THE RETURN TO BROXBRIDGE HALL――THE FARMER AND HIS DAUGHTER.
Lord Ethalwood was a little surprised upon finding his grand-daughter
returning so suddenly. He had expected her to remain in the metropolis
for another fortnight at the very least. He was, however, but too glad
to have her back, and, therefore, did not care to inquire the reason
for her sudden return. He knew her to be capricious――a little
wilful――and concluded that she was satiated of pleasure, and was,
therefore, but too glad to have rest and quiet at Broxbridge――any way,
he felt he was the gainer. He soon discovered from her manner that she
was much more reserved and serious than she had been prior to her
visit to the metropolis; the reason for this he could not very well
make out.
The crucial question, if we may so term it, had to be put――the
intelligence in respect to the law proceedings had to be made known to
Aveline.
This difficult and delicate task was reserved for the diplomatic Lady
Marvlynn, for the earl did not care to broach the question himself. He
was too dignified for that――besides, it would come better from her
female adviser and friend; and so, after a playful prelude and a good
deal of beating about the bush, Lady Marvlynn came to the point, and
informed her young charge of the legal proceedings.
Aveline looked awe-stricken.
“And, pray, who has had the presumption to give these orders without
consulting me?” she exclaimed. “I am the fit and proper person to
determine, and no other.”
“My dear child,” said Lady Marvlynn, “you really must not spoil your
beautiful features by displaying this excess of anger. Who do you
suppose――not me, surely?”
“I have not accused you as yet, Lady Marvlynn,” cried Aveline. “It
will be time enough for you to answer when I do.”
Her ladyship laughed good-humouredly.
“You know, my dear girl, that whatever you choose to say will always
be taken in good part as far as I am individually concerned――so leave
off pouting. Sit down and lend me your attentive ear, or rather ears.”
“Well, what more have you to say?” returned Aveline, dropping into the
nearest chair.
“The earl your grandfather, the head of the house and master of
Broxbridge,” said Lady Marvlynn, emphasising her words with more than
her usual care, “has thought fit in his wisdom to take upon himself
the responsibility of getting you released from the thraldom which, to
say the truth, has been to him for a long time almost insupportable.”
“To him?”
“Yes, my dear, to him, and――but this is only hypothetical――he presumes
that it is insupportable to his darling pet also, for what constitutes
his happiness or misery applies with equal force to his grandchild.”
“And have you told him?” exclaimed Aveline, as her brow darkened.
“I have told him nothing,” said her ladyship, still more emphatically.
“It is not likely I should do so, and you will pardon the observation,
but it is by no means complimentary to me to offer such a suggestion.”
“Oh, pardon――pardon me! I was wrong, I know it!” cried Aveline,
throwing herself forward and clasping her companion round the neck
with every expression of fondness.
“Say no more, darling, upon that head. You will find it indeed
difficult to offend me. This is but a passing cloud; but my charge
must learn to control her feelings――she really must. In the
fashionable world these sudden emotions are quite out of place――they
are, indeed. Well-bred people never suffer themselves to give way to
violent demonstrations. Besides, dear, anger or rage is a sore
destroyer of beauty.”
“I care not for beauty, and am but as nature made me. I will not give
my consent to this suit against my husband.”
“You surely do not mean to say that you will oppose the wishes of Earl
Ethalwood?”
“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” said Aveline, bursting into a flood of
tears. “I am the most miserable creature in the whole creation.”
“I should have thought――――” exclaimed her ladyship, pausing suddenly.
“Should have thought what?”
“Well, I don’t know. May I speak plainly?”
“Certainly.”
“And you promise not to be offended?”
“I promise.”
“I should have thought, after what we both witnessed at the opera,
that you would have no hesitation――――”
“And assuming it was a mistake――an error, he might have gone thither
with some relative――a friend’s wife, perhaps. It surely must be so.”
Lady Marvlynn shrugged her shoulders and shook her head.
“We are most of us prone to put the worst construction on the matter
in cases of this sort.”
“All I can say is, I hope we have.”
“But you do not think so?”
“I confess I do not.”
