THE LADY OF BARLEY WOOD.
There was a mixture of dignity and simplicity in the reception which
Mrs. Falconer gave her son's friend which did not fail to strike him.
"We sup at nine o'clock, sir," she said, "we dine at one, and take tea
at five. Thus it is to the first of these meals that I would bid you
welcome, as it is close upon eight o'clock now. Will you follow me to
your room?--which I hope you will find comfortable."
"I am sure I shall," said Mr. Arundel, warmly. "It is very good of you,
madam, to invite me to Fair Acres."
These few words had passed in the hall; and the tap of Piers' crutches
was heard approaching, while Nip and Pip came bustling about the
new-comers, their short tails vibrating as if they were screwed on with
a wire!
"This is our youngest child, sir--Piers," Mrs. Falconer said.
"Where is Joyce, mother?" Piers asked.
"Your sister is behind; our chaise passed her close to the gate."
"Why did not you come with her?" Piers asked, bluntly.
"Because I was not allowed to do so," Mr. Arundel said, good-temperedly.
"I can tell you what you will be glad to hear, that your sister did not
forget your sparrow-hawk."
Melville, who had after all been wrangling with the postboy about his
gratuity in a somewhat undignified manner, now came into the hall as his
father and Joyce appeared from a door under the wide staircase.
"Well," said the squire, "you seem holding a counsel here; I hope it is
peace, not war. Come, Melville, show your friend to his room."
Considering how greatly the squire had been annoyed by his son's driving
out in the post-chaise, he spoke kindly and pleasantly; but Melville was
already assuming his grand airs.
"Here, Arundel," he said, "I will take you to your room: first door on
the left, I suppose?"
"You will allow me to do as I have done all my life, Melville," said his
mother. "I always go with my guests to their chambers, to see they are
comfortable. Now, Mr. A_run_del."
To Melville's horror, his mother put the accent on the second syllable.
And as she tripped away--for her figure was still light and supple--he
whispered: "He won't know who she means. Tell her, pray, not to say
A_run_del."
Joyce was indignant about the proceedings of the whole day, and she
said:
"If you think it becoming to correct your mother, do it yourself." Then,
going up to her father, she put her hand through his arm. "Come and see
the last brood of chickens with me and Piers. They are lovely, dear
dad."
Melville turned away with a satirical smile on his lips, thinking it was
impossible to do anything with Joyce: she was content to let things
remain as they were.
Meantime his friend was conducted to the "best room" Mrs. Falconer had
to offer--a spacious square room, with a large four-post bed, hung with
white dimity, and so high that a pair of steps by which to climb into it
did not seem out of place.
The window was rather small for the size of the room, and the frames
thick, but roses and honeysuckle hung their wreaths round it and
perfumed the air.
Mrs. Falconer showed Mr. Arundel the high chest of drawers, and pointed
to a hanging-closet, one of the top panels of which was glass, so that
it might have a dim light from the room.
"I hope you will be comfortable," she said; "the sheets are well aired,
and so were the mattresses and beds, by the fire. I never trust to
servants, but see to those things myself. We sup at nine o'clock; and if
you want anything please pull the bell."
"You are very kind," Mr. Arundel said. "I hope my visit is not
inconvenient."
"Oh, no; the boys are coming home from school to-morrow. Three boys make
some difference in a house; but I dare say you will be out a great deal
with my son Melville." A scarcely perceptible sigh accompanied the
words, and then Mrs. Falconer vanished; on the stairs she met Melville.
"I say, mother, what have you got for supper? I hope there will be
something that Arundel can eat. And, by the bye, mother, his name is
_Ar_undel, not Ar_un_del."
"Oh, is it, indeed! I don't know that it matters what a man is called.
As to the supper, there's a round of beef, and a pie, and a baked
custard, and plenty of bread and cheese."
"I wish you could have some made dish to-morrow. Big joints are all very
well for a pack of hungry schoolboys."
Mrs. Falconer did not reply sharply, as she did sometimes. She turned
and preceded Melville to his room, which was at the other end of the
long passage or corridor, which ran across the house, dividing it into
two parts, front and back. Melville followed her, and assumed a careless
and indifferent air, throwing himself on the deep window-seat and giving
a prolonged yawn.
