It was after a hard day with the hounds that George L'Estrange reached
the cottage to a late dinner. The hunting had not been good. They had
found three times, but each time lost their fox after a short burst, and
though the morning broke favorably, with a low cloudy sky and all the
signs of a good scenting day, towards the afternoon a brisk northeaster
had sprung up, making the air sharp and piercing, and rendering the dogs
wild and uncertain. In fact, it was one of those days which occasionally
irritate men more than actual “blanks;” there was a constant promise
of something, always ending in disappointment. The horses, too, were
fretful and impatient, as horses are wont to be with frequent checks,
and when excited by a cold and cutting wind.
Even Nora, perfection that she was of temper and training, had not
behaved well. She had taken her fences hotly and impatiently, and
actually chested a stiff bank, which cost herself and her rider a heavy
fall, and a disgrace that the curate felt more acutely than the injury.
“You don't mean to say you fell, George?” said Julia, with a look of
positive incredulity.
“Nora did, which comes pretty much to the same thing. We were coming
out of Gore's Wood, and I was leading. There's a high bank with a drop
into Longworth's lawn. It's a place I have taken scores of times. One
can't fly it; you must 'top,' and Nora can do that sort of thing to
perfection; and as I came on I had to swerve a little to avoid some of
the dogs that were climbing up the bank. Perhaps it was that irritated
her, but she rushed madly on, and came full chest against the gripe,
and--I don't remember much more till I found myself actually drenched
with vinegar that old Catty Lalor was pouring over me, when I got up
again, addled and confused enough; but I'm all right now. Do you know,
Ju,” said he, after a pause, “I was more annoyed by a chance remark I
heard as I was lying on the grass than by the whole misadventure?”
“What was it, George?”
“It was old Curtis was riding by, and he cried out, 'Who's down?' and
some one said, 'L'Estrange.' 'By Jove,' said he, 'I don't think that
fellow was ever on his knees before;' and this because I was a parson.”
“How unfeeling; but how like him!”
“Wasn't it? After all, it comes of doing what is not exactly right.
I suppose it's not enough that I see nothing wrong in a day with the
hounds. I ought to think how others regard it; whether it shocks _them_,
or exposes my cloth to sarcasm or censure. Is it not dinner-hour?”
“Of course it is, George. It's past eight.”
“And where's our illustrious guest; has he not appeared?”
“Lord Culduff has gone. There came a note to him from Castello in the
afternoon, and about five o'clock the phaeton appeared at the door--only
with the servants--and his Lordship took a most affectionate leave of
me, charging me with the very sweetest messages for you, and assurances
of eternal memory of the blissful hours he had passed here.”
“Perhaps it's not the right thing to say, but I own to you I 'm glad he
's gone.”
“But why, George; was he not amusing?”
“Yes, I suppose he was; but he was so supremely arrogant, so impressed
with his own grandness, and our littleness, so persistently eager to
show us that we were enjoying an honor in his presence, that nothing in
our lives could entitle us to, that I found my patience pushed very hard
to endure it.”
“I liked him. I liked his vanity and conceit; and I wouldn't for
anything he had been less pretentious.”
“I have none of your humoristic temperament, Julia, and I never could
derive amusement from the eccentricities or peculiarities of others.”
“And there's no fun like it, George. Once that you come to look on life
as a great drama, and all the men and women as players, it's the best
comedy ever one sat at.”
“I 'm glad he 's gone for another reason, too. I suppose it's shabby to
say it, but it 's true, all the same. He was a very costly guest, and I
was n't disposed, like Charles the Bold or that other famous fellow, to
sell a province to entertain an emperor.”
“Had we a province to sell, George?” said she, laughing.
“No, but I had a horse, and unfortunately Nora must go to the hammer
now.”
“Surely not for this week's extravagance?” cried she, anxiously.
“Not exactly for this, but for everything. You know old Curtis's
saying,--'It's always the last glass of wine makes a man tipsy.' But
here comes the dinner, and let us turn to something pleasanter.”
It was so jolly to be alone again, all restraint removed, all terror of
culinary mishaps withdrawn, and all the consciousness of little domestic
shortcomings obliterated, that L'Estrange's spirit rose at every moment,
and at last he burst out, “I declare to you, Julia, if that man had n't
gone, I 'd have died out of pure inanition. To see him day after day
trying to conform to our humble fare, turning over his meat on his
plate, and trying to divide with his fork the cutlet that he would n't
condescend to cut, and barely able to suppress the shudder our little
light wine gave him; to witness all this, and to feel that I mustn't
seem to know, while I was fully aware of it, was a downright misery. I
'd like to know what brought him here.”
