_ELVERSTON AND ITS PEOPLE_
So Milly and I drove through the gabled high street of Feltram next day. We
saw my gracious cousin smoking with a man like a groom, at the door of the
'Plume of Feathers.' I drew myself back as we passed, and Milly popped her
head out of the window.
'I'm blessed,' said she, laughing, 'if he hadn't his thumb to his nose, and
winding up his little finger, the way he does with old Wyat--L'Amour, ye
know; and you may be sure he said something funny, for Jim Jolliter was
laughin', with his pipe in his hand.'
'I wish I had not seen him, Milly. I feel as if it were an ill omen. He
always looks so cross; and I dare say he wished us some ill,' I said.
'No, no, you don't know Dudley: if he were angry, he'd say nothing that's
funny; no, he's not vexed, only shamming vexed.'
The scenery through which we passed was very pretty. The road brought us
through a narrow and wooded glen. Such studies of ivied rocks and twisted
roots! A little stream tinkled lonely through the hollow. Poor Milly! In
her odd way she made herself companionable. I have sometimes fancied an
enjoyment of natural scenery not so much a faculty as an acquirement. It is
so exquisite in the instructed, so strangely absent in uneducated humanity.
But certainly with Milly it was inborn and hearty; and so she could enter
into my raptures, and requite them.
Then over one of those beautiful Derbyshire moors we drove, and so into
a wide wooded hollow, where was our first view of Cousin Monica's pretty
gabled house, beautified with that indescribable air of shelter and comfort
which belongs to an old English residence, with old timber grouped round
it, and something in its aspect of the quaint old times and bygone
merrymakings, saying sadly, but genially, 'Come in: I bid you welcome.
For two hundred years, or more, have I been the home of this beloved old
family, whose generations I have seen in the cradle and in the coffin, and
whose mirth and sorrows and hospitalities I remember. All their friends,
like you, were welcome; and you, like them, will here enjoy the warm
illusions that cheat the sad conditions of mortality; and like them you
will go your way, and others succeed you, till at last I, too, shall yield
to the general law of decay, and disappear.'
By this time poor Milly had grown very nervous; a state which she described
in such very odd phraseology as threw me, in spite of myself--for I
affected an impressive gravity in lecturing her upon her language--into a
hearty fit of laughter.
I must mention, however, that in certain important points Milly was very
essentially reformed. Her dress, though not very fashionable, was no longer
absurd. And I had drilled her into speaking and laughing quietly; and
for the rest I trusted to the indulgence which is always, I think, more
honestly and easily obtained from well-bred than from under-bred people.
Cousin Monica was out when we arrived; but we found that she had arranged a
double-bedded room for me and Milly, greatly to our content; and good Mary
Quince was placed in the dressing-room beside us.
We had only just commenced our toilet when our hostess entered, as usual in
high spirits, welcomed and kissed us both again and again. She was, indeed,
in extraordinary delight, for she had anticipated some stratagem or evasion
to prevent our visit; and in her usual way she spoke her mind as frankly
about Uncle Silas to poor Milly as she used to do of my dear father to me.
'I did not think he would let you come without a battle; and you know if
he chose to be obstinate it would not have been easy to get you out of the
enchanted ground, for so it seems to be with that awful old wizard in the
midst of it. I mean, Silas, your papa, my dear. Honestly, is not he very
like Michael Scott?'
'I never saw him,' answered poor Milly. 'At least, that I'm aware of,' she
added, perceiving us smile. 'But I do think he's a thought like old Michael
Dobbs, that sells the ferrets, maybe you mean him?'
'Why, you told me, Maud, that you and Milly were reading Walter Scott's
poems. Well, no matter. Michael Scott, my dear, was a dead wizard, with
ever so much silvery hair, lying in his grave for ever so many years, with
just life enough to scowl when they took his book; and you'll find him in
the "Lay of the Last Minstrel," exactly like your papa, my dear. And my
people tell me that your brother Dudley has been seen drinking and smoking
about Feltram this week. How long does he remain at home? Not very long,
eh? And, Maud, dear, he has not been making love to you? Well, I see; of
course he has. And _apropos_ of love-making, I hope that impudent creature,
Charles Oakley, has not been teasing you with notes or verses.'
