BEVERLEY MANOR
Why does a country gentleman invariably select the worst room in the
house for his own private apartment, in which he transacts what he is
pleased to call his "business," and spends the greater part of his time?
At Beverley Manor there were plenty of rooms, cheerful, airy, and
well-proportioned, in which it would have been a pleasure to live, but
none of these were chosen by Sir Harry for his own; disregarding the
charms of the saloon, the drawing-room, the morning-room, the
billiard-room, and the hall itself, which, with a huge fire-place and a
thick carpet, was by no means the least comfortable part of the
house,--he had retired to a small, ill-contrived, queer-shaped
apartment, dark, dusty, and uncomfortable, of which the only
recommendation was that it communicated directly with a back-staircase
and offices, and did not require in its own untidiness any apology on
the part of muddy visitors, who had not thought of wiping their boots
and shoes as they came up. A large glass gun-case, filled with
double-barrels, occupied one side of the room, flanked by book-shelves,
loaded with such useful but not entertaining works as the _Racing
Calendar_, _White's Farriery_, and _Hawker's Instructions to Young
Sportsmen_. In one corner was a whip-stand, hung round with many an
instrument of torture. The knotted dog-whip that reduced Ponto to
reason in the golden stubbles; the long-thonged hunting-whip, that
brought to mind at once the deep, fragrant woodland in November, with
its scarlet coats flitting down the distant ride; and the straight,
punishing "cut-and-thrust," that told of Derby and St. Leger, Ditch-In,
Middle-Mile, and all the struggles of Epsom and Newmarket. In another
was an instrument for measuring land, and a roll of plans by which acres
were to be calculated and a system of thorough draining established,
with a view to golden profits.
"Draining!" remarked Sir Harry, in his younger days, to an assemblage of
country gentlemen, who stood aghast at the temerity of his proposition,
"I am no advocate for draining:"--voices were raised, and hands uplifted
in pious horror and deprecation--"all I can say is, gentlemen, that I
have drained my property till _I cannot get a farthing from it_" was Sir
Harry's conclusive reasoning, which must have satisfied Mr. Mechi
himself.
A coloured engraving of the well-known Beverley shorthorn "Dandy" hung
on one side of the fire-place, and on the other, a print of "Flying
Childers," as he appeared when going at the rate of a mile in a minute,
apparently ridden by a highwayman in huge jack-boots and a flowing
periwig. In the centre of the room was fixed a large leather-covered
writing-table, and at this table sat Sir Harry himself, prepared to
administer justice and punish all offenders. He was a tall, thin man,
somewhat bent, and bald, with a hooked nose, and a bright, searching
eye, evidently a thorough man of the world in thought, opinion, and
feeling; the artificial will become second nature if long enough
persisted in, and Sir Harry had served no short apprenticeship to the
trade of fashion. His dress was peculiarly neat and gentleman-like, not
the least what is now termed "slang," and yet with a something in it
that marked the horseman. He was busy writing when we were ushered into
the awful presence, and Victor and I had time to steal a look at each
other, and to exchange a reassuring pressure of the hand. The young
Hungarian raised his head frank and fearless as usual; I felt that I
should like to sink into the ground, but yet was determined to stand by
my friend.
Mr. Barrells commenced a long oration, in which he was rapidly losing
himself, when his master, whose attention was evidently occupied
elsewhere, suddenly looked up, and cut him short with the pertinent
inquiry--
"What's all this about, Barrells? and why are these lads here?"
"We are gentlemen, and not poachers;" and "Indeed, sir, it was Bold that
got away!" exclaimed Victor and I simultaneously.
At this instant a card was brought in by the butler, and placed in Sir
Harry's hand; he looked at it for a moment, and then said--
"Immediate! very well, show the gentleman in."
I thought I knew the step that came along the passage, but never was
failing courage more grateful for assistance than was mine to recognise
in Sir Harry's visitor the familiar person of my schoolfellow, Ropsley;
I cared not a farthing for the promised licking now.
"I have to apologise for disturbing you, Sir Harry," said he, standing
as composed and collected as if he were in our schoolroom at
Everdon;--even in the anxiety of the moment I remember thinking, "What
would I give to possess 'manner' such as his;"--"I have to apologise for
my rudeness" (Sir Harry bowed, and said, "Not at all;" I wondered what
he meant by _that_), "but I am sure you will excuse me when I tell you
that I am a pupil of Mr. March's at Everdon" (Sir Harry looked at the
tall, well-dressed figure before him, and seemed surprised), "and these
two young friends of mine belong to the same establishment. I heard
quite accidentally, only an hour ago, of the scrape they had got into,
and I immediately hurried over here to assure you that they can have had
no evil intentions in trespassing on your property, and to apologise for
their thoughtlessness, partly out of respect to you, Sir Harry, and
partly, I am bound to say, for the credit of the school. I am quite
sure that neither Egerton nor De Rohan----"
Sir Harry started. "Egerton! De Rohan!" he exclaimed; "not the son of
my old friend Philip Egerton, not young Count de Rohan?--really,
Mr.----" (he looked at the card he held in his hand), "really, Mr.
