The scenery of the New Forest is of infinite variety; but the wooded
parts may be ranged, perhaps, in a free, loose–branching order (as
befits the subject), into some three divisions, which cross and
interlace each other, as the trees themselves do.
First, and most lovely, the glades and reaches of gentle park and
meadow, where the beech–tree invades not seriously, or, at any rate,
not with discipline, but straggles about like a tall centurion amused
by ancient Britons. Here are the openings winged with fern, and
ruffling to the west wind; and the crimped oval leaves of the alder
rustle over the backs of the bathing cows. In and out we glance, or
gaze, through the groined arcade of trees, where the sun goes wandering
softly, as if with his hand before his eyes. Of such kind is the
Queenʼs Bower Wood, beside the Boldre Water.
Of the second type, most grand and solemn, is the tall beech–forest,
darkening the brow of some lonely hill, and draping the bosomed
valleys. Such is Mark Ash Wood, four miles to the west of Lyndhurst.
Overhead, is the vast cool canopy; underfoot, the soft brown carpet,
woven by a thousand autumns. No puny underwood foils the gaze, no
coppice–whispers circulate; on high there moves one long, unbroken,
and mysterious murmur, and all below grey twilight broods in a lake
of silent shadow. Through this the ancient columns rising, smooth,
dove–coloured, or glimpsed with moss, others fluted, crannied, bulging,
hulked at the reevings of some great limb; others twisted spirally and
tortuously rooting; a thousand giants receding, clustering, opening
lattice–peeps between them, standing forth to stop the view, or
glancing some busy slant of light—in the massive depth of gloom they
seem almost to glide.
The third and most rudely sylvan form is that of the enclosures, where
the intolerant beech is absent, and the oak, the spruce, and the
Spanish chestnut protect the hazel, the fern and bramble, the dog–rose
and the honeysuckle.
In a bowering, gleaming, twinkling valley, such as I have first
described, we saw Miss Amy Rosedew admiring her own perfections;
and now, some three months afterwards, a certain young lady, not
wholly unlike her, is roaming in a deep enclosure, thick with oaks
and underwood. It lies about a furlong from the western lodge of
Nowelhurst, and stretches away towards the sunset, far from the eye
of house or hut. Even the lonely peatman, who camps (or camped, while
so allowed) beneath the open sky, wherever the waste yields labour
freely, and no prescription bars him—even he finds nothing here to draw
his sauntering footstep. The gorse prefers more open places, the nuts
are few and hard to reach, the fuel–turf is not worth cutting, and the
fuel–wood he dare not hew. In short, there is nothing there to tempt
him. As for shade, and solitude, and the crystal rill, he gets a deal
too much of that sort of thing already.
By the side of that crystal rill, and where the trees hung thickest, in
the grey gloom of that Michaelmas evening, walked the aforesaid maiden,
and (what we had not bargained for) a gentle youth beside her. The
light between the lapping boughs and leaves—whose summer whisper grew
hoarse in autumnʼs rustle—the clouded light fell charily, but showed
the figures comely, as either could wish of the other.
The maidenʼs face was turned away, but one hand lay in her loverʼs;
with the other she was drawing close the loose folds of her mantle—her
flushing cheek was glad of shade, and the grass thought her feet were
trembling.
His eager, glistening, wavering eyes told of hope with fear behind it;
and all his life was waiting for a word or look. But for the moment
neither came. She trembled more and more before him, and withdrew a
little, as the silver–weed at her feet withdrew from the runnelʼs
passion. She thought he would yet say more—she longed for him to say
more; oh that her heart would be quiet!
But never another word he said, till she turned to him, sadly and
proudly, with her soft eyes full of tears.
“Mr. Nowell, you are very eloquent; but you do not know what love is”.
She lifted her left hand towards her heart, but was too proud to put it
there, and dropped it, hiding the movement.
“I not know what love is! And I have been saying things I should have
laughed at any fellow for saying, though I am fit to cry while I say
them. Oh, how cold–blooded you are; for I cannot make you feel them”!
He looked at her so ardently, that her sweet gaze fell like a violet in
the May sun.
