IN THE OLD HOUSE.
[Illustration] IT was delightful to be at home again. As soon as I had
made myself tidy, I went through the house on a tour of inspection,
my favourite cat in my arms, and dear old Rough, our Skye terrier,
following closely at my heels.
A curious old house it was. My father had lived there all his life,
and his father had lived there before him, for the tannery was a very
old business, and had been carried on by Carmichaels as long as anyone
could remember.
A wide stone passage ran though the house, the front door at one end
and at the other a door with a pleasant trellised porch giving access
to the large, untidy old garden at the back, where flowers grew as
they would, or as they could, amidst straggling gooseberry and currant
bushes, and gnarled old apple and pear trees of surprising antiquity.
To the right of the front door, as one entered the house, was the
dining-room—a long, narrow room, furnished with the straightest-backed
chairs and sofa in mahogany and horse-hair, and with few ornaments
save some black-framed prints on the walls, representing scenes from
Scripture, depicted with a liberal breadth of interpretation. Out of
this room opened another smaller room, which Mabel liked to call the
drawing-room, but which was known by the rest of the household as the
summer parlour, because, having a cold aspect, it was little used by us
in winter. Even on this July day the air of the room struck chill on me
as I entered it, and it had the musty smell rooms are apt to get when
they are little used. I liked this apartment the least of any in the
house, it had such a stiff, prim appearance, with its spindle-legged
chairs ranged against the wall and the round table in the centre,
on which Salome had placed at regular distances certain albums and
keepsakes supposed to afford entertainment for visitors.
But there was one object in that room on which my eyes loved to
rest. It was a miniature portrait of my mother, which hung above the
mantelpiece. It represented her as she was at the time of her marriage,
a pretty dark girl, with her dark hair falling in long ringlets on
her white shoulders. She wore a low-necked, short-waisted gown. The
slender neck clasped by the coral necklace, and the delicate "petite"
features, reminded me of Mabel; but there was also an odd, indefinable
look of Edmund in the portrait, and I had been told that the dark eyes
resembled my own.
I looked at the miniature for a few minutes, then turned away with a
sigh. It always saddened me to look on that bright, girlish face and
think how soon death had claimed it as his own, for my mother had been
but five-and-twenty when she died.
I quitted the summer parlour, and passing through the dining-room, went
across to the room on the other side of the passage—father's room, we
called t, though we children had the freedom of it. To me it was the
pleasantest room in the house. It had two windows, one looking on to
the road, and one at the side commanding a view of the tan-yard. I
liked this room because when sitting here, I could see everyone who
went along our country road, or passed to or from the tan-yard.
Mabel disliked the room on account of its proximity to the tan-yard, a
place which she desired to ignore, and never willingly entered, for she
declared that the smell of the hides made her sick. And certainly on
some days the smell of the tanning was stronger than was agreeable, but
I was too well used to it for it to trouble me. That somewhat sickly
odour had mingled with most of the happy hours of my childhood and made
part of the home life which I loved. At this day, I cannot pass near a
tannery without the familiar scent of the skins bringing back with a
painful rush of memory the dearly loved past, now for ever gone from me.
But father's room had another attraction for me in the shape of some
large, well-stocked book-shelves. For although I did so badly at
school, having no clear perception of the benefit that would accrue to
me from mastering the rules of the French grammar, solving the knotty
questions on all imaginable subjects proposed by Mangnall, or packing
my memory with the dates of occurrences in which I felt no kind of
interest, I was yet an ardent lover of books, and here were books
that excited and gratified my imagination—Scott's novels and poems,
Jane Austen's novels, Miss Martineau's and Miss Edgeworth's tales,
Shakespeare's works, and those of many a lesser poet whom I had learned
to love. There was of course abundance of more serious reading, but I
cared more for the lighter literature.
My father was in this room when I entered; he was generally to be found
here when not in his office across the yard. Most of his leisure he
spent in reading, for he was a man of quiet, studious habits, shy and
reserved even with his children. He would not have been a tanner, I
believe, had not his father almost forced him to follow in his steps,
for he was little fitted to conduct such a business.