Ropsley, I am very much obliged to you for rectifying this extraordinary
mistake;" but even whilst he was speaking, I had run round the table to
where he sat, and seizing his hand--I remember how cold it felt between
my own little hot, trembling ones--exclaimed--
"Oh! do you know my papa? then I am sure you will not punish us; only
let us off this time, and give me back Bold, and we will promise never
to come here again."
The Baronet was not a demonstrative person, nor had he much patience
with those who were; he pushed me from him, I thought rather coldly, and
addressed himself once more to Ropsley.
"Why, these boys are sons of two of the oldest friends I have in the
world. I would not have had such a thing happen for a thousand pounds.
I must apologise to you, young gentlemen, for the rudeness of my
servants--Good heavens! ou were kept waiting in the hall: why on earth
did you not give your names? Your father and I were at college
together, Egerton; and as for you, Monsieur le Comte, had I known you
were at Everdon, I would have made a point of going over to call upon
you myself; but I have only just returned to the country, and that must
be my excuse."
Victor bowed gracefully: notwithstanding his torn jacket and disordered
collar, he looked "the young Count" all over, and so I am sure thought
Sir Harry. Ropsley was perfectly _gentlemanlike_, but Victor was
naturally _high bred_.
"Barrells, where are you going, Barrells?" resumed his master, for that
discreet person, seeing the turn things were taking, was quietly leaving
the room; "you always were the greatest fool that ever stood upon two
legs: now let this be a warning to you--every vagabond in the county
helps himself to my game whenever he pleases, and you never lay a finger
on one of them; at last you insult and abuse two young gentlemen that
any one but a born idiot could see were gentlemen, and bring them in
here for poachers--_poachers!_ as if you didn't know a poacher when you
see one. Don't stand gaping there, you fool, but be off, and the other
blockhead too. Hie! here; let the dog be attended to, and one of the
watchers must lead him back to Everdon when he's well again. Now see to
that, and never make such a stupid mistake again."
"May I go and see Bold, sir?" said I, summoning up courage as my late
captors quitted the room.
"Quite right, my little man," replied the Baronet, "so you shall, this
evening; but in the meantime, I hope you'll all stay and dine with me.
I'll write to your master--what's his name?--and send you back in the
carriage at night; what say you, Mr. Ropsley? I can give you a capital
bottle of claret."
So here were we, who one short hour before had been making up our minds
to endure with fortitude the worst that could happen,--who had expected
to be driven with ignominy from Beverley, and handed over to condign
punishment on our return to school, if indeed we were fortunate enough
to escape committal and imprisonment in the County Gaol,--now installed
as honoured guests in the very mansion which we had so long looked upon
as a _terra incognita_ of fairyland, free to visit the "hins-and-houts"
of Beverley, with no thanks to the "King of Naples" for his assistance,
and, in short, raised at one step from the abyss of schoolboy despair to
the height of schoolboy gratification. Victor's delight was even
greater than mine as we were shown into a pretty little dressing-room
overlooking the garden, to wash our hands before dinner. He said it
reminded him of home, and made him feel "like a gentleman" once more.
What a dinner that was to which we sat down in the stately old
dining-room, served upon massive plate by a butler and two footmen,
whose magnificence made me feel quite shy in my comparative
insignificance. Ropsley of course seemed as much at home as if he was
in the habit of dining there every day, and Victor munched away with an
appetite that seemed to afford our good-natured host immense
gratification. Soup and fish, _entrees_ of every description, hashed
venison, iced champagne--how grateful after our hot pursuit in the
summer sun--and all the minor luxuries of silver forks, clean napkins,
finger-glasses, etc., were indeed a contrast to the plain roast mutton
and potatoes, the two-pronged fork, and washy table-beer of our Everdon
bill-of-fare. What I liked, though, better than all the eatables and
drinkables, was a picture opposite which I sat, and which riveted my
attention so much as to attract the observation of Sir Harry himself.
"Ha! Egerton," said he, "you are your father all over, I see. Just
like him, wild about painting. Now I'll bet my life you're finding
fault with the colouring of that picture. The last time he was here he
vowed, if I would let him, he would paint it all over again; and yet
it's one of the best pictures in England at this moment. What do you
think of it, my boy? Could you paint as good a one?"
