and do your
shopping."
"Well, that won't be till eleven o'clock. There's time enough first to
help me to give out the stores and get the linen aired for the boys'
room and the spare bedroom, and you forget, I suppose, that your
brothers are coming home for the holidays on Friday, and this is
Wednesday. I shall be all behindhand, if I don't look out. I wish
Melville's fine gentleman visitor farther!"
Mrs. Falconer spoke rapidly, and in rather a high key. Her accent was
decidedly provincial, and she did not measure out her words with the
slow precision which her eldest son Melville considered a mark of _bon
ton_.
Mrs. Falconer was the daughter of a large farmer in a neighbouring
county, and the squire had married her in haste, though he had never
repented at leisure.
She was thoroughly loyal-hearted and true as a wife and mother; brusque
and blunt, holding all fine things and fine people in supreme contempt.
And yet, according to the perversity of women-kind, she spoiled and
indulged the son whose love of fine things seemed likely to be his bane,
and brought perpetual trouble upon his good and honourable father.
To make bread and cakes, to skim milk, churn butter, at a pinch, and
make all the sweet, cooling drinks for the summer, and elderberry wine
for the winter, were domestic duties in which Mrs. Falconer gloried. She
would put on a large apron and a pair of dusting-gloves every morning
and go the round of the parlours, and rub the old mahogany chair-backs
and bureau with vigour, sprinkle the tea-leaves on stated days, and
follow one of her stout maid-servants, as they swept the carpets on
their knees, with dustpan and brush, and remove every suspicion of
"fluff" from every corner or crevice where it might be supposed to
accumulate.
While her children were young these household duties which their mother
took upon herself, were considered as a matter of course, but with added
years came added wisdom, to some of them at least, and Melville, her
eldest son, and her great darling and idol, began to show unmistakable
signs of annoyance, at his mother's household accomplishments.
He was at home now, and a stormy scene the night before had deepened the
lines on the squire's brow; and hard things Melville had said were as
sharp swords to his mother's soul. She was not particularly sensitive,
it is true; by no means thin-skinned, or laying herself out--as is the
fashion of some women of her temperament, to take offence. Still,
Melville had succeeded the night before in wounding her in her tenderest
place, reminding her that while his father's pedigree could be stretched
out to meet the royal blood of the Saxon kings, the race of sturdy
yeomen, from which his mother came, had no blue blood in their veins and
were sons of the soil.
There is an old saying that "sharper than a serpent's tooth is an
ungrateful child;" and Mrs. Falconer was still smarting from the wound
given her the evening before, when she began to dispense the excellent
breakfast, laid in a large, cool hall at the back of the manor, which
was connected, by a square opening in the thick wall, with the kitchen.
The squire, who was generally so jovial and cheery, ate his cold pressed
beef and drank his glass of "home-brew" in silence. He professed to be
engrossed with a Bath paper several days old, and did not invite
conversation.
Piers played with some bread-and-milk his mother set before him: his
appetite was never good; but Joyce despatched hot rolls and ham with a
great appetite, which I am afraid would shock some of our modern notions
nowadays.
Tea and coffee were not the staple beverages at breakfast in those
times; but when the heavier part of the meal was over Joyce handed her
father a fragrant cup, with some thin toast done to a turn, for which
Mrs. Falconer called from the kitchen through the window, communicating
with it, and fitted with a sliding shutter, which was promptly closed
when the tray had been received from the hands of one of the maids.
"So you are thinking of going into Wells to-day, Arthur?" Mrs. Falconer
said when, breakfast drawing to a conclusion, she began to pile the
plates together, and put all the scraps on one, for the benefit of Nip
and Pip, who had been lying in the window-seat for the past half-hour in
a state of suppressed excitement, with their noses on their paws, and
their eyes fixed upon that end of the table where their mistress
presided.
The noise made by the piling up of the plates was now a decided
movement, and Nip and Pip began to wriggle and leap, and finally subside
on their hind legs as Joyce called out: "Trust, Nip! trust, Pip!" and
then, after what she considered a due time spent in an erect position,
the plate was put down before them, and its contents vanished in a
twinkling.
"Well, Joyce, will you be ready by eleven o'clock?" Mr. Falconer asked
as he left the room.
Joyce was silent, and her mother said:
"Yes, yes, she shall be ready; if she is brisk she can get through all I
want." Then Mrs. Falconer began to put all the silver into a wooden
bowl, and rubbed it herself with the washleather when it was dried.
