DORIS'S "KNIGHT OF THE WOODS."
It is a lovely, warm day at the beginning of June, and Doris, having
made the beds in conjunction with Molly, and afterwards drifted round
the rooms with a duster in a desultory sort of fashion which, had she
seen her, would have driven energetic Honor well-nigh crazy, presents
herself in the kitchen where her sister is engaged in certain
culinary matters.
"That soup smells good!" she remarks, as Honor, pepper-caster in
hand, gives a final stir round the saucepan over which she is
bending, and turns to confront her sister.
"There is not much in it besides the pea-flour, and a flavouring of
carrots and onions--oh, and the bacon bone, which has been stewing
ever since the early morning. But it's cheap," Honor winds up with a
sigh; "and really Dick's and Bobby's appetites seem to grow larger
every day, to say nothing of Becky's!"
"Well, I came to tell you that I can not stay indoors any longer on
such a lovely morning as this. I know it's no use asking you to come
too, because you would be certain to find some very good reason
against it. So, as Molly is going to the vicarage to give Dolly
Bolton her lesson, I shall just take my book and go and sit in Lord
What's-his-name's woods for a time."
"He is not a lord, I tell you," says Honor rather testily, "any more
than you or I. He is only a baronet.--Sir Something Somebody, I
forget what now. It was only the other day that Mr. Edward Talboys
was pointing out the house (The Court, I think he called it) to me,
and he said that the owner was nearly always abroad, and that it had
been shut up for years in consequence."
"All the better for us," remarks Doris. "Well, I'm off. Good-bye,
Honor; if I find any flowers worth having, I'll bring you some."
Walking briskly along, Vic bounding forward in advance, elated at the
idea of a prolonged hunt, Doris and she soon come to the woods, and
climbing over a little stile, strike off down a path to the right
which they both seem to be familiar with. Following this for some
distance, Doris turns suddenly to the left, and in another instant is
in the most lovely little glade imaginable. The girls have named it
their "parlour," for it is carpeted with a rich emerald turf, which
is dotted over at intervals with numberless wild flowers of the
woods. Several trees have been felled at this spot, and the
moss-covered stumps afford capital resting-places, especially one
stump, which has two straggling sort of boughs behind it, thus
forming quite an inviting arm-chair.
Opposite this is a curiously-shaped tree, which when once climbed
into makes a luxurious lounge for anyone who is lazily inclined.
There being no one to embarrass Doris on this particular occasion by
watching her ascent into the tree, she is established there in a very
few seconds, and ordering Vic (greatly to the animal's surprise and
indignation) to "lie down," she opens her book and leans back
comfortably in her leafy couch. The minutes fly quickly, and the
book being an interesting one, Doris hardly raises her eyes from it
until a whole hour has sped away. Not till then does she become
aware that Vic has entirely disappeared from view, and is not to be
heard any more than seen. Doris sits up and looks round, with no
satisfactory result, however; and she is just screwing up her mouth
to whistle, when she is startled by a shrill cry away in the
distance, followed by a shout in a man's voice of "Drop it, drop it,
you brute!"
Then in another moment Vic, with a young rabbit in her strong jaws,
bursts through the thicket to the right, runs across the glade, and
is at once out of sight again. She is closely followed by a tall,
broad-shouldered young fellow, who, while making one last abortive
attempt to rescue the unfortunate rabbit from its captor, catches his
foot in a straggling briar and measures his length on the soft turf,
almost at Doris's feet.
"Now or never!" thinks the girl to herself, preparing to descend--for
with an exclamation which would doubtless have been suppressed had he
guessed his close proximity to a lady, the young man commences to
pick up first himself and then his hat.
With a desperate jump Doris alights safely on the stump below; but,
as with a little less caution she prepares to leave that also, an
unkind branch above hitches itself into one of the bows of her hat
and whisks the whole erection off her head, so that when the young
man suddenly turns round he finds himself confronted by a hatless
young lady, who has apparently sprung from nowhere! They both look
up at the hat, then they look at each other, and burst into a merry
laugh.
Lifting his hat, which he has just replaced on his head, the young
fellow says, "Really I must apologize for my very abrupt appearance.
I had not the least idea that anyone was here. I hope I did not
startle you very much. May I be permitted to inquire if you have
dropped from the clouds?"
Doris indicates with a wave of her hand the place from which she has
descended, and without paying attention to the words addressed to her
says, "O, I wish you had been a little quicker! Do you think the
poor thing was dead?"
His manner changes the moment he sees the genuine anxiety in the
young face looking up at him, and he answers gently, "O, yes, I think
so, certainly; and even if not then, I am very sure it must be dead
now. I wish too that I could have been quicker, though for my own
personal comfort I was rather disastrously so. I am afraid it is no
use going after them now. It is a game little dog: does it belong to
you?"