“Very well. Nothing ought to be done till we have made further
inquiries, if it be as you think.”
“As I think?”
“Well, say me, if you like. If it be so, then, indeed, I shall not
hesitate for one moment.”
“So be it, Aveline. We will make further inquiries, and so let the
matter rest for the present. You are a dear darling girl,” and with
these words the speaker embraced her young charge fondly.
“Do not pain the earl by any allusion to this subject for the
present,” cried her ladyship.
“I promise not to do so.”
And so the interview ended.
Patty Jamblin, who had returned with Aveline, did not remain long at
Broxbridge Hall. She was anxious about her father, and on the
following day hastened at once to Stoke Ferry Farm.
The honest old farmer was almost beside himself with joy when his eyes
lighted on the sweet and innocent face of his only child.
She was the only solace he had in his declining years, and for her he
seemed to live. Patty was pleased to find that the old man was looking
very much better than she expected to see him.
It had been a sore trial, the loss of his son Philip, but he had borne
up against the misfortune with great fortitude, and appeared to be
more himself.
“I dunno how I shud ’a got on wi’out ee,” said the farmer, “hadn’t it
a bin for John Ashbrook. He took compassion on the old man, ye zee,
and has gi’en me as much of his company as he could well spare.”
“I’m sure it’s very kind of him,” said Patty, “and I shall always feel
grateful for the timely service he has rendered. Where is he now?”
“Oh, he be here.”
“Here?”
“Well, lass, not ’xactly here, I don’t mean that; but he be about a
lookin’ after the men. Ye see he’s been my right hand, aye, and the
left too I’m thinkin’.”
Patty found Stoke Ferry Farm as clean as a pink, both inside and out.
During her absence it had been put in thorough repair. It was never
much out of order, but now it was a perfect model in its way.
The house was a substantial affair, as red and ugly as a British
uniform, relieved at the corners with white stone facings.
Whether the farmer had sent word to John Ashbrook or not it would be
difficult to determine. The fact, however, was clearly demonstrated.
Patty had not been in the house half an hour before Ashbrook made his
appearance in the large room which served as a parlour.
He was, as usual, very attentive to the farmer’s daughter, and that
was all.
But anyone who saw them together would not be far out in their
reckoning if they came to the conclusion that he had a sneaking
fondness for her.
Old Jamblin was a sociable man, and very few evenings passed in which
some neighbour did not drop in to smoke a pipe, have a glass of grog,
or a hand at short whist.
During Patty’s absence John Ashbrook had paid frequent visits to her
father.
After her return he did not seem disposed to leave at all.
“Dall it! but John ’ud mek her a good husband,” muttered the farmer.
“The Jamblins and Ashbrooks wer med to run in pairs. Patty and John
’ill go together as nat’ral as half-and-half.”
As these were his sentiments he gave the young people every
opportunity of sweethearting, as he termed it.
And he was perpetually finding excuses for putting on his thick boots
to go into the yard.
Jamblin was known to be a rich man. His father had left him a good sum
at his death, to which he had been adding for years.
The only wonder was that his daughter had not a host of candidates for
her hand.
By-and-bye it came to be rumoured among the old women who gossipped
over their brown sugar and tea, and among the farmers and dealers on
“’Change” on market day, and among the servants in their Sunday
strolls, that John Ashbrook, of Oakfield House, was keeping company
with Miss Jamblin, of Stoke Ferry.
As soon as this fact was established Stoke Ferry became the focus of
twenty radiating hearts. Then intelligent agriculturists could only
discover that Patty Jamblin was a catch both for wealth and beauty by
the time that a good-looking and (for a farmer) a passably talkative
young man had got a footing ahead of them.
But this, doubtless, most of my readers may have observed is often the
case. On Sunday evenings Stoke Ferry was like a fair, and the
consumption of spirits and tobacco would have shed honour upon an
assemblage of medical students; but even gin and water did not
embolden these visitors to make more than sheep’s eyes at the fairy
who had drawn them there.
These silent tributes flattered her vanity without putting her to the
trouble of paining their’s. She had, however, one suitor who was
really unfortunate.