He was not reading when I entered, but stood leaning against the
mantelshelf, lost in thought, his face wearing an anxious troubled
look, as it seemed to me. My entrance roused him from his meditations,
whatever they were. He looked at me for a few moments in his grave,
gentle way, and then asked a question which was by no means welcome to
me.
"Well, Dorothy, have you brought home a prize?"
"No, father," I answered, with a flush of shame, "but Mabel has two,
the first French prize and the first English."
"That is well," he said, looking gratified; "but how is it that you
have not done so well?"
"I don't know," I replied, feeling very uncomfortable.
"I'm afraid it is the old story," he said, gravely. "You have been
idle, Dorothy. My dear, a day may come when you will keenly regret that
you have not made the most of the advantages of gaining knowledge which
you enjoy at Miss Carefull's. What would you do if you had to earn your
own living?"
"Surely there is no fear of that, father?" I said, quickly, for his
grave manner stirred some uneasiness within me.
"I cannot tell," he said, almost sadly; "it is well to be prepared for
reverses of fortune, my child. I have little doubt that Mabel would do
well for herself, but you—what sort of a situation would you be fit
for?"
I looked at him blankly. I could hardly believe that my father was
speaking seriously. The idea of my ever having to take a situation was
most distasteful to my pride, for, in common with the narrow minds of
Burford, I imagined that for a young lady of good family to earn money
for herself was to descend in the social scale. Vexed with father for
uttering such words, I turned from him abruptly and went out to the
kitchen, where Salome was busy frying bacon and eggs for our tea,
and vigorously scolding Jane, the younger servant, for some act of
thoughtlessness.
It was hard for me to entertain the idea my father had suggested, for
though we lived simply, there was no stint our household, and I had
always believed him to be very well off. Indeed, I had heard it said
that my grandfather had left him a large fortune.
I was feeling rather "put out" when I entered the kitchen, but my
ill-temper vanished when I saw Salome's generous preparations.
"You dear old thing," I cried. "You've made us some of your delicious
teacakes, and oh! There's some of my favourite raspberry jam. It is
good to be at home again!"
The old kitchen, with its uneven stone floor, huge fireplace, and its
long dresser, bearing such a collection of old china as would have made
a connoisseur's mouth water, had been a place dear to me in childhood,
and it was dear to me still. It was a large room, having a bow window
(not the modern bow) built out into the garden, and a door opening into
the same. There was a shelf running round this window holding pots
of geraniums and fuchsias, on whose healthy condition Salome prided
herself, and the outside of the window was overhung by a climbing rose
tree, one shoot of which had managed to push itself through a crevice
in the window frame, and was actually flourishing and bearing roses
inside the room.
As a child, this large, sunny window had been a place of terror to me
in hot weather, on account of the number of bees and wasps which buzzed
up and down the panes and revelled amidst Salome's flowers. I remember
that one summer the door from the kitchen into the garden was closed
for us children as a precaution against our being stung by some vagrant
bees who had made their nest outside that door. But I must not linger
to describe every nook and corner of my old home. I am apt to forget
that the pictures I love to recall can have for no other the interest
they have for me.
"Ah! And it is good to see you here," Salome said, in response to my
words, whilst I stood looking about the kitchen. "What with the wet
summer and everybody grumbling about the crops, and Luke for ever
raving about the bad times, it's been as much as I could do sometimes
to keep up my spirits. And I doubt not the master's felt the same, for
he's been looking most days like as if he had a mountain of care on his
shoulders."
"Has he?" I said, wondering if my father could have had anything more
than usual to trouble him.
"Yes," continued Salome, "I thought for sure that when Master Edmund
came home, the master would brighten up a bit, so proud of Master
Edmund's cleverness as he is, and well may be, I suppose, for Luke
he says that Master Edmund's quite a 'generus.' But lor! It's poor
work being clever when ones so thin and delicate as Master Edmund. I
expect it was that grieved the master to see him so like his poor, dear
mother."
"What do you mean, Salome?" I said, half inclined to laugh, yet not
without a thrill of fear lest Salome's words should not be so foolish
as I thought them. "Edmund is not delicate."