“No, Mr. Clayton Nowell, I am not cold–blooded; but, at least, my blood
is pure, though not in the eyes of the world so high and refined as
your own”.
“What has that got to do with it? My own—own—own——” He was in a great
hurry to embrace her, because she looked at him tenderly, to palliate
the toss of her head.
“Wait, if you please. Throughout all your rhapsody” (here she smiled
so that none could be angry) “you have not said a single word to show
whether—that is—I mean to say whether——”
She burst into tears, turned from him, and clung to the dead arm of the
old oak.
“Whether what”? asked Clayton, sharply, in spite of her deep distress;
for he began to doubt if he truly were loved, and to tire of the
highstrung suspense. “Whether I have got money enough to support us
both _respectably_? Isnʼt that the proper word for it? And because I am
the younger son”?
He frowned very hard at the bark of the oak, and crushed the grey
touchwood under his foot, though his hand was still seeking for hers.
Then she turned full upon him suddenly, too proud to dissemble her
tears.
“Oh, Clayton, Clayton Nowell, can you think me so mean as that? Though
my father would cast me off, perhaps, in his gratitude to Sir Cradock,
do you think I would care for all the world, so long as I only had you?
What I meant was only that you never said if you meant me to be—to
be—your wife”. Her long lashes fell on her glistening cheeks, like the
willow–leaves over the Avon.
“Why, what—well, that beats cockfighting!—why, what else did you
suppose I meant, you darling of all born darlings”?
“I am sure I donʼt know, Clayton. Only I beg your pardon”.
He gave her no time to beg it twice, with those wistful eyes upon him,
but made her earn it thoroughly, with her round arms on his neck, and
other proceedings wherewithal we have no right to meddle.
“Yes, you may call me now your own”—ever so many interruptions—“your
own; yours only, for ever”.
“And you would rather have me than my elder brother”?
“Sooner than a thousand elder brothers, all as grave as Methusalem”.
Clayton was so delighted hereat, that he really longed to squeeze her,
although it is a thing which young ladies now–a–days never think of
allowing. Let them hope that he did not do it. The probabilities are in
their favour.
“Oh, Clayton, how can I be such a simpleton? What _would_ my father say
to me”?
“What do I care, my gem, my jewel, my warm delicious pearl? For three
long months I have been dying to kiss you; and now I wonʼt be cheated
so. Surely you are not afraid of me, my beautiful wild rose”?
Her gardening hat had fallen off, her eyes were bright with tears, and
the glow upon her cheeks had faded to a pellucid gleam. So have I seen
the rich red Aurora weep itself, in a pulse–throb, to a pearly and
waxen pink.
“No, Clayton, I am not afraid of you. I know that you are a gentleman”.
“Well”, thought Clayton, “she must be a witch, or the cleverest girl
in the universe, as well as the most beautiful. She knows the way to
manage me, as if we had been married fifty years”.
He looked so disconcerted at the implied rebuke, that she could have
found it in her sweet heart to give him fifty kisses; but, with all
her warmth of passion, she was a pure and sensitive maiden, full of
self–respect. Though abashed for the moment, and bowing her head to the
sunrise of young affection, she possessed a fine and very sensible will
and way of her own. She was just the wife for Clayton Nowell—a hot,
impulsive, wayward youth; proud to be praised by every one, more than
proud of deserving it. With such a wife, he would ripen and stiffen
into a fine, full character; with a weak and volatile spouse, he would
swing to and fro to his ruin. His goodness as yet was in the material;
only a soft, firm hand could fashion it.
So she kept him at his distance; except every now and then, when her
warm, loving nature looked forth from her eyes, for fear of hurting
his feelings. Hand in hand they walked along, as if they still were
children, and held much counsel, as they went, about the difficulties
between them. But happen what would, they made up their minds about one
thing; and for them henceforth both plural and singular were entirely
merged in the dual. That sentence is priggish and pedantic, but I think
young lovers can solve it; if not, let them put their heads together,
and unriddle it in _labiates_.
