In which a very young Actor makes an unexpected Appearance on the
Scene.
Mr. Beauchamp was sitting alone in the little room of the inn about
five hours after Ned Hayward had left him. The day had been very warm
for the season of the year, and though he had taken his walk as usual
in the most shady and pensive places he could discover, he had found
it oppressive, and had returned sooner than he ordinarily did. Mr.
Groomber, worthy Mr. Groomber, the landlord of the White Hart, had
perceived his return through the glass-doors of the bar, and had
rolled in to tell him, as a piece of news, that the post-boy who had
driven Mrs. and Miss Clifford had been, as he termed it, "had up"
before Mr. Wittingham and examined, but had been speedily dismissed,
he having sworn most valorously that he could not identify any of the
persons concerned in stopping the chaise on the preceding night.
Mr. Beauchamp merely replied, "I thought so," and taking up a book,
gave quiet intimation that he wished to be alone. As soon as the host
had retired, however, he suffered the open volume to drop upon his
knee, and gave himself up to thought, apparently of not the most
cheerful kind, for the broad open brow became somewhat contracted, the
fine dark eyes fixed upon one particular spot on the floor, the lip
assumed a melancholy, even a cynical expression, and without moving
limb or feature, he remained for at least a quarter of an hour in
meditation most profound.
For my own part I do not see what business men have to think at all.
If it be of the past, can they recall it? If it be of the future, can
they govern it? No, no, and the present is for action, not for
meditation. It was very foolish of Mr. Beauchamp to think, but yet he
did so, and profoundly. But of what were his thoughts? I cannot tell.
Some I know, some I do not know; or rather like an intercepted letter,
the actual course of his meditation was plain enough, written in clear
and forcible lines, but the wide world of circumstances to which it
referred, its relations with his fate, with his past history, with his
present condition, with his future prospects, were all in darkness.
"It is in vain," he said to himself, "all in vain! Peace, happiness,
tranquillity--where do they dwell? Are they the mere phantasms of
man's ever-building imaginations? creations of fancy to satisfy the
craving need of the soul? And yet some men can obtain them. This very
Captain Hayward, he seems at least as well contented, as well
satisfied with himself, the world, and all the world gives, as it is
possible to conceive. But it is not so--it cannot be so. There is a
black spot somewhere, I am sure--some bitter memory, some disappointed
hope, some aspiration ever desired. He owned he dared not venture to
love--is not that to be in a continued chain, to bear a fetter about
one? and yet he seemed contented with such a fate. It is the
regulation of our desires that makes us happy, the bounding them to
our means--ay, with those who have no already existing cause for
sorrow, but the cup of our fate is ever open for each passing hand to
drop a poison into it, and once there, it pervades the whole--the
whole? by every drop down to the very dregs, turning the sweetness and
the spirit of the wine of life to bitterness and death. What is it
that I want that can make existence pleasant? Wealth, health, a mind
carefully trained and furnished with the keys to every door of mental
enjoyment--with love for my fellow-creatures, good will to all men, I
have all--surely all; but, alas! I have memory too, and like the
pillar of the cloud, it sometimes follows me, darkening the past,
sometimes goes before me, obscuring the future. Yet this is
very weak. An effort of the mind--the mind I have vainly thought so
strong--should surely suffice to cast off the load. I have tried
occupation, calm enjoyments, fair scenes, tranquil pleasures, peaceful
amusements. Perhaps in a more fiery and eager course, in active,
energetic pursuits in passions that absorb all the feelings, and wrap
the soul in their own mantle, I may find forgetfulness. In all that I
have hitherto done--there have been long intervals--open gates for
bitter memory to enter, and the very nature of my chosen objects has
invited her. Oh, yes, there must be such a thing as happiness: that
girl's fair joyous face, her smile teeming with radiance, told me so.
But I will not think of her. She is too bright, and fair, and happy to
be made a partner in so hazardous a speculation as mine. I will go
away from this place: it has given my mind some little repose, and I
could have made a friend of that light, good-humoured Hayward if he
would have let me--but he has left me too--all things leave me, I
think. Well, he is gone, and I will go too--'tis not worth while
lingering longer."