A pack of cards lay on the drawers, with a dicebox.
"We had high words last night, Melville," his mother began; "and I was
sorry----"
"Don't scold or preach any more; I am sick of it. If you'll get my
father to let me travel, I'll come back in two years and settle into
quite the country-gentleman; but you can't expect a fellow to bury
himself here at my age with a set of rustics."
"I have heard all this before," his mother said, in a sad voice, very
unlike her usual sharp tones. "What I want to ask is this: you have
brought your friend here without so much as consulting your father or
me. I ask a plain question, is he a well-behaved man and fit to be the
associate of your sister and young brothers?"
"Fit to associate with them! His mother is an Honourable, his
grandfather was a peer. Fit to associate with us, indeed, who are
nothing but a pack of farmers!"
"So you said last evening. I don't care a fig for lords and ladies; nor
princes either, for that matter: but this I say--if your friend teaches
my boys to gamble and drink, and is not to be trusted with your sister,
but may talk all kinds of rubbish to her, and you know it, you'll repent
bringing him here to your latest day. I must just trust you, Melville,
and if you say he is a well-behaved young man, well, I will believe you,
and he is welcome to stay here."
"My good mother, you have got hold of the wrong end of the stick. The
fact is Gilbert Arundel is a trifle _too_ good. He has a sort of mission
to reform _me_. He has helped me out of scrapes and--well, I owe him
something; and so, as he is of high family, I asked him to come here, as
we don't catch such folks often at Fair Acres. He said he would like a
week in the country, and he is looking after some place in Bristol,
which is handy; so I asked him to come on here. Now are you satisfied?"
"I know looks don't go for much," Mrs. Falconer said, "but I do like
his looks very much; and his manners, too."
Mrs. Falconer hesitated, and seemed uncertain what she should say next.
She was not given to much demonstration of affection at any time, but
her mother's heart yearned over this shallow-pated, self-indulgent son
of hers. It seemed but yesterday that he was seated on her knee and
throwing his arms round her neck in his innocent childhood. But
yesterday! and yet what a gulf lay between that time and this!
She could not have told why, or what innermost chord was touched, but
certain it is that she drew nearer Melville, and putting her hand on his
forehead, and brushing back the stiff curls, which were persuaded by
pomade to lie in regular order on his head, she kissed him fondly.
"Oh! Melville," she said, "my son, my son, you know how dearly I love
you. Do give up all your extravagant ways and high notions, and be a
comfort to your father and me, and set your young brothers a good
example."
Even Melville was a little touched.
"Yes," he said, kissing his mother in return, "yes, if you will let me
off for a year, I will settle down and walk behind the plough, if you
wish it then. Will that satisfy you?"
She kissed him again, and saying, "I will see what I can do with father
about your travelling," she resumed her accustomed brisk manner and left
him.
In spite of the large joint, and the big pie, the supper passed off
pleasantly, for Gilbert Arundel listened to all the squire had to say,
and showed an interest in agriculture and farming, and won golden
opinions in consequence.
Before the meal was over Mr. and Mrs. Falconer were both wondering how
it was that their son and their guest could be friends; except by the
law of contrast, a friendship between them seemed so impossible.
The school boys arrived the next day; the first acre of grass was cut,
and the weather remained perfect. On the third day there was tea in the
hay-field, and every one, from the squire downwards, was in high
spirits. No one could resist Gilbert Arundel. His were the free,
unrestrained good manners of the true gentleman, who can accommodate
himself to every circumstance, and is neither too fine nor too
fastidious for anything, which comes in his way.
Ralph, who was the grave-eyed student of the brothers, could not resist
Gilbert's genial interest in his history of his success at the school at
Exeter, where he was pursuing his education at one of the academies for
young gentlemen, which are now a thing of the past.
Bunny and Harry buried him in the hay and nearly smothered him, and
Piers found abundant cause for liking him in the attention he gave to
the peculiarities of an insect which he had found under one of the
haycocks. Melville was lazily indifferent to what was passing, but he
liked to lie full length under a spreading oak by the hedge, and have
his tea brought to him in a large mug with a coppery coloured, brilliant
surface which blazed in the light and concentrated the rays in a mimic
sun on its outer side.