Nothing ever, ever, ever, in the world of fact, or in the reach of
imagination, should hold apart that faithful pair, whose all in all
was to each the other. This they settled with much satisfaction, before
discussing anything else.
“Except, of course, you know, darling”, said the more thoughtful
maiden, “if either of us should die”.
Clayton shuddered at the idea, for it was a dark place of the wood, and
the rustle of the ivy–leaves seemed to whisper “die”. Then he insisted
upon his amends for such a nasty suggestion; and she, with the tender
thought moving her heart, could not refuse strict justice.
“And so you say, love, I must stay at Oxford until I take my degree.
What a long time it does seem! Doesnʼt it”?
“Never mind, dearest, how long it is, if we are true to one another”.
“Oh, that of course thereʼs no doubt about. And you think I must tell
my father”?
“Of course you must, Clayton. We are not very old, you know; he will
think that he can part us, and that may make him less angry”,—here she
laughed at her own subtlety,—“and putting that out of the question,
neither of us could bear to be deceiving him so long. After all, you
are but a younger son; and I am a lady, I hope. I have been thoroughly
educated; and there is nothing but money against me”.
She looked so proud in the shade of the spruce, that he was obliged to
stop and admire her. At least he thought it his duty to do so, and the
opinion did not offend her.
“But what will your brother Cradock say? He is so different from you.
So odd, so determined and—upright”.
“I donʼt care _that_ for what he says. Only he had better be civil. He
treated me very badly that time about the Ireland. I have a very great
regard for Cradock; he is a very decent fellow; but I must teach him
his proper place”.
“And you can beat him easily in Latin; my father says you can. What a
shame that he would not go in for the Hertford, that you might turn the
tables upon him! He would not even have got a proxy, or whatever it was
he gave you”.
“I donʼt know that”, said Clayton, who was truthful in spite of vanity;
“very likely he would have beaten me. But I have cut him out in two
things; for I canʼt help thinking that he has a hankering after you”.
He looked at her with a keen, shrewd glance, for he was desperately
jealous. She saw it, and smiled, and only said—“Would you believe that
he could help it? But it happens that I know otherwise”.
“Oh, then, you would have had him, if you could”?
“Now, Clayton, donʼt be childish. In your heart you know better”.
Of course he did, a great deal better. Then there was that to make up
again, because she looked so hurt and so charming. But we canʼt stop
here all day, or follow all these little doings, even if honour allowed
us.
“And another thing, not so important, though, I have cut him out in,
most decidedly”, said Clayton, lifting his head again; “the governor
likes me long chalks better than he does Cradock, I can tell you”.
“No doubt of it, I should say, dear. But I donʼt think you ought to
talk of it”.
“No, only to you. No secrets from oneʼs wife, you know. But you wonʼt
tell your father yet, till Iʼve opened upon Sir Cradock”?
“Why not? I intend to tell him directly I get home. And one thing is
certain, Clayton, he will be more angry than yours will”.
Clayton found it very difficult to change her determination. But at
last he succeeded in doing so.
“But only for a week, mind; I will only put it off for a week, Clayton;
and I would not do that, only as you say he would rush off at once to
Sir Cradock; and I must give you time to take your father at the very
best opportunity”.
“And when will that be, my sweet prime minister, in your most sage
opinion”?
“Why, of course, on my dear loveʼs birthday, next week, when all those
rejoicings are to be at his brother becoming of age”.
The young lady meant no mischief at all, but her lover did not look
gracious.
“My brother! oh yes, to be sure, my brother! And I dreamed last night
that I was the elder. He used to talk about giving me half; but I
havenʼt heard much of that lately. As for my majority, as the lawyers
are pleased to call it, nobody cares two straws for that. All my life I
shall be a minor”.
“Yes, somebody cares for it, darling; and more than all the hundreds
put together who will shout and hurrah for your brother”.
And she looked at him fondly from her heart. What a hot little
partisan! The whole of that heart was now with Clayton, and he felt its
strength by sympathy. So he lifted her hand to his lips, as a cavalier
does in a picture. For the moment all selfish regrets lost their way in
the great wide world of love.
