_NEWS AT BARTRAM GATE_
Milly and I, thanks to our early Bartram hours, were first down next
morning; and so soon as Cousin Monica appeared we attacked her.
'So Lady Mary is the _fiancée_ of Mr. Carysbroke,' said I, very cleverly;
'and I think it was very wicked of you to try and involve me in a
flirtation with him yesterday.'
'And who told you that, pray?' asked Lady Knollys, with a pleasant little
laugh.
'Milly and I discovered it, simple as we stand here,' I answered.
'But you did not flirt with Mr. Carysbroke, Maud, did you?' she asked.
'No, certainly not; but that was not your doing, wicked woman, but my
discretion. And now that we know your secret, you must tell us all about
her, and all about him; and in the first place, what is her name--Lady Mary
what?' I demanded.
'Who would have thought you so cunning? Two country misses--two little nuns
from the cloisters of Bartram! Well, I suppose I must answer. It is vain
trying to hide anything from you; but how on earth did you find it out?'
'We'll tell you that presently, but you shall first tell us who she is,' I
persisted.
'Well, that I will, of course, without compulsion. She is Lady Mary
Carysbroke,' said Lady Knollys.
'A relation of Mr. Carysbroke's,' I asserted.
'Yes, a relation; but who told you he was Mr. Carysbroke?' asked Cousin
Monica.
'Milly told me, when we saw him in the Windmill Wood.'
'And who told you, Milly?'
'It was L'Amour,' answered Milly, with her blue eyes very wide open.
'What does the child mean? L'Amour! You don't mean _love_?' exclaimed Lady
Knollys, puzzled in her turn.
'I mean old Wyat; _she_ told me and the Governor.'
'You're _not_ to say that,' I interposed.
'You mean your father?' suggested Lady Knollys.
'Well, yes; father told her, and so I knew him.'
'What could he mean?' exclaimed Lady Knollys, laughing, as it were, in
soliloquy; 'and I did not mention his name, I recollect now. He recognised
you, and you him, when you came into the room yesterday; and now you must
tell me how you discovered that he and Lady Mary were to be married.'
So Milly restated her evidence, and Lady Knollys laughed unaccountably
heartily; and she said--
'They _will_ be _so_ confounded! but they deserve it; and, remember, _I_
did not say so.'
'Oh! we acquit you.'
'All I say is, such a deceitful, dangerous pair of girls--all things
considered--I never heard of before,' exclaimed Lady Knollys. 'There's no
such thing as conspiring in your presence.'
'Good morning. I hope you slept well.' She was addressing the lady and
gentleman who were just entering the room from the conservatory. 'You'll
hardly sleep so well to-night, when you have learned what eyes are upon
you. Here are two very pretty detectives who have found out your secret,
and entirely by your imprudence and their own cleverness have discovered
that you are a pair of betrothed lovers, about to ratify your vows at
the hymeneal altar. I assure you I did not tell of you; you betrayed
yourselves. If you will talk in that confidential way on sofas, and call
one another stealthily by your Christian names, and actually kiss at the
foot of the stairs, while a clever detective is scaling them, apparently
with her back toward you, you must only take the consequences, and be known
prematurely as the hero and heroine of the forthcoming paragraph in the
"Morning Post."'
Milly and I were horribly confounded, but Cousin Monica was resolved to
place us all upon the least formal terms possible, and I believe she had
set about it in the right way.
'And now, girls, I am going to make a counter-discovery, which, I fear, a
little conflicts with yours. This Mr. Carysbroke is Lord Ilbury, brother
of this Lady Mary; and it is all my fault for not having done my honours
better; but you see what clever match-making little creatures they are.'
'You can't think how flattered I am at being made the subject of a theory,
even a mistaken one, by Miss Ruthyn.'
And so, after our modest fit was over, Milly and I were very merry, like
the rest, and we all grew a great deal more intimate that morning.
