At the foot of the Berkshire downs, and itself on a gentle elevation,
there is an old hall with gable ends and lattice windows, standing in
grounds which once were stately, and where there are yet glade-like
terraces of yew trees, which give an air of dignity to a neglected
scene. In the front of the hall huge gates of iron, highly wrought, and
bearing an ancient date as well as the shield of a noble house, opened
on a village green, round which were clustered the cottages of the
parish with only one exception, and that was the vicarage house, a
modern building, not without taste, and surrounded by a small but
brilliant garden. The church was contiguous to the hall, and had been
raised by the lord on a portion of his domain. Behind the hall and its
enclosure, the country was common land but picturesque. It had once
been a beech forest, and though the timber had been greatly cleared,
the green land was still occasionally dotted, sometimes with groups and
sometimes with single trees, while the juniper which here abounded, and
rose to a great height, gave a rich wildness to the scene, and sustained
its forest character.
Hurstley had for many years been deserted by the family to which it
belonged. Indeed, it was rather difficult to say to whom it did belong.
A dreary fate had awaited an ancient, and, in its time, even not
immemorable home. It had fallen into chancery, and for the last
half-century had either been uninhabited or let to strangers. Mr.
Ferrars’ lawyer was in the chancery suit, and knew all about it.
The difficulty of finding a tenant for such a place, never easy, was
increased by its remoteness from any railway communication, which was
now beginning to figure as an important element in such arrangements.
The Master in Chancery would be satisfied with a nominal rent, provided
only he could obtain a family of consideration to hold under him. Mr.
Ferrars was persuaded to go down alone to reconnoitre the place. It
pleased him. It was aristocratic, yet singularly inexpensive. The house
contained an immense hall, which reached the roof, and which would have
become a baronial mansion, and a vast staircase in keeping; but the
living rooms were moderate, even small, in dimensions, and not numerous.
The land he was expected to take consisted only of a few meadows,
which he could let if necessary, and a single labourer could manage the
garden.
Mrs. Ferrars was so delighted with the description of the galleried
hall, that she resolved on their taking Hurstley without even her
previously visiting it. The only things she cared for in the country
were a hall and a pony-chair.
All the carriages were sold, and all the servants discharged. Two or
three maid-servants and a man who must be found in the country, who
could attend them at table, and valet alike his master and the pony, was
the establishment which was to succeed the crowd of retainers who had
so long lounged away their lives in the saloons of Hill Street, and the
groves and gardens of Wimbledon.
Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars and their daughter travelled down to Hurstley in a
post-chaise; Endymion, with the servants, was sent by the stage-coach,
which accomplished the journey of sixty miles in ten hours. Myra said
little during the journey, but an expression of ineffable contempt and
disgust seemed permanent on her countenance. Sometimes she shrugged her
shoulders, sometimes she raised her eyebrows, and sometimes she turned
up her nose. And then she gave a sigh; but it was a sigh not of sorrow,
but of impatience. Her parents lavished attentions on her which she
accepted without recognition, only occasionally observing that she
wished she had gone with Endymion.
It was dusk when they arrived at Hurstley, and the melancholy hour did
not tend to raise their spirits. However, the gardener’s wife had lit a
good fire of beechwood in the drawing-room, and threw as they entered
a pannier of cones upon the logs, which crackled and cheerfully blazed
away. Even Myra seemed interested by the novelty of the wood fire and
the iron dogs. She remained by their side, looking abstractedly on the
expiring logs, while her parents wandered about the house and examined
or prepared the requisite arrangements. While they were yet absent,
there was some noise and a considerable bustle in the hall. Endymion
and his retinue had arrived. Then Myra immediately roused herself, and
listened like a startled deer. But the moment she caught his voice, an
expression of rapture suffused her countenance. It beamed with vivacity
and delight. She rushed away, pushed through the servants and the
luggage, embraced him and said, “We will go over the house and see our
rooms together.”
Wandering without a guide and making many mistakes, fortunately they
soon met their parents. Mrs. Ferrars good-naturedly recommenced her
labours of inspection, and explained all her plans. There was a very
pretty room for Endymion, and to-morrow it was to be very comfortable.
He was quite pleased. Then they were shown Myra’s room, but she said
nothing, standing by with a sweet scoff, as it were, lingering on her
lips, while her mother disserted on all the excellences of the chamber.
Then they were summoned to tea. The gardener’s wife was quite a leading
spirit, and had prepared everything; the curtains were drawn, and the
room lighted; an urn hissed; there were piles of bread and butter and a
pyramid of buttered toast. It was wonderful what an air of comfort had
been conjured up in this dreary mansion, and it was impossible for
the travellers, however wearied or chagrined, to be insensible to the
convenience and cheerfulness of all around them.
When the meal was over, the children sate together in whispering tattle.
Mrs. Ferrars had left the room to see if all was ready for their hour of
retirement, and Mr. Ferrars was walking up and down the room, absorbed
in thought.
“What do you think of it all, Endymion?” whispered Myra to her twin.
“I rather like it,” he said.
She looked at him with a glance of blended love and mockery, and then
she said in his ear, “I feel as if we had fallen from some star.”