At this point of his meditations some horses passed the window, and
shadows darkened the room; but Beauchamp took no notice, till he heard
a voice which had become somewhat familiar to him during the last
eighteen hours, exclaiming, "Ostler, ostler!" and in a moment after
Ned Hayward was in the room again, but not alone. He was followed by
the portly figure of Sir John Slingsby, dressed in riding costume, and
though somewhat dusty, and certainly very round and heavy, yet bearing
that undefinable and almost ineffaceable look of a gentleman which not
even oddities and excesses had been able to wipe out.
Ned Hayward's words were few and soon spoken: "Mr. Beauchamp, Sir John
Slingsby; Sir John, Mr. Beauchamp," were all he said, but the old
baronet soon took up the conversation, shaking his new acquaintance
warmly by the hand.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Beauchamp, very glad to see you. I find my
family are under a great obligation to you--that is to say, my sister
Harriet, Mrs. Clifford. Devilish impudent thing, by Jove, for those
fellows to attack a carriage at that time of the evening, and very
lucky you happened to be there, for my friend Ned Hayward here--though
he has a notion of tactics, haven't you, Ned?--and is a stout
fellow--could hardly have managed three of them."
"I look upon myself as very fortunate, Sir John," replied Mr.
Beauchamp, "in having taken my evening walk in that direction; but at
the same time, it is but fair to acknowledge that my share in the
rescue of your sister and her daughter was but small. I only kept one
man in play, while Captain Hayward had to contend with two."
"All the same! all the same, my dear Sir," said the baronet; "the
reserve shares all the glory of a battle even if it does not pull a
trigger. The ladies, however, are exceedingly obliged to you--very
good girls both of them--not that they have commissioned me to express
their thanks, far from it, for they are particularly anxious to do so
themselves if you will give them the opportunity; and therefore they
have begged me to ask if you would favour us by your company at dinner
to-day, and to say that they will be devilish sorry if any previous
engagement should prevent you, though they calculate upon to-morrow,
if not to-day."
"I am quite an anchorite here, Sir John," answered Mr. Beauchamp, with
a grave smile; but before he could finish his sentence, the old
baronet, thinking it was the commencement of an excuse, hastened to
stop it, saying,
"Quite a quiet dinner, I assure you--all as grave and proper as
possible; no drinking, no laughing, no fun--all upon our good
behaviour. There will be nobody but you, Ned Hayward, I, and the
doctor there; Harriet, Mary, and my girl--who, by the way, says she
knows you--has seen you twice at the good doctor's--Doctor Miles's."
"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Slingsby," said Beauchamp. "I
was only about to answer you just now, Sir John, that I am quite an
anchorite here, and therefore not likely to have many invitations to
dinner. As I have not much cultivated the people of the place, they
have not much cultivated me; and I believe they look upon me as a
somewhat suspicious character, especially our friend Mr. Wittingham,
who I find has been very curious in his inquiries as to whether I pay
my bills, and where I go to when I walk out."
"Wittingham's an old fool!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "and like all
other old fools, he thinks himself the wisest man in the world. I
wonder what the lord-lieutenant could be dreaming of when he put him
in the commission of the peace--a man no more fit for it than my
horsewhip. I'll pay him for it all--I'll pay him--ask him to
dinner--make him beastly drunk, and lodge him for the night in a
horse-trough."
"I hope not this evening, Sir John," said Beauchamp, with a smile.
"Oh dear no," replied the baronet, with a look of rueful fear, "all
very prim to-night--all as grave as judges--quite proper and discreet
while my sister Harriet is with us--an archdeacon's widow, you know--a
dean's, after all--though he was only dean for a couple of months--a
very good man indeed, but exceedingly proper, terribly proper: the
very sound of a cork frightened him out of his wits. I do believe he
fancied that port and Madeira are sent over in decanters, and claret
in jugs with handles. However, you'll come, that's settled: half-past
five, old-fashioned hours, gives plenty of time after dinner. But now
that's no use," added the baronet, with a sigh, "we might as well dine
at seven now--no use of a long evening. However, the girls will give
us a song, or music of some kind, and perhaps we can make up a rubber
at long whist, which will make us sleep as sound as dormice. No sin in
that--no, Ned."