“And my fealty shall be to you”, he cried, kneeling half in play before
her; “you are my knightly fee and fortune, my castle, my lands, and my
home”.
They had stopped at a point where two forest–paths met, and the bushes
fell back a little, and the last of the autumn sunset glanced through
the pales of a moss–grown gate, the mark whereby some royalty, or right
of chase, was limited. Kneeling there, Clayton Nowell looked so courtly
and gentle, with the bowered light of the west half saddening his
happy, affectionate countenance, that his newly–betrothed must needs
stoop graciously, and kiss his uncovered forehead.
While Clayton was admiring secretly the velvet of her lips, back she
leaped, as if stung by a snake; then proudly stood confronting. Clayton
sprang up to defend her; but there was no antagonist. All he saw was
a man on horseback, passing silently over the turf, behind a low bank
crowned with fern. Here a narrow track, scarce visible, saved the
traveller some few yards, subtending as it did the angle where the two
paths met. Clayton could not see the horse, for the thick brake–fern
eclipsed him. But he felt that the nag was rather tired, and getting
sad about supper–time. The rider seemed to be making a face, intended
to express the most abstract philosophy possible, and superlunary
contemplation. Any rabbit skilled in physiognomy would have come
out of his hole again, quite reassured thereby. A short man he was,
and apparently one meant by his mother for ruddiness; and still the
brick–red of his hair proclaimed some loyalty to her intention. But his
face was browned, and flaked across, like a red potato roasting, and
his little eyes, sharp as a glazierʼs diamond, and twinkling now at
the zenith, belied his absent attitude. Then as he passed by a shadowy
oak, which swallowed him up in a moment, that oak (if it had been duly
vocal) would have repeated these words—
“Well, if that ainʼt the parsonʼs daughter, grind me under a
curry–stone. What a sly minx!—but devilish pretty. Youʼre a deal too
soft, John Rosedew”.
As he passed on towards Nowelhurst the lovers felt that they had
been seen, and perhaps watched ever so long; and then they felt
uncomfortable. The young lady was the first to recover presence of
mind. She pressed on her glossy round head the hat which had been so
long in her left hand, and, drawing a long breath, looked point–blank
at the wondering stare of her sweetheart.
“Well, Clayton, we may make up our minds for it now”.
“For what, I should like to know? Who cares for that interloping,
beetroot–coloured muff”?
“He is no muff at all, I can tell you, but an exceedingly clever man.
Do you mean to say you donʼt know him”?
“Not I, from Esau or Ishmael. And he looks like a mixture of both”.
“He is Doctor Rufus Hutton”.
Clayton indulged in a very long whistle, indrawn, and not melodious.
’Twas a trick he had learned at Oxford; it has long been discarded
elsewhere, but at both Universities still subsists, as the solace of
newly–plucked men; the long–drawn sound seems to wind so soothingly
down the horns of dilemma. Then the youth jumped up, and gathered a
nut, cracked it between his white front teeth, and offered it, husk and
all, without any thought of hygrometry, to his beautiful frightened
darling. She took it, as if his wife already, and picked out the thin
shell, piece by piece, anxiously seeking the kernel. He all the while
with admiration watched the delicate fingers moving, the reflex play of
the lissome joints, the spiral thread and varying impress of the convex
tips, and the faintly flushing pink beneath the transparency of her
nails. Then she laughed and jumped, as it proved to be a magnificent
double nut—two fat kernels close together, shaped by one another. Of
course she gave him one, and of course we know what they did about
it. I will only state that they very soon forgot all about Dr. Rufus
Hutton, and could scarcely part where the last branch–path was quite
near to the maidenʼs window. Even there, where the walks divided, when
neither could see the other, each stepped aside, very proud of loveʼs
slyness, to steal the last of the otherʼs footfall; and soon, with a
blush of intuition, each knew that the other was lingering, and each
felt ashamed of himself or herself, and loved the other all the more
for it. So they broke from the bushes, detected and laughing, to put
a good face upon it, and each must go to tell the other how it came
about. They kissed once more, for they felt it was right now that the
moon was risen; then home ran both, with a warmth of remembrance and
hope glowing in the heart.