This was no other than Mr. Nettlethorpe, a new neighbour of Jamblin’s,
but a man whom he despised; he was one of the most cheeseparing,
meanest men in the whole county.
At one time he had been a money-lender, but of later years he had
chosen to try his hand at farming, about which he knew next door to
nothing.
Although Jamblin had a great antipathy to him, he could not, as a
neighbour, be positively rude to him.
“I hate the man,” said Jamblin, “but one can’t shut the door in his
face. Pipple say he’s been dangling after you, but of course you think
nothing of such a varmint――a fellow with a set of cows not worth
opening and shutting a gate after. Why, you might hang yer hat on thur
hipbones. He a farmer! A pretty notion he has of farming. He let his
plough stand to kill a mouse, and instead of dunging twelve cartloads
to the acre, as everybody else does, he doesn’t dung twelve
barrowfuls. And his horses, too! He thinks it’s a saving to starve ’em
till they’ve got as weak as chickens, and can’t do any work. Why, you
can see ’em reel as they go up the road.”
“He has a very nice house,” said Patty.
“Nice, indeed. It’s Mock Beggar Hall, foine outside, but nat’rally
barren within. There aint much more than carp pie for his wife in the
larder, I’ll be bound, for he beant the sort to keep more cats in his
house than’ll kill mice.”
“He’s got a very nice sister.”
Farmer Jamblin burst out into a loud laugh.
“Has he?” he cried; “well that’s a matter of ’pinion, Patty. She be as
wretched and ignorant a little nat’ral as ye’d find in a day’s
tramping. Did I ever tell ’ee? I was riding by the house one day, and
she came out with her back hair flying loose, and crying ready to
split herself. Dear, dear, thought I, brother been took with a fit of
remorse and killed hisself. ‘Oh, Mr. Jamblin,’ cried she, ‘what shall
I do? My poor duck is so ill――she’s got fast on the nest and I can’t
move her off.’ Oh, oh, that was a larfable ditty.”
“But she hasn’t been brought up to farming, father,” suggested Patty.
“That beant it, gell. She be mean and close-fisted like her brother.
Do you know what she did?”
“No.”
“She watered the men’s beer when she sent it out to ’em in the hay
harvest. Why, if you put one drop of water into beer it’s spoilt
directly. It is so different to spirits. She ought to have been made
to drink it.” The farmer paused suddenly, and then said, in a lower
tone, “but here, as I’m alive, comes the very man hisself. I say,
Patty, can’t ’ee manage to chuck him off somehow? I can’t send him
away, and it gives me the sick every time as I sees him.”
She answered with a cunning little smile. Her father went out into the
fields, and Mr. Nettlethorpe found Patty alone in the parlour, sewing.
He stammered a good morning, and sat down clumsily on a chair.
Nettlethorpe, the miser-farmer, as he was called――for in many respects
he resembled the far-famed old Elwes――was a tall meagre-looking man
with bright red hair.
He carried pinch and starve in broad letters upon his features, which
were angular, and also on his clothes which were patched and
threadbare.
“Are you not well, Mr. Nettlethorpe?” inquired Patty, with an
appearance of interest, as she saw her visitor shifting about on his
seat as uneasily as if he had been on the top of a kitchen oven.
“Quite well, thank you. The fact is, I――I came over to――to see you.”
“Oh, indeed, you flatter me.”
“Do I? I think not. I did not mean to do so, but――”
“Yes, exactly, I understand. Pay your respects to me and all out of
pure disinterested friendship.”
“That’s just it.”
“So I thought; but you have some dust on your coat,” said she, patting
him on the shoulder under the pretext of dusting it.
This made her lover blush from the nape of the neck to the tip of his
long, ungainly nose.
It also emboldened him to seize her hand and to cry――
“Oh, Miss Jamblin, you are so good and kind, so beautiful, and you
make me feel so happy.”
“Do I?”
“Oh, yes, indeed you do. Will you consent to make me happier still?”
“How can I do that, Mr. Nettlethorpe?”