'Indeed but he has though,' interposed Miss Milly; a good deal to my
chagrin, for I saw no particular reason for placing his verses in Cousin
Monica's hands. So I confessed the two little copies of verses, with the
qualification, however, that I did not know from whom they came.
'Well now, dear Maud, have not I told you fifty times over to have nothing
to say to him? I've found out, my dear, he plays, and he is very much in
debt. I've made a vow to pay no more for him. I've been such a fool, you
have no notion; and I'm speaking, you know, against myself; it would be
such a relief if he were to find a wife to support him; and he has been,
I'm told, very sweet upon a rich old maid--a button-maker's sister, in
Manchester.'
This arrow was well shot.
'But don't be frightened: you are richer as well as younger; and, no doubt,
will have your chance first, my dear; and in the meantime, I dare say,
those verses, like Falstaff's _billet-doux,_ you know, are doing double
duty.'
I laughed, but the button-maker was a secret trouble to me; and I would
have given I know not what that Captain Oakley were one of the company,
that I might treat him with the refined contempt which his deserts and my
dignity demanded.
Cousin Monica busied herself about Milly's toilet, and was a very useful
lady's maid, chatting in her own way all the time; and, at last, tapping
Milly under the chin with her finger, she said, very complacently--
'I think I have succeeded, Miss Milly; look in the glass. She really is a
very pretty creature.'
And Milly blushed, and looked with a shy gratification, which made her
still prettier, on the mirror.
Milly indeed was very pretty. She looked much taller now that her dresses
were made of the usual length. A little plump she was, beautifully fair,
with such azure eyes, and rich hair.
'The more you laugh the better, Milly, for you've got very pretty
teeth--very pretty; and if you were my daughter, or if your father would
become president of a college of magicians, and give you up to me, I
venture to say I would place you very well; and even as it is we must try,
my dear.'
So down to the drawing-room we went; and Cousin Monica entered, leading us
both by the hands.
By this time the curtains were closed, and the drawing-room dependent on
the pleasant glow of the fire, and the slight provisional illumination
usual before dinner.
'Here are my two cousins,' began Lady Knollys: 'this is Miss Ruthyn, of
Knowl, whom I take the liberty of calling Maud; and this is Miss Millicent
Ruthyn, Silas's daughter, you know, whom I venture to call Milly; and they
are very pretty, as you will see, when we get a little more light, and they
know it very well themselves.'
And as she spoke, a frank-eyed, gentle, prettyish lady, not so tall as I,
but with a very kind face, rose up from a book of prints, and, smiling,
took our hands.
She was by no means young, as I then counted youth--past thirty, I
suppose--and with an air that was very quiet, and friendly, and engaging.
She had never been a mere fashionable woman plainly; but she had the ease
and polish of the best society, and seemed to take a kindly interest both
in Milly and me; and Cousin Monica called her Mary, and sometimes Polly.
That was all I knew of her for the present.
So very pleasantly the time passed by till the dressing-bell rang, and we
ran away to our room.
'Did I say anything very bad?' asked poor Milly, standing exactly before
me, so soon as our door was shut.
'Nothing, Milly; you are doing admirably.'
'And I do look a great fool, don't I?' she demanded.
'You look extremely pretty, Milly; and not a bit like a fool.'
'I watch everything. I think I'll learn it at last; but it comes a little
troublesome at first; and they do talk different from what I used--you were
quite right there.'
When we returned to the drawing-room, we found the party already assembled,
and chatting, evidently with spirit.
The village doctor, whose name I forget, a small man, grey, with shrewd
grey eyes, sharp and mulberry nose, whose conflagration extended to his
rugged cheeks, and touched his chin and forehead, was conversing, no doubt
agreeably, with Mary, as Cousin Monica called her guest.
Over my shoulder, Milly whispered--
'Mr. Carysbroke.'
And Milly was quite right: that gentleman chatting with Lady Knollys, his
elbow resting on the chimney-piece, was, indeed, our acquaintance of the
Windmill Wood. He instantly recognised us, and met us with his pleased and
intelligent smile.
'I was just trying to describe to Lady Knollys the charming scenery of the
Windmill Wood, among which I was so fortunate as to make your acquaintance,
Miss Ruthyn. Even in this beautiful county I know of nothing prettier.'
Then he sketched it, as it were, with a few light but glowing words.
