In the year seventeen hundred and seventy three, two young men
took possession of the only habitable rooms of the old tumble-down
rectory-house of Combe-Warleigh, in one of the wildest parts of one
of the western counties, then chiefly notable for miles upon miles
of totally uncultivated moor and hill. The rooms were not many;
consisting only of two wretched little bed-chambers and a parlour
of diminutive size. A small building which leaned against the outer
wall served as a kitchen to the establishment; and the cook, an old
woman of sixty years of age, retired every night to a cottage about
a quarter of a mile from the parsonage, where she had occupied a
garret for many years. The house had originally been built of lath
and plaster, and in some places revealed the skeleton walls where the
weather had peeled off the outer coating, and given the building an
appearance of ruin and desolation which comported with the bleakness
of the surrounding scenery. With the exception of the already-named
cottage and a small collection of huts around the deserted mansion of
the landlord of the estate, there were no houses in the parish. How it
had ever come to the honour of possessing a church and rectory no one
could discover; for there were no records or traditions of its ever
having been more wealthy or populous than it then was;--but it was in
fact only nominally a parish, for no clergyman had been resident for
a hundred years; the living was held by the fortunate possessor of a
vicarage about fifteen miles to the north, and with the tithes of the
united cures made up a stately income of nearly ninety pounds a-year.
No wonder there were no repairs on the rectory--nor frequent visits
to his parishioners. It was only on the first Sunday of each month
he rode over from his dwelling-place and read the service to the few
persons who happened to remember it was the Sabbath, or understood the
invitation conveyed to them by the one broken bell swayed to and fro
by the drunken shoemaker (who also officiated as clerk) the moment he
saw the parson’s shovel hat appear on the ascent of the Vaird hill.
And great accordingly was the surprise of the population; and pleased
the heart of the rector, when two young gentlemen from Oxford hired
the apartments I have described--fitted them up with a cart load of
furniture from Hawsleigh, and gave out that they were going to spend
the long vacation in that quiet neighbourhood for the convenience
of study. Nor did their conduct belie their statement. Their table
was covered with books and maps, and dictionaries; and after their
frugal breakfast, the whole day was devoted to reading. Two handsome
intelligent looking young men as ever you saw--both about the same age
and height; with a contrast both in look and disposition that probably
formed the first link in the close friendship that existed between them.
Arthur Hayning, a month or two the senior, was of a more self relying
nature and firmer character than the other. In uninterrupted effort he
pursued his work, never looking up, never making a remark, seldom even
answering a stray observation of his friend. But when the hour assigned
for the close of his studies had arrived, a change took place in his
manner. He was gayer, more active and enquiring than his volatile
companion. The books were packed away, the writing-desk locked up; with
a stout stick in his hand, a strong hammer in his pocket, and a canvas
bag slung over his shoulders, he started off on an exploring expedition
among the neighbouring hills; while Winnington Harvey arming himself
with a green gauze net, and his coat-sleeve glittering with a multitude
of pins, accompanied him in his walk--diverging for long spaces in
search of butterflies, which he brought back in triumph, scientifically
transfixed on the leaves of his pocket-book. On their return home,
their after-dinner employment consisted in arranging their specimens.
Arthur spread out on the clay floor of the passage the different rocks
he had gathered up in his walk. He broke them into minute fragments,
examined them through his magnifying glass, sometimes dissolved a
portion of them in aquafortis, tasted them, smelt to them, and finally
threw them away; not so the more fortunate naturalist: with him the
mere pursuit was a delight, and the victims of his net a perpetual
source of rejoicing. He fitted them into a tray, wrote their names and
families on narrow slips of paper in the neatest possible hand, and
laid away his box of treasures as if they were choicest specimens of
diamonds and rubies.
“What a dull occupation yours is!” said Winnington one night, “compared
to mine. You go thumping old stones and gathering up lumps of clay,
grubbing for ever among mud or sand, and never lifting up your eyes
from this dirty spot of earth. Whereas I go merrily over valley and
hill, keep my eyes open to the first flutter of a beautiful butterfly’s
wing, follow it in its meandering, happy flight--”
“And kill it--with torture,” interposed Arthur Hayning, coldly.
“But it’s for the sake of science. Nay, as I am going to be a doctor,
it’s perhaps for the sake of fortune--”
“And that justifies you in putting it to death?”
“There you go with your absurd German philanthropies; though, by the
bye, love for a butterfly scarcely deserves the name. But think of
the inducement, think of the glory of verifying with your own eyes
the identity of a creature described in books; think of the interests
at stake; and, above all, and this ought to be a settling argument to
you, think of the enjoyment it will give my cousin Lucy to have her
specimen-chest quite filled; and when you are married to her--”
“Dear Winnington, do hold your tongue. How can I venture to look
forward to that for many years? I have only a hundred a-year. She has
nothing.” Arthur sighed as he spoke.
“How much do you require? When do you expect to be rich enough?”
“When I have three times my present fortune--and that will be--who can
tell? I may suddenly discover a treasure like Aladdin’s, and then,
Winnington, my happiness will be perfect.”