I think altogether those were the pleasantest and happiest days of my
life: gay, intelligent, and kindly society at home; charming
excursions--sometimes riding--sometimes by carriage--to distant points of
beauty in the county. Evenings varied with music, reading, and spirited
conversation. Now and then a visitor for a day or two, and constantly some
neighbour from the town, or its dependencies, dropt in. Of these I but
remember tall old Miss Wintletop, most entertaining of rustic old
maids, with her nice lace and thick satin, and her small, kindly round
face--pretty, I dare say, in other days, and now frosty, but kindly--who
told us such delightful old stories of the county in her father's and
grandfather's time; who knew the lineage of every family in it, and could
recount all its duels and elopements; give us illustrative snatches from
old election squibs, and lines from epitaphs, and tell exactly where all
the old-world highway robberies had been committed: how it fared with the
chief delinquents after the assizes; and, above all, where, and of what
sort, the goblins and elves of the county had made themselves seen, from
the phantom post-boy, who every third night crossed Windale Moor, by the
old coach-road, to the fat old ghost, in mulberry velvet, who showed his
great face, crutch, and ruffles, by moonlight, at the bow window of the old
court-house that was taken down in 1803.
You cannot imagine what agreeable evenings we passed in this society,
or how rapidly my good Cousin Milly improved in it. I remember well the
intense suspense in which she and I awaited the answer from Bartram-Haugh
to kind Cousin Monica's application for an extension of our leave of
absence.
It came, and with it a note from Uncle Silas, which was curious, and,
therefore, is printed here:--
'MY DEAR LADY KNOLLYS,--To your kind letter I say yes (that is, for another
week, not a fortnight), with all my heart. I am glad to hear that my
starlings chatter so pleasantly; at all events the refrain is not that of
Sterne's. They can get out; and do get out; and shall get out as much as
they please. I am no gaoler, and shut up nobody but myself. I have always
thought that young people have too little liberty. My principle has been
to make little free men and women of them from the first. In morals,
altogether--in intellect, more than we allow--_self_-education is that
which abides; and _it_ only begins where constraint ends. Such is my
theory. My practice is consistent. Let them remain for a week longer, as
you say. The horses shall be at Elverston on Tuesday, the 7th. I shall be
more than usually sad and solitary till their return; so pray, I selfishly
entreat, do not extend their absence. You will smile, remembering how
little my health will allow me to see of them, even when at home; but as
Chaulieu so prettily says--I stupidly forget the words, but the sentiment
is this--"although concealed by a sylvan wall of leaves, impenetrable--(he
is pursuing his favourite nymphs through the alleys and intricacies of a
rustic labyrinth)--yet, your songs, your prattle, and your laughter, faint
and far away, inspire my fancy; and, through my ears, I see your unseen
smiles, your blushes, your floating tresses, and your ivory feet; and so,
though sad, am happy; though alone, in company;"--and such is my case.
'One only request, and I have done. Pray remind them of a promise made to
me. The Book of Life--the fountain of life--it must be drunk of, night and
morning, or their spiritual life expires.
'And now, Heaven bless and keep you, my dear cousin; and with all
assurances of affection to my beloved niece and my child, believe me ever
yours affectionately.
'SILAS RUTHYN.'
Said Cousin Monica, with a waggish smile--
'And so, girls, you have Chaulieu and the evangelists; the French rhymester
in his alley, and Silas in the valley of the shadow of death; perfect
liberty, and a peremptory order to return in a week;--all illustrating one
another. Poor Silas! old as he is, I don't think his religion fits him.'
_I_ really rather liked his letter. I was struggling hard to think well of
him, and Cousin Monica knew it; and I really think if I had not been by,
she would often have been less severe on him.
As we were all sitting pleasantly about the breakfast table a day or two
after, the sun shining on the pleasant wintry landscape, Cousin Monica
suddenly exclaimed--
'I quite forgot to tell you that Charles Oakley has written to say he is
coming on Wednesday. I really don't want him. Poor Charlie! I wonder how
they manage those doctors' certificates. I know nothing ails him, and he'd
be much better with his regiment.'
Wednesday!--how odd. Exactly the day after my departure. I tried to look
perfectly unconcerned. Lady Knollys had addressed herself more to Lady
Mary and Milly than to me, and nobody in particular was looking at me.
Notwithstanding, with my usual perversity, I felt myself blushing with a
brilliancy that may have been very becoming, but which was so intolerably
provoking that I would have risen and left the room but that matters would
have been so infinitely worse. I could have boxed my odious ears. I could
almost have jumped from the window.
