Mrs. Hill had a pretty little bedizened boudoir, blue silk hangings
elegantly festooned with bird cages; couches and divans for its
mistress's dogs and cats; with a spare seat for a friend who might
venture in at any time for a dish of private chit-chat with the lady of
the Hall. Into this apartment I was confidentially drawn by Mrs. Hill on
the morning after my moonlight conversation with John, as with heavy
eyes and hectic cheeks, but with a saucy tongue in reserve, specially
sharpened, and a chin held at the extreme angle of self-complacency and
no toleration of interference from others, I was sailing majestically
down-stairs to put my melancholy finger as usual into the pie of the
pleasures and pastimes of the day.
"Come in, my dear," she said mysteriously, with her finger to her lip,
nodding her little fat face good-humouredly at me, and making all her
little curls shake. "I think you are a very safe person, my love, and,
besides, so fond of Rachel. I would not trouble you with my news, only
that it is a secret, and a secret is a thing that I never could endure
for any length of time without bringing on hysterics. You are not fond
of my darlings, I know. There, we will send away the noisiest."
And Mrs. Hill hereupon tumbled some half-dozen fluffy bodies out of the
window on to the verandah below, and stood for the next few moments
wagging her head and coquetting down at the ill-tempered little brutes,
who whined and scowled their resentment of the disrespectful treatment
they had received.
"Ho, my beauties! run, skip, jump!" cried the lady, throwing up her
little fat arms. And the dogs, rolling their bodies away into the sun at
last, her attention returned to me.
"I must first tell you, my love," said she, drawing a letter from her
pocket, and smoothing it open on her knee, "I must first confide to you
in strict secresy that our dear Rachel is engaged to be married."
Here the ecstatic fury of the singing-birds reached such a deafening
climax that their mistress was obliged to pause in her communication,
and to go round the room dropping extinguishers of silk and muslin over
the cages. "When the pie was opened the birds began to sing," thought I,
the pie being Mrs. Hill's budget, and I had also time to consider that
John must have sat up very late last night, or risen very early this
morning, to have matters already so very happily matured. "I wonder if
Grace would mind travelling a day sooner than she named," was the third
thought that went whizzing through my head before Mrs. Hill could
proceed any further with the news that she had in store for me.
"Yes," said Mrs. Hill, "it is true that we are destined to lose her, and
it is very kind and sympathising of you, my dear, to look so miserable.
You can readily imagine how I shall suffer--I, who have loved that girl
far more than if I had been ten times over her mother." And the little
lady wiped her eyes. "I told you, my dear, that the matter is a secret.
Old Sir Arthur wants his son to marry another lady, and Arthur Noble
cannot marry without his father's consent. But, in the meantime, the
children are engaged, hoping for better days. And now there is a letter
from the dear fellow saying he will be here this evening. Only I am not
to tell Rachel, as he wants to surprise her. You will keep my counsel,
Miss Dacre?"
I murmured, "Oh, certainly;" but the things in the room were swimming
about strangely, and my wits were astray.
"And do you know, my dear (I feel I can trust you thoroughly), do you
know I am exceedingly glad of this for many reasons. I have noticed poor
young Hollingford! Rachel is an attractive creature, and I fear a little
inconsiderate. But the queen of beauty must be excused, my dear, and she
is a queen, our Rachel. We cannot help the moths getting round the
candle, can we?"
After this I curtsied, and made my escape as quickly as possible. "Poor
young Hollingford! Oh, John, John! why have you brought yourself so low
as this?" I cried across the wood to the farm chimneys.
My children, there is a rambling old garden at the back of the hall, a
spot which the sun never leaves. Wild tangles of shadow fall now as then
on the paths, from the gnarled branches of moss-eaten apple-trees. In
the season of fruit, blushing peaches and plums, yellow and transparent
as honey, hung from its ancient lichen-covered walls. Raspberry
brambles, borne out of their ranks by the weight of their crimson
berries, strayed across the path. There were bee-hives ranged against
the fiery creeper on the far-end wall, and the booming of the bees made
a drowsy atmosphere in the place. This, together with the odour of
stocks and wallflowers, was deliciously perceived as soon as your hand
lifted the latch of the little green door, and regretfully missed when
you closed it behind you.
You know it, my children. I need not tell you that it is a homely
retreat compared with the other gardens near, costly, curious, and prim,
where the beds are like enormous bouquets dropped on the grass, and the
complexion of every flower is suited with that of its neighbour. But
this old garden was always a favourite, for its unfailing sunshine, its
murmurous repose, and the refreshing fragrance of its old-fashioned
odours.
Well, my dears, all day long I stayed in my room, fighting a battle of
sorrow and passion, and when evening came I stood at the window and saw
the sun go down behind the trees of the old garden. I bethought me of
its soothing sights and sounds, and fled away to it, as to a sanctuary.