"None in the world, Sir John," answered Ned Hayward, "but a great deal
of dulness. I never could make out in my life how men, with their wits
about them, could spend hours throwing bits of painted pasteboard in a
particular order for shillings and sixpences."
"Just as reasonable as standing up for hours to be showed for
shillings and sixpences," answered Sir John Slingsby, "and both you
and I have played at that, you dog. Every thing is folly if you take
it in the abstract--love, war, wine, ambition; and depend upon it,
Ned, the lightest follies are the best--isn't it so, Mr. Beauchamp?"
"There is indeed some truth in what you say, Sir John," replied
Beauchamp, with a thoughtful smile; "and I believe amusing follies are
better than serious ones--at least I begin to think so now."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered Sir John Slingsby; "man was made
for fun and not for sadness. It's a very nice world if people would
let it be so. Oh, we'll show you some sport, Mr. Beauchamp, before we
have done with you; but to-day you know we'll all be very proper--very
good boys indeed--and then when the cat's away the mice will play. Ha!
ha! ha! At half-past five, you know, and in the meantime, Ned and I
will ride off and abuse old Wittingham. I'll give him a pretty
lecture."
Good Sir John was disappointed however; his horses, his groom, and his
bulky person had all been seen from the windows of Mr. Wittingham's
house as he rode into the town with Ned Hayward, and as a matter of
course, Mr. Wittingham was over the hills and far away before the
visit to Mr. Beauchamp was concluded.
When Sir John and Ned Hayward left him, Beauchamp remained for some
minutes with a smile upon his countenance--a meditative--nay, a
melancholy smile.
"So fleet our resolutions," he said to himself, "so fade away our
schemes and purposes. Who can say in this life what he will do and
what he will not do the next day--nay, the next minute? Which is the
happiest after all, the man who struggles with fate and circumstance,
and strives to perform the impracticable task of ruling them, or he
who, like a light thing upon the waters, suffers himself to be carried
easily down the current, whirling round with every eddy, resting
quietly in the still pool, or dashing gaily down the rapids? Heaven
knows, but at all events, fate has shown herself so resolute to take
my affairs into her own hands, that I will not try to resist her. I
will indulge every whim, and leave fortune to settle the result. I may
as well purchase that property: it is as good an investment as any
other, I dare say, and if not, it does not much signify. I will write
to my agent to transmit the money to-day."
With this resolution he sat down, and had soon despatched a few lines,
which he carried to the post himself; then strolled out of the town
for an hour, and then returned to dress, ordering a post-chaise for
Tarningham House.
How different are the sensations with which one goes out to dinner at
different times--ay, even when it is to the house of a new
acquaintance, where we have little means of judging previously whether
our day will be pleasant or unpleasant, joyous or sad. As there must
be more than one party to each compact, and as the age and its object
act and react upon each other, so the qualities of each have their
share in the effect upon either, and the mood of the visitor has at
least as much to do with the impression that he receives as the mood
of the host. Wonderfully trite, is it not, reader? It has been said a
thousand times before, but it will not do you the least harm to have
it repeated, especially as I wish you clearly to understand the mood
in which Mr. Beauchamp went, for the first time, to the house of Sir
John Slingsby. It was then in that of an indifferent mood of which I
have shown some indications, by describing what was passing in his
mind after the baronet and Ned Hayward left him. There are, however,
various sorts of indifferent moods; there is the gay indifferent,
which is very commonly called, devil-me-carish-ness; then there is the
impertinent indifference, with a dash of persiflage in it, just to
take off the chili--as men put brandy into soda-water--which very
empty and conceited men assume to give them an air of that superiority
to which they are entitled by no mental quality. Then there is the
indifference of despair, and the indifference of satiety. But none of
these was the exact sort of indifference which Mr. Beauchamp felt, or
thought he felt. It was a grave indifference, springing from a sort of
morbid conviction that the happiness or unhappiness of man is not at
all in his own hands, or that if it be at all so, it is only at his
outset in life, and that the very first step so affects the whole
course of after events, as to place the control over them totally
beyond his own power. It is a bad philosophy, a very unsafe, untrue,
unwise philosophy, and a great author has made it the philosophy of
the devil:
Thus we
In our first choice are ever free;
Choose, and the right of choice is o'er,
We who were free, are free no more.