What Mrs. Falconer called 'harvest-cakes' were freely dispersed with
cider and mead, and the fields of Fair Acres had never seen a happier
party collected at hay-making time than met there on this June day.
Pip and Nip, exhausted with romping and hunting for field-mice, lay
close to Melville; and Duke, with his wise head erect, despising rest
while his master was astir, surveyed the whole scene with lofty
indifference, which rivalled Melville's.
It was about five o'clock when the unusual sound of wheels was heard in
the road leading up to the house, and the squire, who was in the further
part of the field, said:
"There's a carriage driving up! I think it is Mrs. More's."
"Mrs. More!" exclaimed Mrs. Falconer, sharply. "I hoped I had heard the
last of the dairy-maid."
Joyce, who was at that moment seated on a haycock, with her rake thrown
carelessly at her side, sprang up. "Did you say Mrs. More's carriage,
father? Oh, I am afraid--" She stopped.
"Afraid of what?" Gilbert Arundel asked.
"Oh, nothing; only Aunt Letitia said Mrs. More wanted to see me, or,
rather, know me. Mother does not like Mrs. More, and Mrs. More thinks
her very careless about the maids' education, just as Aunt Letitia
thinks she is careless about mine; here comes Sarah."
"If you please, ma'am, I was to say Mrs. More wished you to come and
speak to her. She won't get out of the carriage, because her legs are
too stiff."
"Come, my dear," the squire said, "make haste, and go round to the front
door."
"Not I. I shall not make haste; indeed, I'll send Joyce instead. Go,
Joyce, at once. Say we are having a hay-making party, and end with a
supper when the last wain is carried; which, I'll be bound, she will
call sinful."
Joyce had to free herself from the wisps of hay which clung to her, and
to smooth her tangled curls. They were confined by combs and pins, but
all had fallen out in the scrimmage in the hay, and they now fell on
either side of her flushed face. Perhaps she had never looked more
lovely than at that moment when, turning to her father, she said:
"Do you really wish me to go like this, dear dad?"
"My dear, some one must go; and at once. Mrs. More is not a person to
keep waiting."
Joyce did not delay a moment, but went with her quick, light step across
the field, and then through a little gate which opened into a belt of
low-growing shrubs, beyond which was the carriage-road from the village.
An old-fashioned _barouche_--old-fashioned even in those days--stood
before the door, and sitting in it were two ladies; the elder one
upright and alert, the younger leaning back as if to resign herself to
the long waiting time, before any of the family appeared.
Although comparatively near neighbours in the county, Joyce never
remembered to have seen Mrs. More before. Her name was familiar enough,
and her schools, established on all sides, were known by every one,
though it cannot be said they were approved by every one.
Mrs. More and her sister had in times past made some overtures towards
Mrs. Falconer, but they were coldly repulsed, and a parcel of tracts had
even been returned. Later there had been the disagreement about the
dairy-maid, and the time for Mrs. Hannah More to carry the crusade into
the enemy's camp was over. She had, in the year 1824, nearly numbered
her four-score years; and the loss of her sisters, and repeated attacks
of illness, made her more willing to rest from her labours, only taking
care that the good seed sown in the days of health and vigour, should be
watered and cared for, that it might yield a good harvest.
It had happened that several times during the lovely spring of this year
she had met Joyce Falconer driving in the high gig with her father, or
trotting by his side on the rough pony, the use of which she shared with
all her young brothers. The sweet, frank face had attracted her, and she
had inquired about Joyce when on a visit of ceremony at the Palace at
Wells a few weeks before.
The result was, as we know, that Miss Falconer gave a melancholy account
of her niece's ignorance, which she believed was entirely due to her
mother's prejudices as to boarding-schools and her father's
over-indulgence and excessive affection for his only daughter.
With her accustomed sympathy with all the young who were just setting
forth on life's journey, Mrs. More determined to see something of Mr.
Falconer's little daughter, and her aunt's letter had decided her to
lose no time in paying a visit to Fair Acres.
As Joyce came up to the steps of the carriage Mrs. More held out her
hand--a white, delicately-formed hand, half covered by a lace mitten.
Joyce had heard Mrs. More spoken of as an old lady of near eighty, and
her surprise was written on her lovely face, as she said, simply:
"Are you Mrs. More?"