"No, sir," I replied modestly, and rather annoyed at my reverie being
interrupted; "my father tries to teach me, but--but I cannot learn to
paint."
Sir Harry turned away, and Ropsley whispered something about "very
odd"--"poor little fellow." The dessert had just been put on the table,
and Victor was busy with his strawberries and cream. There must be some
truth in magnetism, there must be something in the doctrine of
attraction and repulsion: why do we like some people as we dislike
others, without any shadow of a reason? Homoeopathists tell us that the
nausea which contracts our features at the smell of a drug, is a
provision of Nature to guard us against poison. Can it be that these
antipathies are implanted in our being to warn us of those who shall
hereafter prove our enemies? it is not a charitable theory nor a
Christian-like, and yet in my experience of life I have found many
instances in which it has borne a strange semblance of truth.
"Men feel by instinct swift as light
The presence of the foe,
Whom God has marked in after years
To strike the mortal blow.
The other, though his brand be sheathed,
At banquet or in hall,
Hath a forebodement of the time
When one or both must fall."
So sings "the minstrel" in his poem of _Bothwell_, but _Bothwell_ was
not written at the time of which I speak, and the only poetry I had ever
heard to justify my antipathies was the homely quatrain of _Dr. Fell_.
Still I felt somehow from that moment I hated Ropsley; it was absurd, it
was ungrateful, it was ungentlemanlike, but it was undeniable.
So I buried myself in the contemplation of the picture, which possessed
for me a strange fascination. The subject was Queen Dido transfixed on
her funeral pyre, the very _infandum regina_ to whose history I owed so
many school-room sorrows. I began to think I should never hate Virgil
again. The whole treatment of the picture was to the last degree
unnatural, and the colouring, even to my inexperienced eye, faulty and
overdone. Yet that face of mute sorrow and resignation spoke at once to
the heart; the Queen lay gazing on the distant galleys which were
bearing away her love, and curling their beaks and curvetting, so to
speak, up-hill on a green sea, in a manner that must have made the task
of Palinurus no easy one when he undertook to steer the same. Her limbs
were disposed stiffly, but not ungracefully, on the fatal couch, and her
white bosom was pierced by the deadly blade. Yet on her sweet, sad
countenance the artist had depicted with wonderful skill the triumph of
mental over bodily anguish; and though the features retained all woman's
softness and woman's beauty, you read the breaking heart beneath. I
could have looked at that picture for hours, I was lost in it even then,
but the door opened, and whilst Ropsley got up with a flourish and his
most respectful bow, in walked the young lady whom we had met under far
different circumstances some three hours before in the shrubbery, and
quietly took her place by the side of her papa.
As I looked from Queen Dido to Miss Constance I quite started; there was
the very face as if it had walked out of the canvas. Younger,
certainly, and with a more childish expression about the mouth, but the
same queenly brow, the same sad, serious eyes, the same delicate
features and oval shape; the fascination was gone from the picture now,
and yet as I looked at the child--for child she was then--I experienced
once more the old well-known pang of self-humiliation which so often
poisoned my happiness; I felt so dull and awkward amongst these bright
faces and polished manners, so ungainly and out of place where others
were gay and at their ease. How I envied Victor's self-possession as he
addressed the young lady with his pleasant, foreign accent, and a
certain assurance that an English boy never acquires till he is verging
on manhood. How willingly would I have exchanged places with any one of
the party. How I longed to cast the outward slough of timidity and
constraint, to appear as I felt myself in reality, an equal in mind and
station and feelings to the rest. For the first time in my life, as I
sat a mere child at that dinner-table, came the thrilling, maddening
feeling to my heart--
"Oh! that something would happen, something dreadful, something unheard
of, that should strip from each of us all extraneous and artificial
advantages, that should give us all a fair start on equal
terms--something that should try our courage or our fortitude, and
enable me to prove myself what I really am."
It was the first spark of ambition that ever entered my boyish breast,
but when once kindled, such sparks are never completely extinguished.
Fortunate is it that opportunities are wanting to fan them into a flame,
or we should ere long have the world in a blaze.