'What a sweet scene!' said Cousin Monica: 'only think of her never bringing
me through it. She reserves it, I fancy, for her romantic adventures; and
you, I know, are very benevolent, Ilbury, and all that kind of thing; but I
am not quite certain that you would have walked along that narrow parapet,
over a river, to visit a sick old woman, if you had not happened to see two
very pretty demoiselles on the other side.'
'What an ill-natured speech! I must either forfeit my character for
disinterested benevolence, so justly admired, or disavow a motive that does
such infinite credit to my taste,' exclaimed Mr. Carysbroke. 'I think a
charitable person would have said that a philanthropist, in prosecuting his
virtuous, but perilous vocation, was unexpectedly _rewarded_ by a vision of
angels.'
'And with these angels loitered away the time which ought to have been
devoted to good Mother Hubbard, in her fit of lumbago, and returned without
having set eyes on that afflicted Christian, to amaze his worthy sister
with poetic babblings about wood-nymphs and such pagan impieties,' rejoined
Lady Knollys.
'Well, be just,' he replied, laughing; 'did not I go next day and see the
patient?'
'Yes; next day you went by the same route--in quest of the dryads, I am
afraid--and were rewarded by the spectacle of Mother Hubbard.'
'Will nobody help a humane man in difficulties?' Mr. Carysbroke appealed.
'I do believe,' said the lady whom as yet I knew only as Mary, 'that every
word that Monica says is perfectly true.'
'And if it be so, am I not all the more in need of help? Truth is simply
the most dangerous kind of defamation, and I really think I'm most cruelly
persecuted.'
At this moment dinner was announced, and a meek and dapper little
clergyman, with smooth pink cheeks, and tresses parted down the middle,
whom I had not seen before, emerged from shadow.
This little man was assigned to Milly, Mr. Carysbroke to me, and I know not
how the remaining ladies divided the doctor between them.
That dinner, the first at Elverston, I remember as a very pleasant repast.
Everyone talked--it was impossible that conversation should flag where Lady
Knollys was; and Mr. Carysbroke was very agreeable and amusing. At the
other side of the table, the little pink curate, I was happy to see, was
prattling away, with a modest fluency, in an under-tone to Milly, who was
following my instructions most conscientiously, and speaking in so low a
key that I could hardly hear at the opposite side one word she was saying.
That night Cousin Monica paid us a visit, as we sat chatting by the fire in
our room; and I told her--
'I have just been telling Milly what an impression she has made. The pretty
little clergyman--_il en est épris_--he has evidently quite lost his heart
to her. I dare say he'll preach next Sunday on some of King Solomon's wise
sayings about the irresistible strength of women.'
'Yes,' said Lady Knollys, 'or maybe on the sensible text, "Whoso findeth
a wife findeth a good thing, and obtaineth favour," and so forth. At all
events, I may say, Milly, whoso findeth a husband such as he, findeth a
tolerably good thing. He is an exemplary little creature, second son of Sir
Harry Biddlepen, with a little independent income of his own, beside his
church revenues of ninety pounds a year; and I don't think a more harmless
and docile little husband could be found anywhere; and I think, Miss Maud,
_you_ seemed a good deal interested, too.'
I laughed and blushed, I suppose; and Cousin Monica, skipping after her
wont to quite another matter, said in her odd frank way--
'And how has Silas been?--not cross, I hope, or very odd. There was a
rumour that your brother, Dudley, had gone a soldiering to India, Milly, or
somewhere; but that was all a story, for he has turned up, just as usual.
And what does he mean to do with himself? He has got some money now--your
poor father's will, Maud. Surely he doesn't mean to go on lounging and
smoking away his life among poachers, and prize-fighters, and worse people.
He ought to go to Australia, like Thomas Swain, who, they say, is making a
fortune--a great fortune--and coming home again. That's what your brother
Dudley should do, if he has either sense or spirit; but I suppose he
won't--too long abandoned to idleness and low company--and he'll not have a
shilling left in a year or two. Does he know, I wonder, that his father has
served a notice or something on Dr. Bryerly, telling him to pay sixteen
hundred pounds of poor Austin's legacy to _him_, and saying that he has
paid debts of the young man, and holds his acknowledgments to that amount?
He won't have a guinea in a year if he stays here. I'd give fifty pounds he
was in Van Diemen's Land--not that I care for the cub, Milly, any more than
you do; but I really don't see any honest business he has in England.'