For the beautiful dark eyes were still lustrous, and the lips, parted
with a smile, displayed a row of even teeth which many a young woman in
these days might envy. A quantity of white hair was turned back from a
round, full forehead, which was shadowed by a drawn-silk riding-hood,
with a deep curtain and a wide bow under the chin. Intellect and
benevolence shone on the face, which was marked by few lines, and the
still young spirit lighted up the whole countenance as Mrs. More said:
"Yes, I am Mrs. More; and I have come to pay my respects to your good
father and mother, and to make your acquaintance."
"A great hay-making party is in the home meadow," Joyce said. "My mother
bids me present her apology; but my father will be here, I think,
shortly. Will you not alight from the carriage?"
"No, thank you kindly, my dear;" and turning to Miss Frowde: "my friend
thinks me over-bold to drive so great a distance as this; but a desire
to convey to you an invitation in person has brought me hither, in the
delightful cool of the summer afternoon."
"We must be getting home before the dew falls," Miss Frowde said,
addressing Joyce for the first time; "I have to take great care of
precious Mrs. More."
"Miss Frowde is kindly solicitous," the old lady said; "I should be
ungrateful to disobey her orders so if I may ask for a drink of water
for the horses, and a cup of cider for the post-boy, we will not delay
our departure beyond a few minutes."
"I am so sorry," Joyce began, "that all the people are in the hay-field;
but I will send a message for a man who will attend to the horses, if
you will excuse me for a moment." She tripped away into the house, and
very soon the maid, who had been left in charge, was despatched to the
hay-field, while Joyce returned to the carriage with a jug of milk and
two glasses on a tray, with some sweet cakes of her own making, and
said:
"May I ask you, madam, to take a glass of milk, as a little
refreshment?"
Hannah More beamed down upon the sweet young face with her brightest
smile. She sipped the milk and told her companion to taste the lightest
little cakes she ever ate; then she said:
"After all, I have not come to the real object of my call. I want your
parents to spare you to me for a visit; and that you may not lack
company, Miss Frowde will invite your cousin from the Close at Wells to
meet you."
"Thank you, madam," Joyce said; "but I fear I cannot be spared during my
little brothers' holidays. But here comes father."
The squire made the ladies in the carriage a low bow, and said the water
was ordered for the horses, and he much wished Mrs. More would alight
from the carriage, and take some refreshment.
"The refreshment has been brought to me by the hands of your young
Hebe," Mrs. More said, smiling. "As to alighting, my limbs are stiff
with age, and when once ensconced in my easy old chariot I am unwilling
to leave it. But, Mr. Falconer, I came with a petition, for what is, I
am sure, a precious possession: let me have your daughter at Barley Wood
for a month. I hope, God willing, to return your treasure, with interest
on the loan. Do not refuse me."
"Thank you kindly, madam," said the squire; "but her mother must be
consulted. Her little brothers demand much of her attention in the
holidays, and Joyce has to share her mother's labours in many ways. I
fear she cannot be spared. What say you, my Sunshine?"
"I could not be spared yet, father; but later--" adding, with glistening
eyes--"I should like to go to Barley Wood."
The squire put his arm round his daughter, and said:
"And I should like you to have the pleasure; but your mother----"
"Well, well," Mrs. More said, "then we will leave it, subject to certain
conditions. The Bible meeting at Wrington comes on early in July. I
shall have many excellent friends as my guests then, and the little
Sunshine--I like that name vastly--might dispense a little brightness
amongst us, and receive some solid good from intercourse with my friend.
May I hope to see you early in July?"
"We will see about it, madam," the squire said; "and both Sunshine and I
feel gratified by your kind proposal."
"Well, then, we leave it so, and I trust to you to drop me a line, my
child, when your visit can be made. We shall find a corner for you and
your cousin--if only a pigeonhole. You will not grumble, I dare say, but
nestle in comfortably."
"The sun is getting low, dearest Mrs. More," Miss Frowde said; "we
should be starting homewards."
"Yes, you are right." Then drawing from a large basket some books, Mrs.
More singled out one, and, bending down towards Joyce, said:
"This is the best of books; in it is to be found treasures of riches and
knowledge. Accept the Bible from me, as a token of desire that now, in
the days of your youth, you may find the Pearl of great price. No one
can object to _this gift_, though objection to other books may be
urged."
