A PASSING GLANCE.
"And what is life?--An hour glass on the run,
A mist retreating from the morning sun,
A busy, bustling, still-repeated dream,
Its length?--A minute's pause, a moment's thought;
And happiness?--A bubble on the stream,
That, in the act of seizing, shrinks to naught.
What is vain hope?--the puffing gale of morn,
That robs each flow'ret of its gem,--and dies;
A cobweb, hiding disappointment's thorn,
Which stings more keenly through the thin disguise."
JOHN CLARE.
The eight o'clock train came whizzing and puffing into the Standale
station; Standale was a large town about ten miles distant from
Brampton, and the nearest railway station to the Park. Charles Linchmore
had barely time to step on to the platform, ere it was off again and out
of sight, puffing as hard and fast as ever.
"Tom has sent me a horse?" questioned he of the porter.
"Yes, Sir. Waiting for you the last ten minutes, Sir."
Charles Linchmore passed out, and was soon wending his way along the
road to Brampton Park. The moon had not yet risen, and owing to the
slippery state of the roads, on account of the heavy fall of snow and
recent frost, he rode on leisurely enough.
"Come along, Bob," said he to a shaggy Scotch terrier, who kept close to
the hind legs of the horse; "come along, old fellow, I'd give you a run
after your pent-up journey, only the roads are so confoundedly slippery,
and her majesty is determined to hide herself behind the clouds
to-night."
The dog wagged his tail as though he understood his master, and kept on
as before. He was not much of a companion, but what with an occasional
puff at his cigar, and talk to his dog, Charles Linchmore went on
comfortably enough. As the smoke curled about his handsome mouth, his
thoughts wandered. What were they doing at the Hall? Was Miss Neville
still there, or absent as when he last paid his visit? and if there, had
any of the numerous visitors found out what a nice girl she was?
"Of course they think her pretty, of that there can be no doubt,"
thought he, "and I dare say she has found it out too by this time, and
gives herself airs; unless such an example as my brother's wife before
her eyes gives her timely warning, and she steers on another tack.
There's no being up to the girls now-a-days; as to prying into their
hearts it's impossible, and not to be imagined for a moment; they are
growing too deep for us men, and beat us out-and-out in deceit and
man[oe]uvring."
"She has magnificent hair," thought he after a pause, "I suppose it's
all her own--just the colour I like, though she has a ridiculous fashion
of binding it up about her head. Perhaps she thinks it makes her look
like a Madonna;" here he took a long puff at his cigar. "Well, I could
not fall in love with a Madonna, it's not my style, and I do not think
she is like one either; an angel's eyes don't flash like hers do
sometimes. Perhaps Robert thinks his wife an angel, there is no
accounting for tastes, but if Miss Neville has grown one iota like her,
I'll--" here he paused again, "I'll have a flirtation with her, and--and
then go back to my regiment."
The idea made him savage, and throwing away his cigar, he halted until
the groom who rode behind came up.
"You can ride on, home, Tom, I don't want you," said he, and then he
listened to the clatter of the horse's hoofs on the hard frosty ground,
until they faded away in the distance out of hearing.
"We are all selfish," mused he, "that man would have ridden more slowly
and carefully had it been his own horse. I dare say though, I am just as
selfish if I only knew it."
He lit another cigar, and rode on some miles without interruption, until
stopped by the Brampton Turnpike Gate.
"Hulloa!" called he.
But no notice was taken of his repeated shouts, although a faint gleam
of light shone partly across the road from a slight crack in one of the
shutters, showing that some of the inmates were at least awake.
"Confound the fellow!" muttered Charles as he called again.
When the door suddenly opened, and the figure of a man stood in the
doorway.
"I tell yer I can undo it very well myself, and will too, so just stand
fast," said he in a thick voice, to somebody inside the cottage, while
and with anything but a steady gait he managed somehow between a shuffle
and scramble to get over the one step of the cottage,--lifting his legs
at the same time, as if the steps was so many feet, instead of inches
high,--and reach the gate. Here, steadying himself by leaning both arms
across the top, he looked up to where Charles Linchmore stood.
"I say young, man!" exclaimed he. "What do yer mean by hollering and
bawling in that way? Havn't yer any patience. If ye're in sich a mortal
hurry, why don't yer take and jump the gate? Eh!"
"Open the gate, you blockhead, or I will make you," exclaimed Charles,
angrily.
"Speak civil, can't yer? I ain't going to open the gate with them words
for my pains."