There is an arbour under the wall, in the midst of a bed of lilies. I
hid myself there, and looked out on the lily-cups brimming with sunset
light, on the diving up and down of the birds, on the little golden
clouds transfixed in the glory of the heavens. Not a soul breathed
within the four high walls but myself, till the latch of the little
green door clicked, and who should come hieing along the path but
Rachel, her white evening dress tucked to one side, and a watering-pot
in her hand. She had a favourite corner in this garden, which it was her
pleasure to tend with her own hands. The sun was down, and the plants
were thirsting. Rachel was kind to all: kind to the daisies and me, kind
to John, kind to her betrothed, Arthur Noble (I had not failed to pick
up the name), who was coming this evening to surprise her. When and in
what corner would the kindness end and cruelty begin? Watching through a
rent screen of tangled flowers, the fair shapely figure flitting and
swaying in the after glory of the sunset, I wondered about it all. How
would she act when her other lover arrived? Would she turn her face, in
which lived such pathetic truth, first on one, and then on the other?
Would she for a time give a hand in the dark to each, lacking courage to
fling love for ever over her shoulder, and declare at once for the
world? Would she honestly dismiss John, confessing that she had chosen
her path? or would she bravely destroy that which was unholy, and give
her hand to him before the world? Contemplating this possibility, I felt
my heart swell with something that was not selfishness; and I built a
palace in the air for John.
Having done so, I heard the garden door click again, and starting,
looked, expecting to see John coming in to take possession of his palace
on the instant. A man came in, but he was a stranger. He took first one
path, and then another, and glanced about him with eyes unused to the
place. Here, then, was Arthur Noble, arrived. He passed along the path
below the lily-bed, and I saw him well. He was a fine-looking fellow,
sunburnt, like one who had seen foreign service, and handsome:
physically handsomer than John, I could see, with more of the dash of
gallantry and air of the grand gentleman, but with less of that
something I have hinted at before, soul, spirituality--what shall I call
it, my dears, to escape being smiled at? You have known John
Hollingford, and you will recognise the charm that I mean, something
that--sick, or afflicted, or disfigured, or aged--must always make him
lovable, and attract the pure of heart to his side.
Well, Arthur Noble was of a different stamp. How he would have looked
out of the sunshine of prosperity, I do not know; but he seemed made to
be gilt by it from head to foot. He had a pleasant face, sunny and
frank, a high-bred, masterful air, and an amiable courtly manner.
Physically he had all the fine points of a Saxon hero, fair hair, blue
eyes, powerful frame. Yet, gay, and debonnair, and happy as he looked, I
pitied him a little, going past to find Rachel. A little, not a great
deal, for I judged him (wrongly, as it afterwards proved) to be one who
would love lightly, and be easily consoled by a world whose darling he
must be.
I saw their meeting, and John's aërial palace crumbled away into dust.
There was no mistaking Rachel's face, the glow that transfigured it when
she turned by chance and saw the figure advancing towards her. She
sprang to meet him with hands extended, gown tucked aside as it was, and
visibly flying feet; and he, striding on, opened his arms to receive
her, and folded them reverently about her, like a true knight embracing
his bride.
"And what about John?" I said angrily, as I watched the two walking up
and down between the roses, talking as eagerly and joyously as if they
had just received a charter for perpetual happiness.
That was a dull evening for some of us at the Hall. Rachel and her
betrothed sat apart and talked. Grace played chess with Mr. Hill, and,
to escape from Captain Tyrrell, I kept close to Mrs. Hill.
"I am quite in a dilemma, my dear," she whispered to me. "There is young
Hollingford, who has been coming about the Hall so much, and will be
coming about; and then here is Arthur Noble; and you know, my dear, or
perhaps you do not know that there has been a deadly feud between their
fathers. They were once friends; but poor Mr. Hollingford--you know all
about him, and Sir Arthur Noble was a heavy loser. Sir Arthur is very
vindictive, I must say. I do not think his son is of the same temper,
but it might be unpleasant, their meeting. Mr. Hill, who is quite
bewitched about young Hollingford, will say, 'Pooh pooh! let the lads
meet and be friends;' but I am not at all so sure that there will not be
an awkwardness. I declare I am quite at my wits' end."
I professed myself unable to give advice on this subject; and, indeed, I
felt that I ought now to regard myself as a dying person, who has no
further concern with the interests and people around me. I saw a reason
why John Hollingford and Mr. Noble were not likely to be friends, even
if their fathers had been brothers. And the little lady's petty
grievance worried me. And all things troubled me, for in three days I
was to leave Hillsbro' for London with the Tyrrells.