“I fancy he could n't tell you himself. He paid an interminable visit,
and we asked him to stop and dine with us. A wet night detained him,
and when his servant came over with his dressing-bag or portmanteau, you
said, or I said--I forget which--that he ought not to leave us without a
peep at our coast scenery.”
“I remember all that; but what I meant was, that his coming here from
Castello was no accident. He never left a French cook and Château
Lafitte for cold mutton and sour sherry without some reason for it.”
“You forget, George, he was on his way to Lisconnor when he came here.
He was going to visit the mines.”
“By the by, that reminds me of a letter I got this evening. I put it in
my pocket without reading. Is n't that Vickars' hand?”
“Yes; it is his reply, perhaps, to my letter. He is too correct and too
prudent to write to myself, and sends the answer to you.”
“As our distinguished guest is not here to be shocked, Julia, let us
hear what Vickars says.”
“'My dear Mr. L'Estrange, I have before me a letter from your sister,
expressing a wish that I should consent to the withdrawal of the sum
of two thousand pounds, now vested in consols under my trusteeship, and
employ these moneys in a certain enterprise which she designates as the
coal-mines of Lisconnor. Before acceding to the grave responsibility
which this change of investment would impose upon me, even supposing
that the Master'--who is the Master, George?”
“Go on; read further,” said he, curtly.
“'--that the Master would concur with such a procedure, I am desirous of
hearing what you yourself know of the speculation in question. Have you
seen and conversed with the engineers who have made the surveys? Have
you heard from competent and unconcerned parties--?' Oh, George, it 's
so like the way he talks. I can't read on.”
L'Estrange took the letter from her and glanced rapidly over the
lines; and then turning to the last page read aloud: “'How will the
recommendation of the Ecclesiastical Commissioners affect you touching
the union of Portshandon with Kilmullock? Do they simply extinguish you,
or have you a claim for compensation?'”
“What does he mean, George?” cried she, as she gazed at the pale face
and agitated expression of her brother as he laid down the letter before
her.
“It is just extinguishment; that's the word for it,” muttered he. “When
they unite the parishes, they suppress me.”
“Oh, George, don't say that; it has not surely come to this?”
“There 's no help for it,” said he, putting away his glass, and leaning
his head on his hand. “I was often told they 'd do something like this;
and when Grimsby was here to examine the books and make notes,--you
remember it was a wet Sunday, and nobody came but the clerk's
mother,--he said, as we left the church, 'The congregation is orderly
and attentive, but not numerous. '”
“I told you, George, I detested that man. I said at the time he was no
friend to _you_.”
“If he felt it his duty--”
“Duty, indeed! I never heard of a cruelty yet that had n't the plea of a
duty. I 'm sure Captain Craufurd comes to church, and Mrs. Bayley comes,
and as to the great house, there 's a family there of not less than
thirty persons.”
“When Grimsby was here Castello was not occupied.”
“Well, it is occupied now; and if Colonel Bramleigh be a person of
the influence he assumes to be, and if he cares--as I take it he must
care--not to live like a heathen, he 'll prevent this cruel wrong. I 'm
not sure that Nelly has much weight; but she would do anything in the
world for us, and I think Augustus, too, would befriend us.”
“What can they all do? It's a question for the Commissioners.”
“So it may; but I take it the Commissioners are human beings.”
He turned again to the letter which lay open on the table, and read
aloud, “'They want a chaplain, I see, at Albano, near Rome. Do you know
any one who could assist you to the appointment?--always providing that
you would like it.' I should think I would like it.”
“You were thinking of the glorious riding over the Campagna, George,
that you told me about long ago?”
“I hope not,” said he, blushing deeply, and looked overwhelmed with
confusion.
“Well, _I_ was, George. Albano reminded me at once of those long
moonlight canters you told me about, with the grand old city in the
distance. I almost fancy I have seen it all. Let us bethink us of the
great people we know, and who would aid us in the matter.”
“The list begins and ends with the Lord Culduff, I suspect.”
“Not at all. It is the Bramleighs can be of use here. Lady Augusta lives
at Rome; she must be, I'm sure, a person of influence there, and be well
known too, and know all the English of station. It's a downright piece
of good fortune for us she should be there. There, now, be of
good heart, and don't look wretched. We 'll drive over to Castello
to-morrow.”
“They 've been very cool towards us of late.”
“As much our fault as theirs, George; some, certainly, was my own.”
“Oh, Vickars has heard of her. He says here, 'Is the Lady Augusta
Bramleigh, who has a villa at Albano, any relative of your neighbor
Colonel Bramleigh? She is very eccentric,--some say mad; but she does
what she likes with every one. Try and procure a letter to her.'”