Just then the moon emerged from behind a cloud, and shone full on
Charles Linchmore's face. The man recognised him in a moment,
notwithstanding his tipsy state.
"In course, Sir, I'll open, who says I shan't? Bless yer sir, I'll open
it as wide as ever he'll go. Dang me! if I can though," muttered he, as
he fumbled at the fastening.
"Bring a lanthorn, Jem, can't yer," called he, turning his face towards
the cottage, the door of which still remained open. "Bring a light; yer
was mighty anxious just now to come out when yer wasn't wanted, and now
yer are, yer don't care to show yer face."
He had scarcely finished speaking when another man emerged from the
cottage, a hand was placed on the lock, and with a clatter the gate
swung back to the other side of the road.
"I've half a mind to give you a sound horsewhipping," said Charles,
passing through, followed by Bob, the latter venting his displeasure in
a low suppressed growl, "but I hope your wife will save me the trouble,
so I shall reserve it for some future opportunity."
"Thank yer Sir. She takes to it kindly she do, and don't want no
'swading."
"I hope she will give you an extra dose of it at all events," said
Charles. "Is that you, Grant?" he added, addressing the other man. "It's
scarcely safe for you to be out so late, is it?"
"You've heard all about the trial then, Sir?" questioned Grant.
"I read an account of it in the papers, and was sorry enough for poor
Tom."
"Most everybody was Sir, and the parson gave us a fine discourse the
Sunday after his funeral; but somehow preaching don't heal a broken
heart, and Susan do take on awful at times; she haven't forgotten him,
and it's my belief never will."
"Poor thing! Her husband's was a sudden and sad death, shot down like a
dog by the poachers. The gang are still prowling about, so they say."
"Yes, Sir, and will do more mischief yet, they're a bad, desperate set,
the lot that's here this year."
"I suppose you are keeping this man company, or looking after him in his
drunken state. You would scarcely be going home alone at this late hour
of the evening?"
"No, Sir. I am going home. I've been up to the Hall, and stayed there
longer than I ought."
"It is too late a great deal for you to be out, and the whole country
round about swarming with poachers."
"True, Sir. But I shan't go before my time--"
"Nonsense!" interrupted Charles. "Come, I tell you what; I'll see you
home, I have nothing better to do; but first get that man safely housed
somewhere, do not leave him out here to be run over."
"Oh! I'll soon settle him, sir."
And while Charles Linchmore struck a light and lit another cigar, Grant
went once more into the cottage.
Opening a door, he called up the stairs, "Mrs. Marks! Here's your
husband. I've brought him home rather unsteady on his pins; you'd better
come down and see after him at once afore he gets into mischief."
"He is! Is he?" screamed a shrill voice from the top. "I expected as
much. I warrant I'll soon make him steady again!"
With which satisfactory reply Grant rejoined Charles Linchmore, and they
left the 'pikeman singing a drunken song, and vainly trying to shut the
gate, the opening of which had previously so baffled his endeavours.
Turning off the high road, they struck into a side path or narrow lane,
the tall hedges towering above them on either side, while here and
there a tree loomed like a giant overhead.
"So you have been gossiping up at the Hall, Grant?" began Charles,
encouraging his companion to talk.
"Yes, Sir; and a sight of company there is there now; not a man or maid
able or willing to talk to you; so it's not much in the way of a gossip
I've had. No, sir, I went to see my daughter Mary, but she was busy with
the young ladies, getting them ready for a big dinner. Sich a sight of
carriages in the yard, and the dogs barking like mad. You'd scarce know
the place again, Sir. It's so changed."
"I'm glad of it. It used to be as dull as ditch water."
"Lord love ye, Sir! You won't find it dull or lonesome now. Why afore
the frost set in, the roads were all alive with ladies and gentlemen
riding over them. Matthew the Pikeman hadn't no time scarce to eat his
victuals, let alone take a drop. So there's some excuse, Sir, for him
getting muddled a bit now, and he didn't forsee the party up at the
Hall to-night."
"I see," replied Charles, smiling, "he was overworked, poor man, I've no
doubt it is so."
"Well, as to that Sir, I can't say he's got much to worry himself about
on that score. His wife says he's an idle dog; but then that's her way,
she never says he's over-burthened with brains."
"A vixen, eh? It's a good thing all women don't resemble Mrs. Marks."
"Yes, Sir, it is. Which same is a comfort if you're thinking of taking a
wife; I ask your pardon, Sir, for being so bold."
"I Grant! I take a wife! That is anything but a sensible speech of
yours, and requires a great deal of thought."