She had just finished this part of her daily routine when the door
opened and her son Melville came in. His appearance would be ridiculous
in the eyes of the dandies of to-day, but in his own, at least, it was
as near perfection as possible.
His hair was curled in tight and very-much-oiled curls on his forehead
and round his ears. He wore a high neckcloth, tied evidently with much
care, supporting his retreating chin. His coat was of Lincoln green,
very short in the waist, with large silver buttons, and turned back with
a wide collar to display two waistcoats, the white one only showing an
edge beyond the darker one of deep salmon-colour, which opened to set
off a frilled shirt. The trousers were tight, and caught at the ankles
by straps, and his shoes were tied with large bows. The servile
imitators of "the first gentleman in Europe" followed in his steps with
as much precision as possible, and Melville Falconer spared no pains to
let the county folk of Somersetshire see what the real scion of _bon
ton_ looked like.
Melville had a pleasant, weak face; he was almost entirely forgetful of
the interests or tastes of anyone but himself, and he had never given up
his own wishes for the sake of another in his life.
He had a ridiculous idea of his own importance, and a supreme contempt
for what he called old-fashioned usage; from the vantage-ground of
superior wisdom he looked down on the county gentry of Somersetshire,
who, in those days, did not frequent London in the season, or tread hard
on the heels of the nobility in all their customs, as is now the case.
The great mercantile wealth which rose into colossal importance, when
railway traffic brought the small towns near the large ones, and the
large ones near the metropolis, had not begun to overshadow the land;
the tide of speculation had not set in; and there was less hastening to
be rich and desire to display all that riches could give. It was a time
of comparative stagnation, which preceded the great rush, which was to
bear on its tide, as the stream of progress and discovery gathered
strength, the next generation with relentless power. Of all that lay
outside Fair Acres, Mrs. Falconer was almost indifferent, if not
ignorant. She liked things as they were, and was averse to change, lest
that change should be for the worse. Her tongue, which was a sharp one,
had been swift to condemn the establishment of the schools in her
neighbourhood, and she resisted all invitations from her husband to make
the acquaintance of Mrs. Hannah More. Teaching lads and lasses to read
and write was, in the opinion of Mrs. Falconer, a crying evil. They had
enough learning if they kept their church once a week, and as to
arithmetic, if they could count their own fingers it was enough; and
she, for one, would never take a servant who had schooling. "A pack of
nonsense," she called it; and she would tell Mrs. Hannah More so if only
she had the chance. Mrs. Falconer turned from her occupation at the
table, when her son entered.
"Breakfast!" she exclaimed. "No, indeed; breakfast is over and done
with. I can't keep the things about half the morning."
The prototype of the fine gentleman seated himself in a chair at the
table, and said in a drawling voice, suppressing a yawn:
"Joyce, get me some clean plates, and go and order a rasher of bacon;
and let the eggs be poached; and----"
But Mrs. Falconer pushed Joyce aside:
"No," she said; "your sister has something else to do than wait on you.
I'll get your breakfast; and if you have to wait an hour, it will serve
you right; lie-a-beds don't generally have sharp appetites."
"Nay, mother," Melville said, "do not let the want of appetite be laid
to my door, with so many other sins; I am particularly hungry this
morning. And I beseech you, do not do servant's work for _me_."
Mrs. Falconer's face betrayed that she felt the thrust.
"Servant's work must be done for folks too lazy to do it for
themselves," she said, as she let the heavy door swing behind her, and
repaired to the kitchen to prepare, far too carefully, a breakfast for
her son.
Joyce hesitated a moment, and then said:
"It always vexes mother when you are late, Melville. I wish you would
get up earlier."
"My dear little sister, I should have vexed mother if I had come down at
six. She is out of temper with me, and so is my father, simply because I
desire to get a little education, to fit me for my position here, you
know, when I come into the place."
"Oh, Melville, you have had every advantage; you ought to know
everything. But Aunt Letitia was quite right--the money spent upon you
at Oxford was wasted."
"Thanks for your high opinion. I ought to be vastly grateful for it. But
to speak of other things: I have bidden a friend to stay here for a
week. He will like country air, and to drink milk and curds-and-whey. He
arrives at Wells by the Bath mail; and I shall drive in with you and my
father, and hire a post-chaise at the Swan to bring him out."