Milly gaped in a total puzzle as Lady Knollys rattled on.
'You know, Milly, you must not be talking about this when you go home to
Bartram, because Silas would prevent your coming to me any more if he
thought I spoke so freely; but I can't help it: so you must promise to be
more discreet than I. And I am told that all kinds of claims are about to
be pressed against him, now that he is thought to have got some money; and
he has been cutting down oak and selling the bark, Doctor Bryerly has been
told, in that Windmill Wood; and he has kilns there for burning charcoal,
and got a man from Lancashire who understands it--Hawk, or something like
that.'
'Ay, Hawkes--Dickon Hawkes; that's Pegtop, you know, Maud,' said Milly.
'Well, I dare say; but a man of very bad character, Dr. Bryerly says; and
he has written to Mr. Danvers about it--for that is what they call waste,
cutting down and selling the timber, and the oakbark, and burning the
willows, and other trees that are turned into charcoal. It is all _waste_,
and Dr. Bryerly is about to put a stop to it.'
'Has he got your carriage for you, Maud, and your horses?' asked Cousin
Monica, suddenly.
'They have not come yet, but in a few weeks, Dudley says, positively--'
Cousin Monica laughed a little and shook her head.
'Yes, Maud, the carriage and horses will always be coming in a few weeks,
till the time is over; and meanwhile the old travelling chariot and
post-horses will do very well;' and she laughed a little again.
'That's why the stile's pulled away at the paling, I suppose; and
Beauty--Meg Hawkes, that is--is put there to stop us going through; for I
often spied the smoke beyond the windmill,' observed Milly.
Cousin Monica listened with interest, and nodded silently.
I was very much shocked. It seemed to me quite incredible. I think Lady
Knollys read my amazement and my exalted estimate of the heinousness of the
procedure in my face, for she said--
'You know we can't quite condemn Silas till we have heard what he has to
say. He may have done it in ignorance; or, it is just possible, he may have
the right.'
'Quite true. He may have the right to cut down trees at Bartram-Haugh. At
all events, I am sure he thinks he has,' I echoed.
The fact was, that I would not avow to myself a suspicion of Uncle Silas.
Any falsehood there opened an abyss beneath my feet into which I dared not
look.
'And now, dear girls, good-night. You must be tired. We breakfast at a
quarter past nine--not too early for you, I know.'
And so saying, she kissed us, smiling, and was gone.
I was so unpleasantly occupied, for some time after her departure, with the
knaveries said to be practised among the dense cover of the Windmill Wood,
that I did not immediately recollect that we had omitted to ask her any
particulars about her guests.
'Who can Mary be?' asked Milly.
'Cousin Monica says she's engaged to be married, and I think I heard the
Doctor call her _Lady_ Mary, and I intended asking her ever so much about
her; but what she told us about cutting down the trees, and all that, quite
put it out of my head. We shall have time enough to-morrow, however, to ask
questions. I like her very much, I know.'
'And I think,' said Milly, 'it is to Mr. Carysbroke she's to be married.'
'Do you?' said I, remembering that he had sat beside her for more than a
quarter of an hour after tea in very close and low-toned conversation; 'and
have you any particular reason?' I asked.
'Well, I heard her once or twice call him "dear," and she called him his
Christian name, just like Lady Knollys did--Ilbury, I think--and I saw him
gi' her a sly kiss as she was going up-stairs.'
I laughed.
'Well, Milly,' I said, 'I remarked something myself, I thought, like
confidential relations; but if you really saw them kiss on the staircase,
the question is pretty well settled.'
'Ay, lass.'
'You're not to say _lass_.'
'Well, _Maud, then_. I did see them with the corner of my eye, and my back
turned, when they did not think I could spy anything, as plain as I see you
now.'
I laughed again; but I felt an odd pang--something of
mortification--something of regret; but I smiled very gaily, as I stood
before the glass, un-making my toilet preparatory to bed.
'Maud--Maud--fickle Maud!--What, Captain Oakley already superseded! and Mr.
Carysbroke--oh! humiliation--engaged.' So I smiled on, very much vexed;
and being afraid lest I had listened with too apparent an interest to this
impostor, I sang a verse of a gay little chanson, and tried to think of
Captain Oakley, who somehow had become rather silly.