I felt that Lord Ilbury saw it. I saw Lady Mary's eyes for a moment resting
gravely on my tell-tale--my lying cheeks--for I really had begun to think
much less celestially of Captain Oakley. I was angry with Cousin Monica,
who, knowing my blushing infirmity, had mentioned her nephew so suddenly
while I was strapped by etiquette in my chair, with my face to the window,
and two pair of most disconcerting eyes, at least, opposite. I was angry
with myself--generally angry--refused more tea rather dryly, and was
laconic to Lord Ilbury, all which, of course, was very cross and foolish;
and afterwards, from my bed-room window, I saw Cousin Monica and Lady
Mary among the flowers, under the drawing-room window, talking, as I
instinctively knew, of that little incident. I was standing at the glass.
'My odious, stupid, _perjured_ face' I whispered, furiously, at the same
time stamping on the floor, and giving myself quite a smart slap on the
cheek. 'I _can't_ go down--I'm ready to cry--I've a mind to return to
Bartram to-day; I am _always_ blushing; and I wish that impudent Captain
Oakley was at the bottom of the sea.'
I was, perhaps, thinking more of Lord Ilbury than I was aware; and I am
sure if Captain Oakley had arrived that day, I should have treated him with
most unjustifiable rudeness.
Notwithstanding this unfortunate blush, the remainder of our visit passed
very happily for me. No one who has not experienced it can have an idea
how intimate a small party, such as ours, will grow in a short time in a
country house.
Of course, a young lady of a well-regulated mind cannot possibly care a
pin about any one of the opposite sex until she is well assured that he is
beginning, at least, to like her better than all the world beside; but I
could not deny to myself that I was rather anxious to know more about Lord
Ilbury than I actually did know.
There was a 'Peerage,' in its bright scarlet and gold uniform, corpulent
and tempting, upon the little marble table in the drawing-room. I had many
opportunities of consulting it, but I never could find courage to do so.
For an inexperienced person it would have been a matter of several minutes,
and during those minutes what awful risk of surprise and detection. One
day, all being quiet, I did venture, and actually, with a beating heart,
got so far as to find out the letter 'Il,' when I heard a step outside the
door, which opened a little bit, and I heard Lady Knollys, luckily arrested
at the entrance, talk some sentences outside, her hand still upon the
door-handle. I shut the book, as Mrs. Bluebeard might the door of the
chamber of horrors at the sound of her husband's step, and skipped to a
remote part of the room, where Cousin Knollys found me in a mysterious
state of agitation.
On any other subject I would have questioned Cousin Monica unhesitatingly;
upon this, somehow, I was dumb. I distrusted myself, and dreaded my odious
habit of blushing, and knew that I should look so horribly guilty, and
become so agitated and odd, that she would have reasonably concluded that I
had quite lost my heart to him.
After the lesson I had received, and my narrow escape of detection in the
very act, you may be sure I never trusted myself in the vicinity of that
fat and cruel 'Peerage,' which possessed the secret, but would not disclose
without compromising me.
In this state of tantalizing darkness and conjecture I should have
departed, had not Cousin Monica quite spontaneously relieved me.
The night before our departure she sat with us in our room, chatting a
little farewell gossip.
'And what do you think of Ilbury?' she asked.
'I think him clever and accomplished, and amusing; but he sometimes appears
to me very melancholy--that is, for a few minutes together--and then, I
fancy, with an effort, re-engages in our conversation.'
'Yes, poor Ilbury! He lost his brother only about five months since, and
is only beginning to recover his spirits a little. They were very much
attached, and people thought that he would have succeeded to the title,
had he lived, because Ilbury is _difficile_--or a philosopher--or a _Saint
Kevin_; and, in fact, has begun to be treated as a premature old bachelor.'
'What a charming person his sister, Lady Mary, is. She has made me promise
to write to her,' I said, I suppose--such hypocrites are we--to prove to
Cousin Knollys that I did not care particularly to hear anything more about
him.