"Oh, is he not!" said Salome, rather huffed. "You were not here when he
went fishing in the river—how I do hate that fishing—and caught such
a cold as kept him in bed for a couple of days, coughing fit to kill
himself, and his breath so hard and fast, as I could not but think of
my poor young mistress."
I felt myself grow white as she spoke. Such a horrible, horrible dread
clutched my heart at that moment.
"How is it that I never heard of this?" I exclaimed, with sudden anger.
"Why did no one tell me?"
"That is more than I can say," returned Salome, her manner showing that
she considered it none of her business.
"How long is it since he was ill?" I demanded.
"Oh, a fortnight or, maybe, three weeks," she said.
"He could not have been very bad or I should have heard of it," I said,
and I threw the dark idea from me as something too dreadful to be borne.
In those days, my heart rebelled against the very thought of sorrow.
But though I refused to let my mind dwell on it, I could not forget
the fear Salome's words had suggested. I went back to the dining-room
where the table was being laid for tea, feeling as if everyone were
conspiring to rob my return home of its usual joyousness.
Mabel stood within the room looking very charming and pretty in
contrast to her sombre surroundings. But her face wore a discontented
expression as she stood rearranging the things on the tea-table
according to her own taste.
"What notions Jane has! Do you see how she has put those salt-cellars?
Oh dear!" said Mabel, drawing a long breath. "How shabby and 'outré'
everything looks at home."
"What does it matter?" I said, feeling that Mabel's vexations were
slight compared with the terrible dread that had assailed me.
"Oh! Of course you would not care how hugger-mugger a style we lived
in," Mabel said.
Her words stung me, and I was about to retort sharply, when my father
entered the room, followed by Edmund, and I forgot my irritation as I
anxiously studied my brother's appearance.
"Edmund," I said, as we seated ourselves at the table, "Salome says
that you were ill a fortnight ago. Why did you not let me know?"
"Ill! Pooh, it was nothing but a cold—not worth making a fuss about;
but of course Salome must croak over it. You know what she is. If a
fellow cuts his little finger, she thinks he will die from loss of
blood."
I laughed, and felt reassured as I looked at Edmund. There was a glow
of vivid colour in his checks, and his eyes were so bright and merry
that it seemed absurd to talk of his being delicate.
He chatted away in the most lively fashion as we took our meal,
telling us stories of his college life, in which father seemed as much
interested as we girls were.
Salome was right in saying that father was very proud of his son.
From his earliest days, Edmund's quickness and cleverness had been
surprising. Mother herself had taught him to read by the time he was
four years old, and he could do rule of three in "fractions" at an
age when most boys have hardly gained insight into the processes of
addition and subtraction. My father expected great things from my
brother's college course, and it seemed to me that he might well hope
to gain honour from Edmund's scholarly attainments.
Though Edmund spoke of himself very modestly, it was evident that he
had done well during his first year at Cambridge. But he extolled with
real enthusiasm the intellectual power of his friend Ralph Dugdale, of
whom I now heard mention for the first time.
"A splendid fellow he is," he said, "one of those long-headed fellows
whose brain never seems to tire. If only I had his strength—"
"But you are strong, Ted," I put in, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, I am strong enough," he said, carelessly, "but I sometimes
envy that fellow his power of application. If I mistake not, we
shall see him 'senior wrangler' one of these days. Dugdale is A 1 in
mathematics, and yet altogether as jolly a fellow as you could wish to
know."
"Is he one of the Hertfordshire Dugdales?" Mabel asked.
"Why yes, he comes from Hertfordshire. But what do you know about him?"
asked Edmund, with an air of surprise.
"Is his home at Beechwood, near Weylea?"
"You are right; but how do you know so much about him?" demanded Edmund.
"I have seen the house in which he lives," said Mabel, looking a little
important. "I drove past it once with Mrs. Lyell, and she told me a
good deal about the Dugdales. She knows them."
"Oh, to be sure, I forgot that you had stayed at Weylea," said Edmund.
"So Mrs. Lyell knows the Dugdales."