Miss Constance took very little notice of us beyond a cold allusion to
the well-being of my dog, and it was not till Sir Harry bade her take
charge of Victor and myself, and lead us out through the garden to visit
our wounded favourite, that we had any conversation with this reserved
young lady. Sir Harry rang for another bottle of claret, and composed
himself for a good chat upon racing matters with Ropsley, who was as
much at home with everything connected with the turf as if he spent his
whole time at Newmarket. Ropsley had even then a peculiar knack of
being "all things to all men," and pleaded guilty besides to a very
strong _penchant_ for horse-racing. This latter taste raised him
considerably in Sir Harry's estimation, who, like the rest of mankind,
took great pleasure in beckoning the young along that path of pleasure
which had nearly led to his own ruin. Well, we are all children to the
last; was there one whit more wisdom in the conversation of the Baronet
and his guest as to the relative merits of certain three-year-olds and
the weight they could carry, than in the simple questions and answers of
us three children, walking soberly along the soft garden sward in the
blushing sunset? At first we were very decorous: no brocaded courtier
of Queen Anne, leading his partner out to dance a minuet, could have
been more polite and respectful than Victor; no dame of high degree, in
hoop and stomacher, more stately and reserved than Miss Constance. I
said little, but watched the pair with a strange, uncomfortable
fascination. Ere long, however, the ice began to thaw, questions as to
Christian names, and ages, and respective birthdays, brought on
increased confidence and more familiar conversation. Constance showed
us her doves, and was delighted to find that we too understood
thoroughly the management of these soft-eyed favourites; the visit to
Bold was another strong link in our dawning friendship; the little girl
was so gentle and so pitiful, so caressing to the poor dog, and so
sympathising with its master, that I could not but respond to her
kindness, and overcame my timidity sufficiently to thank her warmly for
the interest she took in poor Bold. By the time we had all enjoyed in
turn the delights of a certain swing, and played a game at battledore
and shuttlecock in the echoing hall, we were becoming fast friends, and
had succeeded in interesting our new acquaintance extremely in all the
details of schoolboy life, and our own sufferings at Everdon. I
remarked, however, that Constance took far less notice of me than of
Victor; with him she seemed frank and merry and at her ease; with me, on
the contrary, she retained much of her early reserve, and I could not
help fancying, rather avoided my conversation than otherwise. Well, I
was used to being thrown in the background, and it was pleasure enough
for me to watch that grave, earnest countenance, and speculate on the
superhuman beauty of Queen Dido, to which it bore so strange a
resemblance.
It was getting too dark to continue our game. We had already lost the
shuttlecock three times, and it was now hopelessly perched on the frame
of an old picture in the hall; when the dining-room door opened, and Sir
Harry came out, still conversing earnestly with his guest on the one
engrossing topic.
"I am much obliged to you for the hint," said the Baronet. "It never
struck me before; and if your information is really to be depended on, I
shall certainly back him. Strange that I should not have heard of the
trial."
"My man dare not deceive me, I assure you," answered Ropsley, his quiet,
distinct tones contrasting with Sir Harry's, who was a little flushed
and voluble after his claret. "He used to do odd jobs for me when I was
in the sixth form at Eton, and I met him unexpectedly enough the other
day in the High-street at Bath. He is a mason by trade, and is employed
repairing Beckford's tower; by the way, he had heard of _Vathek_--I am
not sure that he hasn't read it, so the fellow has some brains about
him. Well, I knew he hadn't been hanging about Ascot all his life for
nothing, so I described the colt to him, and bade him keep his eyes open
when perched in mid-air these bright mornings, with such a command of
Lansdowne. Why, he knew the horse as well as I did, and yesterday sent
me a full account of the trial. I destroyed it immediately, of course,
but I have it all here" (pointing to his forehead, where, indeed,
Ropsley carried a curious miscellany of information). "He beat the mare
at least fifty yards, and she was nearly that distance ahead of
'Slap-Jack,' so you may depend upon it he is a real flyer. I have
backed him to win a large stake, at least, for a boy like me," added
Ropsley, modestly; "and I do not mean to hedge a farthing of it."
Sir Harry was delighted; he had found a "young one," as he called it,
after his own heart; he declared he would not wish him "good-bye"; he
must come over again and see the yearlings; he must accompany him to the
Bath races. If he was to leave Everdon at the end of the half-year, he
must come and shoot in September; nay, they would go to Doncaster
together; in short, Sir Harry was fascinated, and put us all into the
carriage, which he had ordered expressly to take us back to Everdon,
with many expressions of hospitality and good-will.
Bold was lifted on to the box, from whence he looked down with his
tongue hanging out in a state of ludicrous helplessness and dismay.
Miss Constance bade us a quiet "good-night" in tones so sweet that they
rang in my ears half the way home, and so we drove off in state from the
front door, as though we had not that very afternoon been brought in as
culprits at the back.
Ropsley was unusually silent during the whole journey. He had
established his footing at Beverley Manor, perhaps he was thinking how
"to make the most of it."