“I think you should have made acquaintance with the magician, or
even got possession of the ring, before you asked her hand,” said
Winnington Harvey with a changed tone. “She is the nicest girl in the
world, and loves you with all her heart; but if you have to wait till
fortune comes--”
“She will wait also, willingly and happily. She has told me so. I love
her with the freshness of a heart that has never loved anything else. I
love you too, Winnington, for her sake; and we had better not talk any
more on the subject, for I don’t like your perpetual objections to the
engagement.”
Winnington, as usual, yielded to the superiority of his friend, and was
more affectionate in his manner to him than ever, as if to blot out the
remembrance of what he had recently said. They went on in silence with
their respective works, and chipped stones, and impaled butterflies
till a late hour.
“Don’t be alarmed, Winnington,” said Arthur, with a smile, as he
lighted his bed-candle that night. “I am twenty-one and Lucy not
nineteen. The genii of the lamp will be at our bidding before we are
very old, and you shall have apartments in the palace, and be appointed
resident physician to the princess.”
“With a salary of ten thousand a year, and my board and washing.”
“A seat on my right hand, whenever I sit down to my banquets.”
“Good. That’s a bargain,” said Winnington, laughing, and they parted to
their rooms.
Geology was not at that time a recognised science--in England. But
Arthur Hayning had been resident for some years in Germany, where
it had long been established as one of the principal branches of
a useful education. There were chairs of metallurgy, supported by
government grants, and schools of mining, both theoretic and practical,
established wherever the nature of the soil was indicative of mineral
wealth. Hayning was an orphan, the son of a country surgeon, who had
managed to amass the sum of two thousand pounds. He was left in charge
of a friend of his father, engaged in the Hamburg trade, and by him
had been early sent to the care of a protestant clergyman in Prussia,
who devoted himself to the improvement of his pupil. His extraordinary
talents were so dwelt on by this excellent man, in his letters to the
guardian, that it was resolved to give him a better field for their
display, than the University of Jena could afford, and he had been sent
to one of the public schools in England, and from it, two years before
this period, been transferred, with the highest possible expectations
of friends and teachers to ---- College, Oxford. Here he had made
acquaintance with Winnington Harvey; and through him, having visited
him one vacation at his home in Warwickshire, had become known to Lucy
Mainfield, the only daughter of a widowed aunt of his friend, with no
fortune but her unequalled beauty, and a fine, honest, open, and loving
disposition, which made an impression on Arthur, perhaps, because it
was in so many respects in contrast with his own.
For some weeks their mode of life continued unaltered. Study all the
day, geology and natural history in the evening. Their path led very
seldom through the village of Combe-Warleigh; but, on one occasion,
having been a distant range among the wilds, and being belated,
they took a nearer course homeward, and passed in front of the
dwelling-house of the squire. There was a light in the windows on the
drawing-room floor, and the poetic Winnington was attracted by the
sight.
“I’ve read of people,” he said, “seeing the shadows of beautiful girls
on window-blinds, and dying of their love, though never knowing more of
them,--wouldn’t it be strange if Squire Warleigh had returned, and with
a daughter young and beautiful, and if I saw her form thrown clearly
like a portrait on the curtain, and--”
“But there’s no curtain,” interrupted Arthur. “Come along.”
“Ha, stop!” cried Winnington, laying his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.
“Look there!”
They looked, and saw a girl who came between them and the light, with
long hair falling over her shoulders, while she held a straw hat in
her hand; her dress was close-fitting to her shape, a light pelisse of
green silk edged with red ribbons, such as we see as the dress of young
pedestrians in Sir Joshua’s early pictures.
“How beautiful,” said Winnington, in a whisper. “She has been walking
out. What is she doing? Who is she? What is her name?”
The apparition turned half round, and revealed her features in
profile. Her lips seemed to move, she smiled very sweetly, and then
suddenly moved out of the sphere of vision, and left Winnington still
open-mouthed, open-eyed, gazing towards the window.
“A nice enough girl,” said Arthur coldly; “but come along; the old
woman will be anxious to get home; and besides, I am very hungry.”
“I shall never be hungry again,” said Winnington, still transfixed and
immoveable. “You may go if you like. Here I stay in hopes of another
view.”
“Good night, then,” replied Arthur, and rapidly walked away.
How long the astonished Winnington remained I cannot tell. It was late
when he arrived at the rectory. The old woman, as Arthur had warned
him, had gone home. Arthur let him in.
“Well!” he enquired, “have you found out the unknown?”
“All about her--but for heaven’s sake some bread and cheese. Is there
any here?”
“I thought you were never to be hungry again.”
“It is the body only which has these requirements. My soul is satiated
for ever. Here’s to Ellen Warleigh!”--he emptied the cup at a draught.
“The Squire’s daughter?”
“His only child. They have been abroad for some years; returned a
fortnight ago. Her father and she live in that desolate house.”
“He will set about repairing it, I suppose,” said Arthur.
“He can’t. They are as poor as we are. And I am glad of it,” replied
Winnington, going on with his bread and cheese.
“He has an immense estate,” said Arthur, almost to himself.
“Combe-Warleigh must consist of thousands of acres.”
