_A CHAPTER-FULL OF LOVERS_
We had about this time a pleasant and quite unexpected visit from Lord
Ilbury. He had come to pay his respects, understanding that my uncle Silas
was sufficiently recovered to see visitors. 'And I think I'll run up-stairs
first, and see him, if he admits me, and then I have ever so long a message
from my sister, Mary, for you and Miss Millicent; but I had better dispose
of my business first--don't you think so?--and I shall return in a few
minutes.'
And as he spoke our tremulous old butler returned to say that Uncle Silas
would be happy to see him. So he departed; and you can't think how pleasant
our homely sitting-room looked with his coat and stick in it--guarantees of
his return.
'Do you think, Milly, he is going to speak about the timber, you know, that
Cousin Knollys spoke of? I do hope not.'
'So do I,' said Milly. 'I wish he'd stayed a bit longer with us first, for
if he does, father will sure to turn him out of doors, and we'll see no
more of him.'
'Exactly, my dear Milly; and he's so pleasant and good-natured.'
'And he likes you awful well, he does.'
'I'm sure he likes us both equally, Milly; he talked a great deal to you at
Elverston, and used to ask you so often to sing those two pretty Lancashire
ballads,' I said; 'but you know when you were at your controversies and
religious exercises in the window, with that pillar of the church, the Rev.
Spriggs Biddlepen--'
'Get awa' wi' your nonsense, Maud; how could I help answering when he
dodged me up and down my Testament and catechism?--an I 'most hate him, I
tell you, and Cousin Knollys, you're such fools, I do. And whatever you
say, the lord likes you uncommon, and well you know it, ye hussy.'
'I know no such thing; and you don't think it, _you_ hussy, and I really
don't care who likes me or who doesn't, except my relations; and I make the
lord a present to you, if you'll have him.'
In this strain were we talking when he re-entered the room, a little sooner
than we had expected to see him.
Milly, who, you are to recollect, was only in process of reformation, and
still retained something of the Derbyshire dairymaid, gave me a little
clandestine pinch on the arm just as he made his appearance.
'I just refused a present from her,' said odious Milly, in answer to his
enquiring look, 'because I knew she could not spare it.'
The effect of all this was that I blushed one of my overpowering blushes.
People told me they became me very much; I hope so, for the misfortune was
frequent; and I think nature owed me that compensation.
'It places you both in a most becoming light,' said Lord Ilbury, quite
innocently. 'I really don't know which most to admire--the generosity of
the offer or of the refusal.'
'Well, it _was_ kind, if you but knew. I'm 'most tempted to tell him,' said
Milly.
I checked her with a really angry look, and said, 'Perhaps you have not
observed it; but I really think, for a sensible person, my cousin Milly
here talks more nonsense than any twenty other girls.'
'A twenty-girl power! That's an immense compliment. I've the greatest
respect for nonsense, I owe it so much; and I really think if nonsense were
banished, the earth would grow insupportable.'
'Thank you, Lord Ilbury,' said Milly, who had grown quite easy in his
company during our long visit at Elverston; 'and I tell you, Miss Maud, if
you grow saucy, I'll accept your present, and what will you say then?'
'I really don't know; but just now I want to ask Lord Ilbury how he thinks
my uncle looks; neither I nor Milly have seen him since his illness.'
'Very much weaker, I think; but he may be gaining strength. Still, as my
business was not quite pleasant, I thought it better to postpone it, and
if you think it would be right, I'll write to Doctor Bryerly to ask him to
postpone the discussion for a little time.'
I at once assented, and thanked him; indeed, if I had had my way, the
subject should never have been mentioned, I felt so hardhearted and
rapacious; but Lord Ilbury explained that the trustees were constrained by
the provisions of the will, and that I really had no power to release them;
and I hoped that Uncle Silas also understood all this.
'And now,' said he, 'we've returned to Grange, my sister and I, and it is
nearer than Elverston, so that we are really neighbours; and Mary wants
Lady Knollys to fix a time she owes us a visit, you know--and you really
must come at the same time; it will be so very pleasant, the same party
exactly meeting in a new scene; and we have not half explored our
neighbourhood; and I've got down all those Spanish engravings I told you
of, and the Venetian missals, and all the rest. I think I remember very
accurately the things you were most interested by, and they're all there;
and really you must promise, you and Miss Millicent Ruthyn. And I forgot to
mention--you know you complained that you were ill supplied with books,
so Mary thought you would allow her to share her supply--they are the new
books, you know--and when you have read yours, you and she can exchange.'