“By giving me your hand. By consenting to become my wife and mistress
of my house.”
Mr. Nettlethorpe appended a huge sigh to this request. It might have
been a gasp of relief――it might have proceeded from some tenderer
emotion.
Patty at first turned away her head――it might be supposed to hide her
maiden blushes――it might be to conceal a roguish smile――or, probably,
to consider her answer. Then she said――
“But your sister is mistress of your house now, and perhaps she might
not like to part with the keys,” observed Patty, keeping her
countenance in a most wonderful way.
“She shall leave the house directly you come into it. I pledge my word
as to that. She can go back to her mother, who resides in London.”
He glanced at her with what he intended to be an expression of love,
but it struck her as being irresistibly comic.
Nettlethorpe regarded the coy beauty with a somewhat dubious
expression.
Patty remained silent.
“What say you?” he inquired.
“Oh, I am afraid to answer. You know I have such a prodigious
appetite. I am afraid I should eat you out of house and home, and
folks do say that you don’t often light the kitchen fire in your
house. I couldn’t bear the idea of being starved.”
“You shall have anything you wish, my dear Miss Jamblin,” cried her
red-haired supplicant, with a sudden impulse of prospective
generosity. “You shall go shopping yourself, and marketing yourself,
just whenever you please.”
“I fear, sir, I should not be stewardly enough for your wife, and that
you would be too stewardly for my husband. Were it in my power to give
you my hand, I must tell you candidly, Mr. Nettlethorpe, that it never
would be yours. When I marry, I marry a man not a savings-box; a man
who spends his money, and does good with it, and who does not keep it
piled up in a heap till it decays; a man who does not think it sinful
or extravagant to enjoy a few innocent pleasures, and who will give me
a good dinner and eat one himself every day in the year.”
“Miss Jamblin, I am astounded. Do you suppose I am so mean that I
should begrudge my wife the necessaries of life. A good dinner! You
don’t suppose I am likely to starve you, or anyone else, for the
matter of that?”
“I will take good care you don’t starve me, Mr. Nettlethorpe.”
“You wrong me――indeed you do. These observations are most uncalled
for.”
“Are they?”
“Most certainly they are. But I see how it is――some mischievous,
evil-disposed person has been prejudicing you against me――――”
“No such thing;” your name has not been mentioned to me by anyone, and
I am sure nobody has spoken against you. It is not at all likely.”
“Then am I to understand, madam,” exclaimed the miserly farmer, “that
you decline to listen to my suit?”
“You may understand that without a doubt.”
“And why, pray?”
“I am already engaged, Mr. Nettlethorpe. This is a very cogent
reason.”
“Then why couldn’t you say so at first, without all this cursed
preaching?”
“Your hat, Mr. Nettlethorpe!”
“When you have spent all your money, come and borrow some of me, and
you shall have it at sixty per cent.”
“Your stick, Mr. Nettlethorpe!”
“Dash the stick! Let it stay where it is. It’ll do for your husband to
lay across your back when you’ve made a fool of him.”
[Sidenote: No. 43.]
[Illustration: THE NOTTINGHAM SILK ROBBERY.]
“Thank you. I will keep it in memory of you.”
Nettlethorpe burst out of the room, and went home, snapping like a mad
dog at everything he met.
“I’ve got rid of your pest,” cried Patty, when her father entered the
parlour, after Nettlethorpe’s departure; “and I don’t think we are
likely to be troubled again with him for some time to come.”
“Hast thee given ’im his answer, lass?” said the farmer.
“Well, I fancy so.”
“An’ what did ’ee want, Patty?”
“He made me an offer.”
“Of what?”
“His hand and heart.”
The farmer burst out in a roar of laughter.
“He must be mad to mek’ such an offer. His hand and heart! Why, the
mean hound hasn’t got any. Heart indeed! But ye gev’ him an answer?
Ye’d be sure to do that.”
“Oh, yes, he’s got his answer, father.”
“Good gell. It be loike ’is impudence. I hate ’im as I hate the
measles or wire worm. An’ he aint o’ no good to man nor woman either.”