Joyce took the Bible with a low-spoken "Thank you!" and her father
glancing at it, said:
"You are very good to my little daughter, and I, at least, am grateful."
The squire had been secretly hoping that his wife would change her mind
and appear, but his hopes were not realised. The carriage rolled off at
a leisurely even pace; the good-byes were said, but Mrs. Falconer did
not appear.
"It is a pity mother did not come," Joyce said. "What a lovely old lady
Mrs. More is."
"Yes," and the squire sighed. "You have got a Bible, Joyce."
"An old one, not like this," Joyce said, "with gilt edges and such a
nice purple binding; and I like to have it from Mrs. More. See, father,
there are pencil marks in it."
The squire looked over Joyce's shoulder at the page on which she had
opened. It was the last chapter of Proverbs, and the words were
underlined: "Her price is above rubies."
"Carry the book upstairs, Joyce; you had better not display it at
present. Then come back to the hay-field as fast as you can. Mother will
be expecting you."
Joyce did as she was told, and hastened away with her precious book. As
she turned over the pages she saw the pencil marks were frequent. It was
evidently Mrs. More's way of silent instruction; and for the first time
in her young life, Joyce seemed to find in the Bible, words which
applied to herself.
"Be not overcome of evil," was underlined; "but overcome evil with
good."
"That means I am not to let Melville's ways get the better of me, and
make me cross to him and contemptuous. I must try and overcome by being
kind; and then----"
She was startled by her mother's voice:
"Joyce, what are you about? come down at once. The men want some more
cakes, and you may as well trudge down to the field, as I----"
Joyce ran down immediately, first hiding her Bible in the small drawer
of the high chest in her room.
"I wish you had come sooner, mother, and seen Mrs. More."
"Do you? I waited till I heard the wheels in the road before I came; but
now I am here, I mean to stay. I want to make some custards for supper,
and whip the cream for a syllabub. Mr. Arundel shan't grumble at his
fare."
"Mrs. More is a beautiful old lady," Joyce said.
"She did not give you any tracts, I hope," Mrs. Falconer said. "I won't
have any cant, and rank Methodism here. You know my mind, Joyce."
"Yes, mother," Joyce said, gently. "But I should like to pay a visit to
Barley Wood. Do you think, when the boys return to school, I _may_ go."
"Well, we will see about it. If you want to gad about you must go, I
suppose. You all seem alike now; no rest and no peace unless you are
scouring the country like so many wild things. It was very different in
my young days. I don't know that I ever slept a night from under my
father's roof till I married. I don't mind your going to Barley Wood at
the proper time, but I'll have no tracts and no nonsense here, or
setting up servant-girls to be wiser than their betters; for all this
talk, and preaching, and reading, and writing, the Mendip folk are as
bad, as bad can be. Mrs. More has not done much there, anyhow. That was
plain enough the other day, when the man was brought before the
justices, and they were a pack of chicken-hearts, and dare not commit
him for fear of getting their heads broken as they rode home; your
father was the only brave man amongst them, and held out that the rascal
should be committed for trial."
All this was said in Mrs. Falconer's voluble fashion, while she was
engaged in piling up a basket full of harvest cakes, which Joyce soon
bore off to the field, where her brothers, and Nip and Pip were still
tossing about the sweet hay, and burying themselves and everyone else
under it. Piers threw a wisp with the end of his crutch at Joyce as she
came, and Bunny rushed to possess himself of the basket and scatter the
cakes about, which the younger part of the haymakers scrambled for,
head foremost, burrowing in the tussocks of hay, like so many young
ferrets, while Nip and Pip barked and danced about in the extremity of
their excitement.
The fair weather lasted all through the week, and Sunday dawned in
cloudless beauty. Fair Acres did not have the services of one clergyman,
but shared the ministrations of the vicar, with another small parish.
The cracked bell began to ring in a querulous, uncertain fashion on
Sunday morning, and punctually at half-past ten Mrs. Falconer marshalled
her flock down the road to the church.
The church, though small, was architecturally a fine specimen of Early
English, and raised a noble tower to the sky; but the interior was
dilapidated, and the pillars were covered with many coats of yellow
wash, and the pews were hung with moth-eaten cloth. The squire's pew was
like a square room, with a fire-place and cushioned seats, and a high
desk for the books ran round it.