What girl was ever quite frank about her likings? I don't think I was more
of a cheat than others; but I never could tell of myself. It is quite true
that this duplicity and reserve seldom deceives. Our hypocrisies are forced
upon some of our sex by the acuteness and vigilance of all in this field of
enquiry; but if we are sly, we are also lynx-eyed, capital detectives, most
ingenious in fitting together the bits and dovetails of a cumulative case;
and in those affairs of love and liking, have a terrible exploratory
instinct, and so, for the most part, when detected we are found out not
only to be in love, but to be rogues moreover.
Lady Mary was very kind; but had Lady Mary of her own mere motion taken all
this trouble? Was there no more energetic influence at the bottom of
that welcome chest of books, which arrived only half an hour later? The
circulating library of those days was not the epidemic and ubiquitous
influence to which it has grown; and there were many places where it could
not find you out.
Altogether that evening Bartram had acquired a peculiar beauty--a bright
and mellow glow, in which even its gate-posts and wheelbarrow were
interesting, and next day came a little cloud--Dudley appeared.
'You may be sure he wants money,' said Milly. 'He and father had words this
morning.'
He took a chair at our luncheon, found fault with everything in his own
laconic dialect, ate a good deal notwithstanding, and was sulky, and with
Milly snappish. To me, on the contrary, when Milly went into the hall, he
was mild and whimpering, and disposed to be confidential.
'There's the Governor says he hasn't a bob! Danged if I know how an old
fellah in his bed-room muddles away money at that rate. I don't suppose he
thinks I can git along without tin, and he knows them trustees won't gi'e
me a tizzy till they get what they calls an opinion--dang 'em! Bryerly says
he doubts it must all go under settlement. They'll settle me nicely if
they do; and Governor knows all about it, and won't gi'e me a danged brass
farthin', an' me wi' bills to pay, an' lawyers--dang 'em--writing
letters. He knows summat o' that hisself, does Governor; and he might ha'
consideration a bit for his own flesh and blood, _I_ say. But he never does
nout for none but hisself. I'll sell his books and his jewels next fit he
takes--that's how I'll fit him.'
This amiable young man, glowering, with his elbows on the table and his
fingers in his great whiskers, followed his homily, where clergymen append
the blessing, with a muttered variety of very different matter.
'Now, Maud,' said he, pathetically, leaning back suddenly in his chair,
with all his conscious beauty and misfortunes in his face, 'is not it hard
lines?'
I thought the appeal was going to shape itself into an application for
money; but it did not.
'I never know'd a reel beauty--first-chop, of course, I mean--that
wasn't kind along of it, and I'm a fellah as can't git along without
sympathy--that's why I say it--an' isn't it hard lines? Now, _say_ it's
hard lines--_haint_ it, Maud?'
I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said--
'I suppose it is very disagreeable.'
And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the same vein, I
rose, intending to take my departure.
'No, that's jest it. I knew ye'd say it, Maud. Ye're a kind lass--ye
be--'tis in yer pretty face. I like ye awful, I do--there's not a handsomer
lass in Liverpool nor Lunnon itself--_no_ where.'
He had seized my hand, and trying to place his arm about my waist, essayed
that salute which I had so narrowly escaped on my first introduction.
'_Don't_, sir,' I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the same
moment from his grasp.
'No offence, lass; no harm, Maud; you must not be so shy--we're cousins,
you know--an' I wouldn't hurt ye, Maud, no more nor I'd knock my head off.
I wouldn't.'
I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, but, without
showing how nervous I was, I glided out of the room quietly, making
an orderly retreat, the more meritorious as I heard him call after me
persuasively--'Come back, Maud. What are ye afeard on, lass? Come back, I
say--do now; there's a good wench.'
As Milly and I were taking our walk that day, in the direction of the
Windmill Wood, to which, in consequence perhaps of some secret order, we
had now free access, we saw Beauty, for the first time since her illness,
in the little yard, throwing grain to the poultry.
'How do you find yourself to-day, Meg? I am _very_ glad to see you able to
be about again; but I hope it is not too soon.'
We were standing at the barred gate of the little enclosure, and quite
close to Meg, who, however, did not choose to raise her head, but,
continuing to shower her grain and potato-skins among her hens and
chickens, said in a low tone--
'Father baint in sight? Look jist round a bit and say if ye see him.'
But Dickon's dusky red costume was nowhere visible.