"Yes, though she is not very intimate with them, I believe. Indeed, she
visits no one. I found it rather dull staying with her," said Mabel.
"But the Dugdales have a lovely old house; it stands in a sort of park,
and there is an avenue of trees leading up to the house. I am sure from
what I saw of it, that it must be a charming place. I am glad you have
become acquainted with this Ralph Dugdale, Edmund; he will be a nice
friend for you."
"Why? Because his parents live in a lovely old house with an avenue of
trees leading up to it?" asked Edmund, satirically.
Mabel reddened.
"You know I did not mean that, Edmund," she said, with dignity.
Somehow we none of us seemed quite at our ease on this the first
evening of our reunion. It was as if there was a mischievous spirit
moving amongst us, which constantly excited discord. Even the servants
came under its influence, for already Mabel had begun to tell Jane how
she meant to have things done in future, and to assume the air of being
mistress of the house in a way that Salome found it hard to endure.
But the clouds passed with that evening, or if not, I forgot them
during the pleasures of the coming days, for the long delayed warm
weather set in at last, and Edmund and I made the most of the summer's
glowing hours. Again I went fishing with my brother, a favourite
amusement of mine ever since the childish days when, toddling by
Edmund's side, I tried to fish in the little brook which ran through
the large old garden at the back of our house—a sport we persisted in
regardless of prohibition, though it not seldom ended with a tumble
into the brook, and results sadly destructive of Salome's peace of mind.
Once more we rambled about the old castle, and went for long walks in
the pleasant summer evenings. My brother's year at Cambridge had but
made him the more interesting companion; there was such a freshness
and brightness in his talk. My ideas of men and things enlarged
considerably as I listened to him, and I felt my own ignorance as I had
never done before. Of course I often heard mention of Ralph Dugdale.
I liked all I heard of him. I made a mental picture of my brother's
friend, and felt sure that if ever we met, I should like him.
Mabel seldom accompanied us on our walks; she was not fond of walking.
She preferred to drive with father to Halstead or Braintree, if
business called him to either place, or to call on friends at New
Burford, or to sit at home doing the delicate point lace work in which
she excelled, or reading the improving books which she had been told
that every young lady should read. Our home life was very quiet and
uneventful, but it was wonderful how well Mabel adapted herself to
it. She was always engaged in some becoming occupation, and never
complained of feeling dull.
It was different with me. If Edmund went away for a few days, as he
did occasionally, the hours hung heavily on my hands, and I could find
no outlet for my energy save by taking solitary walks accompanied
by Rough. Mr. Steinthorpe came frequently to see father during my
holidays, but his visits were made in the office, and I seldom
exchanged any words with him. Once or twice, though, it happened that
he called late in the afternoon, and father brought him in to take tea
with us.
I remember what trouble Mabel took in arranging the table and getting
everything as nice as possible on those occasions, and how pretty she
looked as, with slightly-flushed cheeks but without embarrassment, she
presided at the meal in her graceful way. I have no doubt that Mr.
Steinthorpe admired her as much as I did. I know he never seemed to
care to look or speak to me when Mabel was near, but then I gave him
no encouragement to pay me attention, for I did not like him better on
fuller acquaintance.
It was dreadful how swiftly my six weeks of holidays sped by. Father
was willing that Mabel should remain at home, but he would not hear of
my doing so.
"It was very important that my education should not be deficient," he
said.
And he begged me so earnestly not to waste my opportunities that I with
tears promised that I really would work hard, and, if possible, make a
better appearance in the next examinations.
I cried, too, though from a different cause, when I said good-bye to
Mabel. We had never been parted before, and I felt as if I could not
bear to go back to school without her. But Mabel, though she embraced
me tenderly, did not give way to emotion when we parted. She had
always more self-control than I. Besides, she had much pleasure in the
prospect that lay before her. She thoroughly enjoyed her position as
mistress of father's house, for it had not yet lost its novelty, and
her mind was full of the changes and improvements which she meant to
effect in the ways of the household. I felt sure that these changes
would bring her into collision with Salome, with whom she had already
had more than one passage of arms, and I doubted whether she would be
able to carry out all her plans. But I need not have doubted.
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