Mrs. Falconer and her husband sat facing each other on either side of
the door of the pew, and the boys were ranged round, while at the
further end Joyce sat with Mr. Arundel, a place being left for Melville.
Just as the clergyman had hurried on his very crumpled surplice, and the
band in the gallery struck up the familiar air to which the morning hymn
was sung, Melville, dressed in his best, came up the uneven pavement of
the aisle with the proud consciousness of superiority to the rest of the
world. His father threw back the door, and he passed up to the further
end of the seat, nodding carelessly to Mr. Arundel, who made no sign in
return. Chatting and making engagements for the week was at this time
very common in church. There was scant reverence shown for the house of
God. He was a God afar off, and the formal recognition of some sort of
allegiance to Him being respectable and necessary for the maintenance of
social position, brought people like Mrs. Falconer to church Sunday
after Sunday.
Mrs. Falconer and the squire, with their family, were never absent from
their places, and Mr. Watson, the squire's agent, acting as sidesman,
was also regular in his attendance.
But it was a lifeless mechanical service on the part of both minister
and people; and the loud Amens of the old clerk were the only responses
to be heard. The Psalms at the end of the book of Common Prayer were
used, accompanied by a strangely-assorted band in the worm-eaten
gallery, and two or three men and boys supplemented the scraping of the
fiddle and bassoon with singing, which might well be called bawling.
Nor was Fair Acres an isolated instance of country parish churches; and
city churches, too, at this date. The great tide of the evangelical
movement had, it is true, set steadily in, and was soon to cover the
kingdom with its healing and reviving waters; but its streams did not
penetrate into the heart of the hills, and small outlying villages went
on, with no schools and no resident clergymen, and were contented
because they were asleep.
Of course the sound of "the waters of Siloah" were heard in
Somersetshire as, one by one, Hannah More's schools grew and flourished,
and, one by one, her enemies became her friends. But the apathy at Fair
Acres on the part of the clergyman, and the determination of Mrs.
Falconer to set her face like a flint against all innovations, was
thought to be praiseworthy, and to show a laudable desire to resist
methodism in whatever form it took.
Gilbert Arundel's home-training had been very different from that of his
friend. His mother had early in life been brought in contact with
several of the fathers of the evangelical school, and the spirit had
quickened her faith into living heart service.
"How my mother would admire her!" Gilbert thought, as he carried away
with him from the church the picture, in his mind, of the squire's young
daughter, as she followed the Psalms in the big prayer-book on the desk,
and with her arm round Piers to steady him, pointed with her finger to
the words, reading the alternate verse with old Simkins, the clerk, in a
voice which Gilbert could barely catch, though he strained his ears to
do so.
There was an entire absence of self-consciousness in Joyce; and if the
undulations of the small mirror over her high chest of drawers,
permitted her to discern anything like the real reflection of her lovely
face, she did not give it much thought.
Brothers are not wont to admire their sisters or to tell them they are
fair to look upon, and Joyce would have been very much surprised if she
had heard that her brother Melville said, she only wanted the
accessories of fashionable dress to be accounted a belle at Bath or
Clifton, nay, even likely to make a sensation in the great world of
London life.
She was a hopeless rustic now, but he saw in her capabilities which few
girls possessed.
He had said nothing about Joyce's beauty to Mr. Arundel, because he was,
in his folly, ashamed to confess how devoid Joyce was of the ornaments
which went so far to form his own estimate of a woman, and Mr. Arundel's
silence about Joyce, since that first day at the cathedral, seemed to
him to show that he only praised her at first, because she was his
sister out of courtesy, and that he was, as every man of taste must be,
disappointed with her on nearer acquaintance. Superficial and foolish
himself, he was almost unable to appreciate the earnest sincerity of his
friend, and on this particular Sunday his temper had been tried by the
arrival of a letter from the Palace at Wells, brought over on the
previous evening by a special messenger, in which the Lord Bishop of
Bath and Wells requested the pleasure of Mr. Arundel's company at dinner
on the following Monday, but made no mention of him. He inwardly voted
the bishop "a stupid old bat," as every one _must_ be who was blind to
his perfections!
[Illustration]