"Yes, the wretched little creature! Who would have thought of her
going off hunting like that? I told her to lie down too."
An amused twinkle comes into the young man's eyes. "You could hardly
expect her to do that, I think," he says, "especially in a place like
this. It would not be in dog's nature to do it, you know. Have you
been here long?"
"Well, yes, I suppose I have," says Doris, glancing furtively at her
hat, which is wholly out of her reach. "My book was interesting, and
I forgot all about time and Vic too. I suppose it _was_ hardly
reasonable to expect her to keep quiet all that time."
"I think so," says her companion with a smile. "Let me put in a word
for her and intreat your pardon on her behalf. But dear me, how
thoughtlessly I am behaving! allowing you to stand bareheaded in the
sun and never making an attempt to recover your hat for you."
"It _is_ rather hot," remarks Doris somewhat reproachfully. "The sun
penetrates even this shady nook after a time;" and then she watches
with keen interest the jumps and snatches which are being made at the
refractory hat. "We call this our 'parlour,'" the girl goes on.
"Isn't it pretty here? But I really think you had better get up on
one of those stumps. I don't think you will ever get it down with
your stick."
This advice being followed, the hat is captured in due course of time
and handed to its owner. Then jumping down he says, "O, your
'parlour' you call it? Well, I am sure it is a very lovely one. How
beautiful those shadows are! Do you know these woods well? do you
often come here?"
"Yes, pretty often," replies the girl briskly. "Have _you_ ever been
here before?"
"O yes, I know the place well; in fact I spent a good part of my
boyhood here. Will you think me very unpardonably curious if I ask
your name, and how long you have been living in Edendale? I know Sir
Charles Ferrars, and I don't remember his having ever spoken of any
new arrivals; and he generally keeps himself _au courant_ with the
affairs of the neighbourhood, though he seldom honours it with his
presence. That is why I ask."
"No, I don't suppose he _would_ have spoken of us even if he had been
at the Court when we came here," says Doris a little bitterly. "We
didn't arrive here with a flourish of trumpets exactly. But I am not
paying attention to your questions. My name is Doris Merivale, and
we have been here, let me see, rather more than four months, or
_about_ four, I think. Now, I think you ought to tell me _your_
name. One good turn deserves another, you know."
"Exactly. My name is Ferrars--Lancelot Ferrars," he says carelessly
and a little absently. "In fact I am a distant relation of Sir
Charles."
"Oh," says Doris, and subsides into silence.
"Merivale!" repeats Mr. Ferrars softly to himself. "Have you an aunt
living in London, Miss Merivale, by name Lady Woodhouse? I am sure I
have seen your face somewhere before, and I can only think that it
was in a frame on one of her tables."
"Very likely," remarks the girl sadly. "She used to be rather fond
of talking about her eldest niece, who was to have been presented at
the first drawing-room this season. Yes, she is our aunt. And so
you know her? Did she tell you of our come-down in the world?"
"She told me," says Mr. Ferrars, looking kindly at the flushed face,
which showed the girl's bitter thoughts and emotions, "of the sudden
misfortunes of a sister and her family--not of any _come-down_, as
you express it. One need not necessarily come down with adversity,
you know."
Doris looks gratefully at him, then swallowing the lump in her throat
she says, trying to smile, "No, perhaps not; but it makes one very
cross and discontented, I think."
"Does it? You do not look either the one or the other, so far as I
can see."
"O, you don't know what I am at home," says the girl shaking her head
gloomily. "Now, although I have certainly enjoyed my morning out
here, I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling (conscience, I suppose)
that I ought to be at home domesticating. But I am not above
confessing that I cordially _hate_ anything of the kind; and so I was
wicked and played truant and left poor Honor to do all the work by
herself."
"Honor!--what a pretty name!" says Mr. Ferrars, while he
industriously peels off the bark from a little stick. "Is she your
domestic?"
Doris breaks into a rippling laugh. "Honor is my sister," she says,
"and the dearest old girl in the world."
"Is she much older than you?"
"Older?---she is _younger_ than I am!" exclaims Doris, fairly
laughing out this time.
"I beg your pardon," begins Mr. Ferrars, looking a little vexed, "but
I thought I understood you to say 'old girl' in reference to your
sister just now."