So says Göthe, according to Auster's beautiful translation, and I
think it much better to give that translation which every body can
understand, than the original which one half of my readers cannot, and
which would not be a bit better if they could.
Now Mr. Beauchamp was not the devil, or any thing the least like it,
but yet this philosophy had been driven into him by his own previous
history, and though he often resisted its influence, and strove to
struggle with it, and by new acts to shape a new fate, yet he had been
so often disappointed in the attempt, he had found every course,
indeed, so constantly lead to the same result, that the philosophy
returned as soon as the effort was over, and he looked upon almost
every event with indifference, as destined to end in one manner, and
that not a pleasant one.
Nevertheless, he could enjoy for the time: there was no man by nature
better fitted for enjoyment. He had a fondness for every thing that
was great and beautiful; for every thing that was good and noble; he
loved flowers, and birds, and music, and the fair face of nature. His
breast was full of harmonies, but unfortunately the tones were never
prolonged; to borrow a simile from the musical instrument, there was a
damper that fell almost as soon as the chord was struck, and the
sound, sweet as it might be, ceased before the music was complete.
In driving along, however, the post-boy went somewhat slowly, and with
a peculiarly irritating jog in the saddle, which would have sadly
disturbed a person of a less indifferent mind--there was plenty of
room for pleasant observation if not reflection. The road ran through
wooded groves, and often turned along the bank of the stream. At times
it mounted over a hill-side, and showed beyond a rich and leafy
foreground, the wide extended landscape, undulating away towards the
horizon, with the lines of wood and slope beautifully marked in the
aerial perspective, and filling the mind with vague imaginations of
things that the eye could not define. It dipped down into a valley
too, and passed through a quiet, peaceful little village, with a group
of tall silver poplars before the church, and a congregation of fine
old beech trees around the rectory. The whole aspect of the place was
home tranquillity; that of a purely English village under the most
favourable circumstances. Cleanliness, neatness, rustic ornament, an
air of comfort, a cheerful openness, a look of healthfulness. How
different from the villages one sometimes sees, alas! in every
country; but less in England than anywhere else in the wide world, the
abodes of fever, dirt, penury, wretchedness.
As he passed the rectory, with its smooth, well-mown lawn, and green
gates, Beauchamp put his head to the carriage-window and looked out.
He expected to see, perhaps, a neat one-horse chaise at the door, and
a sleek, well-fed beast to draw it; but there was nothing of the kind
there, and he remarked the traces of a pair of wheels from the gates
on the road before him. Half a mile further were the gates of Sir John
Slingsby's park. It cannot be said that they were in very good order,
the iron-work wanted painting sadly, one or two of the bars had got a
sad twist, the columns of stone-work to which they were fixed needed
pointing, if not more solid repairs. The lodge had all the shutters
up, and the post-boy had to get down and open the gates.
Beauchamp sighed, not because he took any great interest in the place
or the people it contained, but because the aspect of desolation--of
the decay of man's works--especially from neglect, is well worth a
sigh. The drive through the park, however, was delightful. Old trees
were all around, glorious old trees, those ever-growing monuments of
the past, those silent leafy chroniclers of ages gone. Who planted
them, who nourished, who protected them? what times have they seen,
what deeds have they witnessed, what storms have passed over them,
what sunshine have they drunk, what sorrows, and what joys have
visited the generations of man, since first they sprang up from the
small seed till now, when they stretch out their giant arms to shelter
the remote posterity of those whom they have seen flourish and pass
away? Who can wander among old trees, and not ask such questions, ay,
and a thousand more.
The sight was pleasant to Mr. Beauchamp, it had a serious yet pleasing
effect upon his mind, and when the chaise drew up at the door of
Tarningham House, he felt more disposed than before to enjoy the
society within, whatever it might be.
The outer door was open, the fat butler threw open pompously the two
glass doors within, a couple of round footmen, whose lineaments were
full of ale, flanked the hall on either side, and thus Mr. Beauchamp
was marshalled to the drawing-room, which he entered with his calm and
dignified air, not in the slightest degree agitated, although he was
well aware that two very pretty faces were most likely looking for his
arrival.