“Of heath and hill. Not worth three hundred a year. Besides, he was
extravagant in his youth. I met the shoemaker at the gate, and he told
me all about them. I wonder if she’s fond of butterflies,” he added:
“it would be so delightful for us to hunt them together.”
“Nonsense, boy; finish your supper and go to bed. Never trouble
yourself about whether a girl cares for butterflies or not whose father
has only three hundred a year and has been extravagant in his youth.”
“What a wise fellow you are,” said Winnington, “about other people’s
affairs! How many hundreds a year had Lucy’s father? Nothing but his
curacy and a thousand pounds he got with aunt Jane.”
“But Lucy’s very fond of butterflies, you know, and that makes up for
poverty,” said Arthur, with a laugh. “The only thing I see valuable
about them is their golden wings.”
The companions were not now so constantly together as before. Their
studies underwent no change; but their evening occupations were
different. The geologist continued his investigations among the
hills; the naturalist seemed to believe that the Papilio had become
a gregarious insect, and inhabited the village. He was silent as to
the result of his pursuits, and brought very few specimens home. But
his disposition grew sweeter than ever. His kindness to the drunken
shoemaker was extraordinary. His visits to several old women in the
hamlet were frequent and long. What a good young man he was! How
attentive to the sick!--and he to be only twenty-one! On the first
Sunday of the month he was in waiting at the door to receive the
rector. He took his horse from him, and put it into the heap of ruins
which was called the stable with his own hands. He went with him into
the church. He looked all the time of service at the Squire’s pew,
but it was empty. He walked alongside the rector on his return; he
accompanied him as far as the village, and told him quite in a careless
manner, of the family’s return.
“I have done it,” he said, when he got home again, late at night. “I
know them both. The father is a delightful old man. He kept me and the
clergyman to dinner--and Ellen! there never was so charming a creature
before; and, Arthur, she’s fond of butterflies, and catches them in
a green gauze net, and has a very good collection--particularly of
night-hawks. That’s the reason she was out so late the night we saw her
at the window. They were very kind; they knew all about our being here,
and Ellen thanked me so for being good to her poor people. I felt quite
ashamed.”
The young man’s eyes were flashing with delight; his voice trembled; he
caught the cold gaze of his friend fixed upon him, and blushed.
“You look very much ashamed of yourself,” said Arthur, “and I am sorry
you have made their acquaintance. It will interfere with our object in
coming here.”
“Ah! and I told her you were a perfect German; and she understands the
language, and I said you would lend her any of your books she chose.”
“What!” exclaimed Arthur, starting up excited to sudden anger; “what
right had you, sir, to make any offer of the kind? I wouldn’t lend her
a volume to save her life, or yours, or any one’s in the world. She
shan’t have one,--I’ll burn them first.”
“Arthur!” said Winnington, astonished. “What is it that puts you in
such a passion? I’m sure I didn’t mean to offend you. I will tell
her you don’t like to lend your books; I’m sorry I mentioned it to
her,--but I will apologise, and never ask you again.”
“I was foolish to be so hot about a trifle,” said Arthur, resuming his
self-command. “I’m very sorry to disappoint your friend; but I really
can’t spare a single volume,--besides,” he said, with a faint laugh,
“they are all about metallurgy and mining.”
“I told her so,” said Winnington, “and she has a great curiosity to see
them.”
“You did!” again exclaimed Arthur, flushing with wrath. “You have
behaved like a fool or a villain,--one or both, I care not which. You
should have known, without my telling, that these books are sacred. If
the girl knows German let her read old Gotsched’s plays. She shall not
see a page of any book of mine.”
Winnington continued silent under this outbreak; he was partly overcome
with surprise; but grief was uppermost.
“I’ve known you for two years, I think, Hayning,” he said; “from
the first time we met I admired and liked you. I acknowledge your
superiority in everything; your energy, your talent, your acquirements.
I felt a pleasure in measuring your height, and was proud to be
your friend. I know you despise me, for I am a weak, impulsive,
womanly-natured fellow;--but I did not know you disliked me. I shall
leave you to-morrow, and we shall never meet again.” He was going out
of the room.
“I did not mean what I said,” said Arthur, in a subdued voice. “I don’t
despise you. I don’t dislike you. I beg your pardon,--will you forgive
me, Winnington?”
“Ay, if you killed me!” sobbed Winnington, taking hold of Arthur’s
scarcely extended hand. “I know I am very foolish; but I love Ellen
Warleigh, and would give her all I have in the world.”
“That’s not much,” said Arthur, still moodily brooding over the
incident; “and never will be, if you wear your heart so perpetually on
your sleeve.”
“You forget that I don’t need to have any riches of my own,” said
Winnington, gaily. “I am to be physician to the Prince and Princess
in Aladdin’s palace, and shall sit always on your right hand when you
entertain the nobility. So, shake hands, and good night.”
“But Ellen is not to have my books,” said Arthur, sitting down to the
table, and spreading a volume before him. “I wouldn’t lend you for an
hour,” he said, when he was alone, cherishing the book, “no, not to
Lucy Mainfield herself.”