"I hope he is not a fine gentleman," Joyce said.
"He is a very fine gentleman indeed," was the answer; "and, Joyce,
persuade mother _not_ to put on that big bib, and make herself look like
a housekeeper. It will appal Arundel, and make him feel out of his
element."
"If he is to feel that, what does he come for?" Joyce said, angrily. "We
want no upstarts here."
"Upstarts! that is fine talking. Arundel comes of one of the oldest
families in England. Not older than ours; though, unhappily, we live as
if we had sprung from the gutter, and do not get any proper respect."
"Respect!" exclaimed Joyce, indignantly. "Respect! As if father were not
respected as a justice! and as if _you_----" Joyce stopped; she felt too
indignant to go on.
"My dear little sister," Melville said, with a grand air of pity--"my
dear little sister, you are only ignorant. If you knew a little more of
the habits and customs of the higher classes, you would not talk so
foolishly."
"I do not wish to know more about them if you have got _your_ habits
from associating with them."
Melville smiled, and did not betray the least irritation.
"My dear," he said, "facts are stubborn things. Does it never strike
you, that though my father dines at the houses of the gentry in the
county, sits on the bench, and rides to cover, you and my mother are not
invited to accompany him. The truth is my good mother dislikes the
usages of _genteel_ life."
Melville used that objectionable word with emphasis. Genteel was in
those days used as some of us now use words which are scarcely more
significant, though generally accepted--"Good form," "A 1," and so
forth.
"It is," Melville continued, grandly, "the result of early associations;
and so we eat heavy one o'clock meals and nine o'clock suppers, instead
of dining at three or four o'clock; and my mother, instead of receiving
company in the house, works in it like a servant. It is a vast pity, my
dear. It keeps the family down, and destroys your chances in life. So I
advise you to try to alter things. Now Arundel is coming, I want to dine
at a less outlandish hour, and I----"
Whatever Mr. Melville Falconer wanted Joyce did not stay to hear. She
left the large hall by one door as her mother entered by the other,
bearing in her hand a tray of delicately prepared breakfast for her
son, who was wholly unworthy of her attentions, and would have been
better without them.
"Thank you, mother," Melville said. "I hope the toast is not dried up.
There is so much skill even in the poaching of an egg."
"There are two ways of doing everything," was Mrs. Falconer's rejoinder.
"Now I must be quick, for I have a deal of work upstairs."
"Why should you have work, mother?"
"Why did you invite a fine gentleman here? You had better answer that
question. The best room must be got ready, and the feather bed laid
before the fire."
"A fire in this weather!" exclaimed Melville.
"No one ever sleeps in my house in an unaired bed; and never will, while
I am mistress of it, that I can tell you. I hope your fine gentleman is
not one to scoff at plain people."
"Arundel is far too well bred to make invidious remarks. But for all
that, things may strike him as a little odd. I was going to suggest that
we should dine at four o'clock while he is here, and that the boys
should not sit down with us elders. It is not the custom in great
houses."
"It is the custom here, and mine is _not_ a great house: it is a
comfortable English home, where there is no waste, and no extravagance,
and no show. I'll warrant your grand friend never slept in a better bed
nor between finer sheets than he will to-night. They are as sweet as
lavender can make them, and----"
Melville shrugged his shoulders.
"Nay, spare me, mother, and let us leave the arrangements of
bed-chambers to the fitting people. And, if I might suggest it, let all
things wear their best appearance when Arundel arrives, including the
mistress of the mansion. It is a pity when one so young and
comely-looking as my mother should pay such scant heed to the little
feminine ornaments which are----Phaugh! what is this? Positively a red
ant crawling from the bread-trencher. What a beast! Quick! catch it,
mother. I hope we shall have no red ants when Arundel is here."
Mrs. Falconer darted down upon the ant with her forefinger, and speedily
despatched it, exclaiming there was a perfect plague of ants in the
larder, and she did not know how to be rid of them.
"Disgusting!" said her son, carefully covering the body of the ant with
a leaf which had garnished the pat of butter. "It is enough to make one
sick. I must have a little brandy to settle myself, or rather, my
breakfast, before I start."
Mrs. Falconer made no response to this request. But the spirit-stand was
in the sideboard, and when his mother was gone Melville helped himself
to a pretty strong dram, and then lounged about till it was time to
mount the "four-wheel" and drive into Wells.
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