“It's all as well as settled, George. We 'll be cantering over that
swelling prairie before the spring ends,” said she. Quietly rising and
going over to the piano, she began one of those little popular Italian
ballads which they call “Stornelli,”--those light effusions of
national life which blend up love and flowers and sunshine together so
pleasantly, and seem to emblematize the people who sing them.
“Thither, oh, thither, George! as the girl sings in Goethe's ballad.
Won't it be delightful?”
“First let us see if it be possible.”
And then they began one of those discussions of ways and means which,
however, as we grow old in life, are tinged with all the hard and stern
characters of sordid self-interest, are in our younger days blended so
thoroughly with hope and trustfulness that they are amongst the most
attractive of all the themes we can turn to. There were so many things
to be done, and so little to do them with, that it was marvellous to
hear of the cunning and ingenious devices by which poverty was to be
cheated out of its meanness, and actually imagine itself picturesque.
George was not a very imaginative creature; but it was strange to see
to what flights he rose as the sportive fancy of the high-spirited girl
carried him away to the region of the speculative and the hopeful.
“It's just as well, after all, perhaps,” said he, after some moments of
thought, “that we had not invested your money in the mine.”
“Of course, George, we shall want it to buy vines and orange-trees. Oh,
I shall grow mad with impatience if I talk of this much longer! Do you
know,” said she, in a more collected and serious tone, “I have just
built a little villa on the lake-side of Albano? And I'm doubting
whether I 'll have my 'pergolato' of vines next to the water, or facing
the mountain. I incline to the mountain.”
“We mustn't dream of building,” said he, gravely.
“We must dream of everything, George. It is in dreamland I am going to
live. Why is this gift of fancy bestowed upon us if not to conjure
up allies that will help us to fight the stern evils of life? Without
imagination, hope is a poor, weary, plodding foot-traveller, painfully
lagging behind us. Give him but speculation, and he soars aloft on wings
and rises towards heaven.”
“Do be reasonable, Julia, and let us decide what steps we shall take.”
“Let me just finish my boat-house; I 'm putting an aviary on the top
of it. Well, don't look so pitifully; I am not going mad. Now, then,
for the practical. We are to go over to Castello to-morrow, early, I
suppose?”
“Yes; I should say in the morning, before Colonel Bramleigh goes into
his study. After that he dislikes being disturbed. I mean to speak to
him myself. You must address yourself to Marion.”
“The forlorn hope always falls to my share,” said she, poutingly.
“Why, you were the best friends in the world till a few days back!”
“You men can understand nothing of these things. You neither know the
nice conditions nor the delicate reserves of young lady friendships;
nor have you the slightest conception of how boundless we can be in
admiration of each other in the imagined consciousness of something
very superior in ourselves, and which makes all our love a very generous
impulse. There is so much coarseness in male friendships, that you
understand none of these subtle distinctions.”
“I was going to say, thank Heaven we don't.”
“You are grateful for very little, George. I assure you there is a
great charm in these fine affinities, and remember, you men are not
necessarily always rivals. Your roads in life are so numerous and so
varied, that you need not jostle. We women have but one path, and
one goal at the end of it; and there is no small generosity in the
kindliness we extend to each other.”
They talked away late into the night of the future. Once or twice the
thought flashed across Julia whether she ought not to tell of what had
passed between Lord Culduff and herself. She was not quite sure but that
George ought to hear it; but then a sense of delicacy restrained her--a
delicacy that extended to that old man who had made her the offer of his
hand, and who would not for worlds have it known that his offer had
been rejected. “No,” thought she, “his secret shall be respected. As he
deemed me worthy to be his wife, he shall know that so far as regards
respect for his feelings he had not over-estimated me.”
It was all essential, however, that her brother should not think of
enlisting Lord Culduff in his cause, or asking his Lordship's aid or
influence in any way; and when L'Estrange carelessly said, “Could not
our distinguished friend and guest be of use here?” she hastened to
reply, “Do not think of that, George. These men are so victimized by
appeals of this sort that they either flatly refuse their assistance, or
give some flippant promise of an aid they never think of according.
It would actually fret me if I thought we were to owe anything to such
intervention. In fact,” said she, laughingly, “it's quite an honor to be
his acquaintance. It would be something very like a humiliation to have
him for a friend. And now good-night. You won't believe it, perhaps; but
it wants but a few minutes to two o'clock.”
“People, I believe, never go to bed in Italy,” said he, yawning; “or
only in the day-time. So that we are in training already, Julia.”
“How I hope the match may come off,” said she, as she gave him her hand
at parting. “I 'll go and dream over it.”