"Well, Sir, I dare say when your time comes, you'll get one as'll suit
you, as Mrs. Marks suits her husband, he'd be nothing without her, and
though he brags and bullies about awful behind her back, he's like a
tame cat afore her. To every word he gives, she lets fly more than a
dozen. It's my belief she'd talk any man dumb in half an hour."
"A pleasant life for Marks, upon my soul! I no longer wonder he
frequents the public house."
"He don't go there often, Sir, don't think it. No, he most allays
manages to go on the sly, and it ain't so easy to 'scape her eyes.
Sometimes when he thinks she's safe at the wash-tub, he sneaks off; but
he darn't for the life of him go on if he hears her voice calling out
after him behind. Then he's forced to turn tail, and go back home with
it 'tween his legs, with scarce even a growl. But it 'grees with him, he
don't get so _very_ thin; most others would be worn to skin and bone
afore this. And now I'm in sight of the cottage, sir, so I needn't
trouble you to come any further, and I'm much beholden to you, Sir, for
coming so far."
But Charles Linchmore saw him safe to the door, then turned his horse's
head once more towards the Hall.
This time he had not long to wait at the Turnpike Gate. It was swung
open by a tall, bony, masculine looking woman,--apparently quite a match
for the thin, spare Pikeman--who wished him good night in a loud, shrill
voice.
"Mrs. Marks," thought Charles. "Her voice sounds hoarse, as though she
had been pitching into that unfortunate husband of hers pretty
considerably. I hope there's no second Mrs. M. to be had, or reserved
for me, as Grant half hinted, in some snug corner."
As he entered the Lodge gate, he wondered if Miss Neville had joined the
guests at dinner; who had taken her in, sat next her, and talked to her;
and whether he should find her the centre of an admiring circle, or
flirting in some "snuggery," or on the "causeuse," where he had had such
a desperate flirtation with his cousin, Frances Strickland, only a year
ago.
But he had scarcely taken half-a-dozen steps in the Hall, before he saw
her standing at the further end, by the large roaring Christmas fire.
He crossed at once to where she was; holding out his hand cordially,
forgetting in a moment all his savage thoughts and suspicions.
"Good evening, Miss Neville. You have not forgotten an old friend?"
Amy gave him her hand, but not quite so eagerly as it was clasped in
those strong fingers of his.
"The sight of the fire is quite cheering. I am half frozen with the
cold," continued he, drawing nearer to it.
"It is a bleak drive from the station; and I always fancy colder on that
road than any other."
"I rode it; and should have been warm enough if the frosty roads would
have allowed of a gallop. I met Grant, the head Keeper, as I came along,
and saw him home; it was too late for him to be out alone, and a price
set on his head by those cowardly ruffians, the poachers."
"You heard about the fight then. What a sad affair it was from beginning
to end. It has made us all nervous and fearful for Grant, as he gave
the principal evidence against the unfortunate man who was hung; and
they have vowed to be revenged on him; but Mr. Linchmore has doubled the
number of Keepers nearly, so we hope that will intimidate them."
"I hope it may; and now suppose we talk about something more lively; the
dinner for instance. How many people are here?"
"About thirty altogether. But they have all left the dining-room now
some little time. You are late."
"I meant to be. I hate dinners," he said crossly, half inclined to be
out of temper again, as of course she must be waiting for somebody out
there; otherwise why all alone?
"Here Bob," said he aloud, "here's room for you, old fellow; come and
warm your toes. He's no beauty, Miss Neville, is he?" and he glanced
inquiringly in her face. "Would she think him a horror, as his Cousin
Frances had done?
"Decidedly not," replied Amy, "but I like dogs."
"I am glad of it. I am very fond of Bob, I believe he is the only
creature who cares for me. By-the-by how is my sister's fat pet? Poor
beast, what a specimen of a dog he is! Bob and he never got on well
together."
"He is as asthmatic as ever, and has not had a fit for an age. I cannot
say what the sight of your dog may do, especially if he turns the right
side of his face towards him."
"Yes. That eye is certainly rather so-so; and the lip uncomfortably
short; but I am proud of those marks, and so is he; they are most
honourable wounds, and show he has borne the brunt of many a battle
without flinching."
While Amy and he both laughed, Frances Strickland came into the hall.
She glanced at the two in surprise, and stood for a moment irresolute.
Once she made as though she would have gone towards them, then turning,
went swiftly into the music-room; came back as softly, and with another
look re-entered the drawing-room.