'Yes, and so devoted to him. He came down here, and took The Grange, for
change of scene and solitude--of all things the worst for a man in grief--a
morbid whim, as he is beginning to find out; for he is very glad to stay
here, and confesses that he is much better since he came. His letters are
still addressed to him as Mr. Carysbroke; for he fancied if his rank were
known, that the county people would have been calling upon him, and so he
would have found himself soon involved in a tiresome round of dinners, and
must have gone somewhere else. You saw him, Milly, at Bartram, before Maud
came?'
Yes, she had, when he called there to see her father.
'He thought, as he had accepted the trusteeship, that he could hardly,
residing so near, omit to visit Silas. He was very much struck and
interested by him, and he has a better opinion of him--you are not angry,
Milly--than some ill-natured people I could name; and he says that the
cutting down of the trees will turn out to have been a mere slip. But these
slips don't occur with clever men in other things; and some persons have
a way of always making them in their own favour. And, to talk of other
things, I suspect that you and Milly will probably see Ilbury at Bartram;
for I think he likes you very much.'
_You_; did she mean _both_, or only me?
So our pleasant visit was over. Milly's good little curate had been much
thrown in her way by our deep and dangerous cousin Monica. He was most
laudably steady; and his flirtation advanced upon the field of theology,
where, happily, Milly's little reading had been concentrated. A mild and
earnest interest in poor, pretty Milly's orthodoxy was the leading feature
of his case; and I was highly amused at her references to me, when we had
retired at night, upon the points which she had disputed with him, and
her anxious reports of their low-toned conferences, carried on upon a
sequestered ottoman, where he patted and stroked his crossed leg, as he
smiled tenderly and shook his head at her questionable doctrine. Milly's
reverence for her instructor, and his admiration, grew daily; and he was
known among us as Milly's confessor.
He took luncheon with us on the day of our departure, and with an adroit
privacy, which in a layman would have been sly, presented her, in right of
his holy calling, with a little book, the binding of which was mediaeval
and costly, and whose letter-press dealt in a way which he commended,
with some points on which she was not satisfactory; and she found on the
fly-leaf this little inscription:--'Presented to Miss Millicent Ruthyn by
an earnest well-wisher, 1st December 1844.' A text, very neatly penned,
followed this; and the 'presentation' was made unctiously indeed, but with
a blush, as well as the accustomed smile, and with eyes that were lowered.
The early crimson sun of December had gone down behind the hills before we
took our seats in the carriage.
Lord Ilbury leaned with his elbow on the carriage window, looking in, and
he said to me--
'I really don't know what we shall do, Miss Ruthyn; we shall all feel so
lonely. For myself, I think I shall run away to Grange.'
This appeared to me as nearly perfect eloquence as human lips could utter.
His hand still rested on the window, and the Rev. Sprigge Biddlepen was
standing with a saddened smirk on the door steps, when the whip smacked,
the horses scrambled into motion, and away we rolled down the avenue,
leaving behind us the pleasantest house and hostess in the world, and
trotting fleetly into darkness towards Bartram-Haugh.
We were both rather silent. Milly had her book in her lap, and I saw
her every now and then try to read her 'earnest well-wisher's' little
inscription, but there was not light to read by.
When we reached the great gate of Bartram-Haugh it was dark. Old Crowl, who
kept the gate, I heard enjoining the postilion to make no avoidable noise
at the hall-door, for the odd but startling reason that he believed my
uncle 'would be dead by this time.'
Very much shocked and frightened, we stopped the carriage, and questioned
the tremulous old porter.
Uncle Silas, it seemed, had been 'silly-ish' all yesterday, and 'could not
be woke this morning,' and 'the doctor had been here twice, being now in
the house.'
'Is he better?' I asked, tremblingly.
'Not as I'm aweer on, Miss; he lay at God's mercy two hours agone; 'appen
he's in heaven be this time.'
'Drive on--drive fast,' I said to the driver. 'Don't be frightened, Milly;
please Heaven we shall find all going well.'
After some delay, during which my heart sank, and I quite gave up Uncle
Silas, the aged little servant-man opened the door, and trotted shakily
down the steps to the carriage side.
Uncle Silas had been at death's door for hours; the question of life had
trembled in the scale; but now the doctor said 'he might do.'
'Where was the doctor?'
'In master's room; he blooded him three hours agone.'
I don't think that Milly was so frightened as I. My heart beat, and I was
trembling so that I could hardly get upstairs.