So Meg looked up, pale and thin, and with her old grave, observant eyes,
and she said quietly--
''Tisn't that I'm not glad to see ye; but if father was to spy me talking
friendly wi' ye, now that I'm hearty, and you havin' no more call to me,
he'd be all'ays a watching and thinkin' I was tellin' o' tales, and 'appen
he'd want me to worrit ye for money, Miss Maud; an' 'tisn't here he'd spend
it, but in the Feltram pottusses, he would, and we want for nothin' that's
good for us. But that's how 'twould be, an' he'd all'ays be a jawing and a
lickin' of I; so don't mind me, Miss Maud, and 'appen I might do ye a good
turn some day.'
A few days after this little interview with Meg, as Milly and I were
walking briskly--for it was a clear frosty day--along the pleasant slopes
of the sheep-walk, we were overtaken by Dudley Ruthyn. It was not a
pleasant surprise. There was this mitigation, however: we were on foot, and
he driving in a dog-cart along the track leading to the moor, with his dogs
and gun. He brought his horse for a moment to a walk, and with a careless
nod to me, removing his short pipe from his mouth, he said--
'Governor's callin' for ye, Milly; and he told me to send you slick home to
him if I saw you, and I think he'll gi'e ye some money; but ye better take
him while he's in the humour, lass, or mayhap ye'll go long without.'
And with those words, apparently intent on his game, he nodded again,
and, pipe in mouth, drove at a quick trot over the slope of the hill, and
disappeared.
So I agreed to await Milly's return while she ran home, and rejoined me
where I was. Away she ran, in high spirits, and I wandered listlessly about
in search of some convenient spot to sit down upon, for I was a little
tired.
She had not been gone five minutes, when I heard a step approaching, and
looking round, saw the dog-cart close by, the horse browsing on the short
grass, and Dudley Ruthyn within a few paces of me.
'Ye see, Maud, I've bin thinkin' why you're so vexed wi' me, an' I thought
I'd jest come back an' ask ye what I may a' done to anger ye so; there's no
sin in that, I think--is there?'
'I'm not angry. I did not say so. I hope that's enough,' I said, startled;
and, notwithstanding my speech, _very_ angry, for I felt instinctively that
Milly's despatch homeward was a mere trick, and I the dupe of this coarse
stratagem.
'Well then, if ye baint angry, so much the better, Maud. I only want to
know why you're afeard o' me. I never struck a man foul, much less hurt a
girl, in my days; besides, Maud, I likes ye too well to hurt ye. Dang it,
lass, you're my cousin, ye know, and cousins is all'ays together and lovin'
like, an' none says again' it.'
'I've nothing to explain--there _is_ nothing to explain. I've been quite
friendly,' I said, hurriedly.
'_Friendly!_ Well, if there baint a cram! How can ye think it friendly,
Maud, when ye won't a'most shake hands wi' me? It's enough to make a fellah
sware, or cry a'most. Why d'ye like aggravatin' a poor devil? Now baint
ye an ill-natured little puss, Maud, an' I likin' ye so well? You're the
prettiest lass in Derbyshire; there's nothin' I wouldn't do for ye.'
And he backed his declaration with an oath.
'Be so good, then, as to re-enter your dog-cart and drive away,' I replied,
very much incensed.
'Now, there it is again! Ye can't speak me civil. Another fellah'd fly out,
an' maybe kiss ye for spite; but I baint that sort, I'm all for coaxin' and
kindness, an' ye won't let me. What _be_ you drivin' at, Maud?'
'I think I've said very plainly, sir, that I wish to be alone. You've
_nothing_ to say, except utter nonsense, and I've heard quite enough. Once
for all, I beg, sir, that you will be so good as to leave me.'
'Well, now, look here, Maud; I'll do anything you like--burn me if I
don't--if you'll only jest be kind to me, like cousins should. What did
I ever do to vex you? If you think I like any lass better than you--some
fellah at Elverston's bin talkin', maybe--it's nout but lies an' nonsense.
Not but there's lots o' wenches likes me well enough, though I be a plain
lad, and speaks my mind straight out.'
'I can't see that you are so frank, sir, as you describe; you have just
played a shabby trick to bring about this absurd and most disagreeable
interview.'
'And supposin' I did send that fool, Milly, out o' the way, to talk a bit
wi' you here, where's the harm? Dang it, lass, ye mustn't be too hard.
Didn't I say I'd do whatever ye wished?'
'And you _won't_,' said I.
'Ye mean to get along out o' this? Well, now, I _will_. There! No use, of
course, askin' you to kiss and be friends, before I go, as cousins should.
Well, don't be riled, lass, I'm not askin' it; only mind, I do like you
awful, and 'appen I'll find ye in better humour another time. Good-bye,
Maud; I'll make ye like me at last.'
And with these words, to my comfort, he addressed himself to his horse and
pipe, and was soon honestly on his way to the moor.