Sir John Slingsby in the blue coat, the white waistcoat, the black
breeches and stockings, with the rubicund countenance and white hair,
advanced at once to receive him, and presented him to Mrs. Clifford
and her daughter.
"This young lady you already know, Mr. Beauchamp," he said, pointing
to his daughter, "so I shan't introduce you here."
But that gentleman shook hands with Miss Slingsby first, proving that
their acquaintance, however short, had made some steps towards
friendship.
Isabella was a little fluttered in her manner, why, she scarcely knew
herself, and the colour grew a little deeper in her cheek, and her
smile wavered, as if she would fain have seemed not too well pleased.
All this, however, did not at all take from her beauty, for as a fair
scene is never lovelier than when the shadows of drifting clouds are
passing over it, so a pretty face is never prettier than under the
influence of slight emotions.
Miss Slingsby and Mary Clifford were standing both together, so that
Beauchamp had both those sweet faces before him at once. Isabella was
as fair as a lily with eyes of a deep blue, and warm brown hair,
neither light nor dark, clustering richly round her brow and cheek in
wilful curls that would have their own way. Mary Clifford was darker
in complexion, with the hair braided on her brow, there was deep but
gentle thought in her dark eyes, and though the short chiselled upper
lip could at times bear a joyous smile enough, yet the general
expression was grave though not melancholy.
Beauchamp was a serious man, of a calm, quiet temper, somewhat
saddened by various events which had befallen him, but which of those
two faces, reader, think you he admired the most? The gay one, to be
sure, the one the least like himself. So it is wisely ordained by
nature, and it is the force of circumstances alone that ever makes us
choose a being precisely similar to ourselves to be our companion
through existence. Two tones, exactly the same, even upon different
instruments produce unison not harmony, and so it is throughout all
nature.
After a few words to Isabella, Mr. Beauchamp turned again to Mrs.
Clifford, who at once spoke of their adventure of the night before,
and thanked him for his kind assistance. Beauchamp said all that
courtesy required, and said it gracefully and well. He expressed the
pleasure that he felt to see that neither of the ladies had suffered
from the fear or agitation they had undergone, and expressed great
satisfaction at having been near the spot at the moment the attack was
made.
While they were speaking, Sir John Slingsby had twice taken out his
watch--it was a large one, hanging by a thick gold chain, and Mr.
Beauchamp, thinking that he divined the cause of his disquiet,
observed with a smile,
"Dr. Miles must be here, I think, for judging by small signs, such as
the traces of wheels and an open gate, I imagine that he had left home
before I passed."
"Oh yes, he is here," answered Sir John Slingsby, "he has been here
ten minutes, but the old boy, who is as neat in his person as in his
ideas, had got a little dust upon his black coat, and is gone to brush
it off and wash his hands. That open chaise of his costs him more time
in washing and brushing, than writing his sermons; but I can't think
what has become of that fellow, Ned Hayward. The dog went out two
hours ago for a walk through the park up to the moor, and I suppose
'thoughtless Ned,' as we used to call him, has forgotten that we dine
at half-past five. Well, we won't wait for him; as soon as the doctor
comes we will order dinner, and fine him a bumper for being late."
While he was speaking, Dr. Miles, the clergyman of the village through
which Beauchamp had passed, entered the room, and shook him warmly by
the hand. He was a tall, spare man, with a look of florid health in
his countenance, and snow-white hair; his face was certainly not
handsome, and there was a grave and somewhat stern expression in it,
but yet it was pleasing, especially when he smiled, which, to say the
truth, was not often. It may seem a contradiction in terms to say that
he laughed oftener than he smiled, yet so it was, for his laugh was
not always good-humoured, especially in the house of Sir John
Slingsby. There was from time to time, something bitter and cynical in
it, and generally found vent when any thing was said, the folly of
which he thought exceeded the wickedness. He was one of the few men of
perfect respectability who was a constant visitor at Tarningham House;
but the truth was, that he was the rector of Sir John Slingsby's
parish. Now no consideration of tithes, perquisites, good dinners,
comforts, and conveniences, would have induced Dr. Miles to do any
thing that he thought wrong, but he argued in this manner:--
"Sir John Slingsby is an old fool, and one who is likely to get worse
instead of better, if nobody of more rational views, higher feelings,
and more reasonable pursuits takes any notice of him. Now I, from my
position, am bound to do the best I can to bring him to a better state
of mind. I may effect something in this way, by seeing him frequently
at all events, I can do much to prevent his becoming worse; my
presence is some check upon these people, and even if it does little
good to the father, there is that sweet, dear, amiable girl, who needs
some support and comfort in her unpleasant situation."