"O, yes, I daresay I did," replies Doris checking her laughter; "but
that is a way we all have of speaking of her. She seems like a
little mother to us all, and appears to take a delight in all those
things which _I_ hate. Honor has always been the industrious one of
the family, and it was just the same in the school-room. Miss Denny
(our late governess) used to complain dreadfully of my laziness over
my lessons; and although I was supposed to be 'finished,' and was
going up to town for my first season, I am _sure_ I couldn't speak a
whole sentence in French without at least two mistakes. I used to
tell them all not to bother about me, because I had made up my mind
to marry a duke after I was presented and had 'come out;' then, you
see, I could have done just as I liked, and should always have had
everything done for me."
"You couldn't have had French spoken for you though," objects Mr.
Ferrars smiling up at the girl, who is seated in state in the
arm-chair; "and I fancy even a duchess would sometimes be called upon
to speak another language than her own. Would _nothing_ less than a
duke do?"
Doris shakes her head solemnly.
"I had _quite_ made up mind to be a duchess, nothing more nor less.
But that is all at an end now," she adds with a little sigh. "I
suppose I shall remain plain Doris Merivale to the end of my days."
"O, I don't know; why should you?"
"Well, you see, all chance of a duke or anybody of that sort is quite
at an end now, and no ordinary person would care to have me."
"Why not?"
"Because I am such a useless sort of girl. Now, Honor, and even
Molly (Molly is another of my sisters), would I think make good wives
for poor men, because they seem to be able to turn their hands to
anything, whereas every single thing I undertake, no matter what it
is, is bound to fail. No, it's no use. I must make a good marriage
or live and die an old maid. Aunt says that is all I am fit for, and
she ought to know."
"Which, a good marriage or an old maid?" the young man inquires
mischievously.
Doris suddenly stops and laughs.
"What dreadful nonsense I am talking!" she says half apologetically,
and blushing a little. "I never can stop myself when I once begin,
and I get dreadfully scolded at home for it. It is really quite an
event to have someone to talk to though, out of the family I mean;
and we are so horribly dull at home. I hope you don't think me
dreadfully silly?"
"Silly! why should I?" says Mr. Ferrars kindly. "On the contrary I
like to hear anyone talking naturally, and I assure you I have been
very much interested in all that you have told me. Are you fond of
pictures?"
"Yes; that is, I like looking at them _very_ much, but I don't
understand them in the least. Honor is the one for that sort of
thing."
"Does your sister paint, then?"
"Yes, she really paints well, I believe; and just before poor father
died, and we became so horribly poor, she was going to have lessons
from some good artist. But of course it all came to nothing. Poor
Honor was bitterly disappointed."
"I am _sure_ she must have been," says Mr. Ferrars feelingly. "I
know what I would have felt under the circumstances."
"Why, do _you_ paint, then?" inquires Doris, opening wide her bright
blue eyes.
"Yes, oh yes; I paint a little," he answers smiling.
"Then you are an artist, I am sure!" exclaims the girl eagerly. "I
was trying to settle in my own mind whether you were in the army or
an artist. I was sure it was one of the two. Ah, you wretched
little creature, here you are at last!"
This last remark is addressed to Vic, who with depressed tail and
ears has suddenly appeared before them, looking guilty to the last
degree.
"Don't scold her now, poor creature!" says Mr. Ferrars, stroking the
dog's head encouragingly. "You promised to let her off, don't you
remember?"
"Very well," says Doris, "I'll forgive her this time. Good
gracious!" she exclaims after a little pause, "just look where the
sun has got to. Why it must be one o'clock or more!"
"It is a quarter past," says Mr. Ferrars consulting his watch; "and
that reminds me if I don't put my best foot foremost I'll not catch
my train."
"Are you leaving Edendale then?"
"Yes, I am only passing through the place; but I could not resist
taking a walk in the woods on this lovely morning. Are you in a
hurry too?"
"My goodness, yes!" exclaims Doris excitedly, "I ought to have been
home ages ago."
"I am so sorry," says Mr. Ferrars holding out his hand, "that I
cannot accompany you home; but I fear it is impossible. I shall hope
to meet you, however, some day at your aunt's. Good-bye, and thank
you for the pleasant hour's talk we have had, and which I have
thoroughly enjoyed." And first stooping to pick up Doris's book from
the grass, on which it has been lying unnoticed ever since it fell
there, he lifts his hat and walks away at a brisk pace, looking back
once, before he turns off the path, to smile and wave his hand to her.
"A nice unaffected little girl," thinks Lancelot Ferrars to himself
as he walks quickly towards the station. "I hope I shall see her
again some day, poor child!"
And Doris, as she calls Vic to follow her, says softly to herself,
"Lancelot! Lancelot Ferrars! What a pretty name! And what a nice,
gentlemanly fellow he seems. Just the sort of man poor father would
have liked, I think. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. I
suppose not."