Closing the door, her eyes wandered restlessly until they fixed their
gaze on Mrs. Linchmore, who, seated on the music stool, was carelessly
turning the pages of a book, while two or three young men seemed eagerly
proffering their services, or selecting from among a number of songs the
one she was to sing.
An expression of disappointment flitted over Frances' face while going
towards the piano. One of the gentlemen had just moved away to another
part of the room. So laying down the music she held in her hand, she
advanced towards the vacant seat, and had nearly secured it, when it was
filled by another, just as Mrs. Linchmore began one of the airs from
"Lurline."
Again that vexed, baffled look, with a dimly perceptible frown. As she
turned away, Anne Bennet rose and seated herself by Julia.
"Look at Frances, Maggie," whispered she, "and tell me what you see in
her face."
"What should I see?" laughed Julia, "but pride. I have never been able
to find any other expression."
"Then you are a greater simpleton than I; and if I had the stick the
fool gave to the king on his death bed, you should have it; for I see a
great deal more."
"Wise sister Anne. What do you see?"
"An angry, spiteful, vexed look; as if she had seen a ghost in the
music-room, where I know she went just now."
"Nonsense! Even if she had it would not frighten her, she would think it
had only made its appearance to fall down and worship her; and would
spurn it with her foot."
"I am certain she saw something out there, and I am determined to see
what it was."
"Of course," said Julia demurely, "and here comes Mr. Hall to help you."
"Always coming when he is not wanted," exclaimed Anne crossly. "I shall
not say a word to him; or if I do, I will be abominably rude."
Quite unconscious of what was awaiting him Mr. Hall advanced, and said
good humouredly,
"I have been thinking Miss Anne, where we shall go to-morrow for the
walk you have so kindly threatened me with."
"It will most likely pour in torrents," replied she.
"I do not anticipate it, the glass is rising, so there is every prospect
of our walk coming off; and if I might be allowed to choose, I know of a
very lovely one, even in winter time."
"That is impossible," said she sharply, "everything looks cold and
bleak."
"Not while the snow remains in the branches of the trees; even then the
Oak Glen can never look ugly; the large rocks prevent that."
"The Oak Glen! Oh, pray do not trouble yourself to take me there; I will
lead you blind-fold." That will settle him, thought she.
But no, Mr. Hall was not to be defeated in that style, and went on again
quite unconcernedly.
"You have sketched it, perhaps. It would make a lovely painting."
"I do not paint; that is to say only caricatures of people that make
themselves ridiculous." That must finish him, thought she, as Julia
gave her dress a slight pull.
But Mr. Hall had not the slightest idea of leaving, and seemed as though
he heard not; and quite out of temper Anne said;
"What are you pulling at my dress for, Julia? I think she has a secret
to tell me Mr. Hall, so you really must go away."
"I dare say it will keep until to-morrow," replied the impenetrable Mr.
Hall; "young ladies never have any very serious secrets."
"You are quite right, Mr. Hall," said Julia, "my secret will keep very
well until to-morrow."
"What a wretch he is!" thought Anne, tapping her tiny foot impatiently
on the ground; "Isabella will have finished that song soon, and then it
will be too late. How tiresome I cannot get rid of him, when every
moment is so precious."
"Mr. Hall," said she aloud, "If Julia's secret will keep, mine will not;
and since you are determined to remain here, why you must be a sharer in
it; there is no help for it."
"By all means," replied he, coolly, "I am all attention."
"You will only hear part of it; but men are so curious, I dare say you
will soon ferret out the rest. Can I trust you?"
"Of course. It is only the fair sex that are not to be trusted."
"I have no time to quarrel with you, or I would resent such a rude
speech. Now will you attend, please. I am going to ask you to help
me--that is if you will."
"Certainly I will. I am all attention."
"I am desirous of leaving the room without Miss Strickland's knowledge;
can you help me to manage it?"
"Is that all? You shall see."
He went over to where Frances still stood by the piano; with huge,
ungainly strides, as though a newly ploughed field was under his feet,
instead of the soft velvet carpet.
"What an awkward bear he is!" said Anne to her sister, as she watched
him; "I shall give him a hint to get drilled, or become a volunteer
parson, he would be sure to shoot himself the very first time he
handled a rifle; do only look at him Mag, he is like a large tub
rolling along."
"Do not abuse him Anne, see how quickly he has done what you wished; I
am sure he deserves praise for that."
"I wish he always would do what I wish; and then I should not be
tormented with him so often," replied Anne.