Such were some of the considerations upon which Dr. Miles acted. There
were many more indeed, but these are enough for my purpose. He shook
Beauchamp warmly by the hand, as we have seen, and seemed to be more
intimate with him than any body in the room, taking him aside, and
speaking to him for a moment or two in private, while Sir John
Slingsby rang the bell, and ordered dinner without waiting for Captain
Hayward.
"William Slack, Sir John, has seen him," said the butler, "coming down
the long avenue with something in his arms--he thinks it's a fawn."
"Well then, he'll be here soon," said the master of the mansion,
"serve dinner, serve dinner, by Jove, I won't wait. Devil take the
fellow, the ensign shouldn't keep his colonel waiting. It's not
respectful. I'll fine him two bumpers if the soup's off before he
makes his appearance."
In the meantime the first words of Dr. Miles to Mr. Beauchamp were, "I
have made the inquiries, my dear Sir, according to your request, and
it is well worth the money. It will return they say four per cent.
clear, which in these times is well enough."
"I have already determined upon it," said Beauchamp, "and have written
to London about it."
"Ay, ay," said the worthy doctor, "just like all the rest of the
world, my young friend, asking for advice, and acting without it."
"Not exactly," answered Beauchamp, "you told me before what you
thought upon the subject, and I knew you were not one to express an
opinion except upon good grounds. The only question is now what lawyer
I can employ here to arrange minor matters. The more important must,
of course, be referred to my solicitors in London."
"We have no great choice," replied Dr. Miles, "there are but two in
Tarningham, thank God. The one is a Mr. Wharton, the other a Mr.
Bacon, neither of them particularly excellent specimens of humanity;
but in the one the body is better than the mind, in the other the mind
better than the body."
"Probably I should like the latter best," answered Beauchamp, "but
pray, my dear doctor, give me a somewhat clearer knowledge of these
two gentlemen for my guidance."
"Well then though I do not love in general to say aught in
disparagement of my neighbours behind their backs," Dr. Miles replied,
"I must, I suppose, be more definite. Mr. Wharton is a quiet, silent
man, gentlemanlike in appearance and in manners, cautious, plausible,
and affecting friendship for his clients. I have never known him set
the poor by the ears for the sake of small gains, or promote
dissensions amongst farmers in order to make by a law-suit. On the
contrary, I have heard him dissuade from legal proceedings, and say
that quarrels are very foolish things."
"A good sort of person," said Beauchamp.
"Hear the other side, my dear Sir," rejoined the doctor, "such game as
I have been speaking of is too small for him. He was once poor; he is
now very rich. I have rarely heard of his having a client who somehow
did not ruin himself; and although I do not by any means intend to say
that I have been able to trace Mr. Wharton's hand in their
destruction, certain it is that the bulk of the property--at least a
large share of what they squandered or lost has found its way into his
possession. I have seen him always ready to smooth men's way to
destruction, to lend money, to encourage extravagance, to lull
apprehension, to embarrass efforts at retrenchment, and then when the
beast was in the toils, to despatch it and take his share. No mercy
then when ruin is inevitable; the lawyer must be paid, and must be
paid first."
"And now for Mr. Bac on?" said Beauchamp.
"Why he is simply a vulgar little man," answered the clergyman,
"coarse in manners and in person: cunning and stolid, but with a
competent knowledge of law; keen at finding out faults and flaws. His
practice is in an inferior line to the other's, but he is at all
events safer, and I believe more honest."
"How do you mean, cunning and stolid?" asked Beauchamp, "those two
qualities would seem to me incompatible."
"Oh dear no," replied Dr. Miles; but before he could explain, the
butler announced dinner, and as Sir John gave his arm to Mrs.
Clifford, Beauchamp advanced towards Isabella. The doors were thrown
wide open, and the party were issuing forth to cross the vestibule to
the dining-room, when suddenly Sir John and his sister halted,
encountered by an apparition which certainly was unexpected in the
form that it assumed. In fact they had not taken two steps out of the
drawing-room ere the glass doors were flung open, and Ned Hayward
stood before them as unlike the Ned Hayward I first presented to the
reader as possible. His coat was covered with a dull whitish gray
powder, his linen soiled, and apparently singed, his hands and face as
black as soot, his glossy brown hair rugged and burnt, no hat upon his
head, and in his arms a very pretty boy of about two years old, or a
little more perhaps, on whose face were evident marks of recent tears,
though he seemed now pacified, and was staring about with large eyes
at the various objects in the large house to which he was just
introduced.
"Why Ned, Ned, Ned, what in the mischief's name has happened to you?"
exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "have you all at once become a poor young
man with a small family of young children?"
"No, my dear Sir," answered Ned Hayward in a hurried tone, "but if you
have any women in the house I will give this little fellow into their
care and tell you all about it in a few minutes. Hush, my little man,
hush. We are all friends: we will take care of you. Now don't cry
again: no harm shall happen."
"Women! to be sure!" cried Sir John, "call the housekeeper, one of you
rascals. Women! Hang it, Ned, do you think I could live in a house
without women? A bottle of claret is not more necessary to my
existence than the sight of a cap and a petticoat flying about the
house--in the distance, Ned, in the distance! No brooms and dust-pans
too near me; but in a discreet position, far enough off yet visible;
woman is the sunshine of a house."
"Give him to me, Captain Hayward," said Miss Clifford, holding out her
arms for the boy. "He will be quiet with me, I am sure. Won't you, my
poor little fellow?"
The child gazed at her strangely as she took him, letting go Dr.
Miles's arm to do so; but meeting the sweet smile that lighted up her
beautiful face, he put his little arms round her neck the next moment,
and hid his large blue eyes upon her shoulder. She held him kindly
there, speaking a few gentle words to him, while Ned Hayward looking
round the party addressed himself to the worthy clergyman, inquiring,
"You are the rector of this parish, Sir, I think?"
Dr. Miles made a stiff bow, not prepossessed in favour of any of Sir
John Slingsby's old friends, and answered as briefly as possible, "I
am, Sir."
"Then can you tell me," asked the young gentleman, eagerly, "if there
was any woman up at the cottage on the moor?"
Dr. Miles started, and replied with a look of much greater interest,
"No, Sir, no. What has happened? Why do you ask? What cottage do you
mean? There are three."
"I mean the cottage of a man called Gimlet," answered Ned Hayward. "I
saw some women's clothes--gowns and things; and I thought there might
be a woman there, that's all. There was none then?"
"There was one six months ago," replied the clergyman, in a very grave
tone, "as lovely a creature as ever was seen, but she lies in my
churchyard, poor thing. She is at peace."
"Thank God," said Ned Hayward, in a tone of relief. "Ah, here comes
somebody for the child. My good lady, will you have the kindness to
take good care of this little fellow. See that he is not burnt or
hurt, and let him have some bread-and-milk, or things that children
eat--I don't know very well what they are, but I dare say you do."
"Oh, by Jove that she does!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "she feeds
half the children in the parish. You take good care of him, Mrs.
Hope--and now, Ned," he continued, turning from the housekeeper to his
guest, "what the devil's the meaning of all this?"
"I will tell you by and by, Sir John," answered Captain Hayward. "Pray
go to dinner and I will be down directly. Many apologies for being
late; but it was not to be helped. I will not be ten minutes; but do
not let me detain you--"
"But what is it all about? What has happened? Who the deuce is the
child?" exclaimed Sir John. "Do you think either men or women can eat
soup or digest fish with their stomachs full of curiosity?"
"By and by, Sir John, by and by," said Ned Hayward, making towards the
stairs. "You shall have the whole story for dessert. At present I am
dirty, and the dinner's waiting. It will get cold, and your curiosity
keep hot."
Thus saying he left them, and the rest of the party proceeded to
dinner.