Lily had met the young squire many times already in the Lover's Lane.
The back-door of Miss Prentice's little house was near of access, and
the girl had been too much dazzled by her conquest to think of right and
wrong. Besides, had she been put to defend herself, she had, you may be
sure, enough to say. There is no harm in meeting your sweetheart when
you have no reason to be ashamed of him; and she was a free-born lass of
the fells, and what if she did meet Mr Ridley and talk to him? Did that
harm any one? She herself was proudly indifferent to being badly spoken
of. "Those that know me," said Lily, "know me--and that's enough." She
was proud, she meant no harm, and why should there be any danger in
talking to a civil-spoken gentleman? Only ridiculous people with
prejudices could see harm in it. It was a scolding from Miss Prentice
which made Lily accord the first interview to the young squire. "It
means no good to a lass like you when a gentleman comes after her," the
dressmaker had said, and Lily had blazed into fury. "Them that speaks
civil to me, I'll speak civil to them," the hot-headed girl said in all
the pride of conscious purity. That was not the way to take a lass, the
forewoman remarked, shaking her head; and she took the rustic beauty
aside and whispered to her that however pleasant a gentleman's ways
might be, the like of them kept honest lads away. "And to lose a good
honest man that would give you a good house of your own, all for a laugh
with the young squire, that would be little to your advantage." "Am I
thinking of a man, or of what would be for my advantage?" said Lily,
bursting away from this second counsellor, stung with vexation and
shame. And it was in this mood that she rushed out, all tears and wrath,
her eyes sparkling, her cheeks glowing, almost into young Ridley's arms.
There were ladies of his own rank in the countryside for whom he had a
general admiration, and any one of whom, if thrown in his way, might
have absorbed the thoughts of the light-hearted young man; but Lily
blazed upon him in her agitation, more beautiful, and far more engaging,
than any of them. She wept to him, and stormed and laughed and bid him
go, yet let him stay, with all the caprice which is more captivating
than good sense and virtue. He had never been so much amused, so charmed
out of himself; no one had ever before so thrown open to him the doors
of her inner being: and all these changes and fluctuations reflected in
the most lovely eyes he had ever seen, and touched and modified and
softened by reference to himself, how could he be otherwise than
overcome? As for Lily, his manners, so different from all the rural
lads, his respect and delicacy which touched the finer fibres in the
girl's heart, even his clothes and external graces, and the princely way
in which he would take off his hat to her--the swains of the fells did
not think it necessary to take off their hats--subdued her wholly.
Perhaps she was in love with the gentleman even before she was in love
with Roger; but that warmer sentiment had already sprung up when she was
startled and fled off like a frightened dove at the sudden apparition of
these two strange figures strolling down the Lover's Lane. Two _men_!
what business had they there? Another pair would have comprehended,
would have been full of fellow-feeling; but the harsh unsympathetic
appearance of the two dark figures shutting out the light felt like
discovery, like a judicial sentence. Lily fled, though the moment was so
interesting. He had just shown her a locket, which he was going to give
her--the little glistening golden toy had been held up for her
admiration, and her hand was timidly put forth to take it, "only to look
at it," with rising tears and compunctions, when these two heaved in
sight, and Lily turned and fled. As she rushed away with her heart
beating, it seemed to her that Providence itself had interfered. To
"speak to" any one so civil and so kind, to speak when you were spoken
to, was of the very alphabet of rustic politeness. Who could find fault
with that? no one--not even her mother. But even Lily, already
half-beguiled, felt that when she took a present from the young squire
another link would be riveted. Ornaments were not so common then as now,
and the trinket was a temptation to her, as well as the still more
delightful thought of having thus a link between them, and something of
his which it would make her heart jump to receive and to look at. But a
present--it was not right to take a present,--it seemed to bind her to
something, it seemed like a promise given.
The path of the girl who has wandered into those dazzling forbidden
ways, and has "a gentleman coming after her," is full of thorns and
difficulties, if also of pride and dazzling hopes. When Miss Prentice
and her girls were about to sit down to their homely supper, the little
maid-of-all-work mysteriously whispered to Lily that there was "one
wanting to speak to her," an intimation which set the girl's heart once
more beating. Who could it be? She was half disappointed, half relieved,
to find that it was only an old woman, who gave her a little parcel and
had nothing to say; but when the enclosure, being opened, was found to
contain the locket and a letter, Lily's whole being was suddenly
penetrated with excitement and surprise, and that delicious
self-consciousness which is made up of vanity and delight and gratitude.
She read only a few words in the letter, words which seemed to fill her
veins with a subtle warmth, expanding her whole being, and thrust it
into her pocket, that she might obey the call of Miss Prentice, hungry
for her supper, who was calling at the foot of the stairs for Lily. Lily
had run to her own room to see what the communication was. She came
down-stairs so rapidly as to account for the colour in her cheeks; but
how account for the dazzle in her eyes, which were so shining, yet misty
with the excess of light in them? Miss Prentice could not tell what to
make of her: "You're thinking of something?" she said, with quickly
awakened suspicion. "Most folks think of something--except them that's
stupid," was Lily's reply; and what answer could be made to it? Yet,
though it was a truism, Miss Prentice's query had a just meaning;
something that had nothing to do with the bread and cheese, something
very different from Miss Musgrave's petticoat and Mrs Armstrong's new
mantle, something that was beyond the dressmaking, was in Lily's eyes.
"I wish that girl was with her mother. I wish she had never darkened my
door. I wish she were safe away, and no harm done," Miss Prentice said
to her forewoman. "Hoot! there's no harm in her," said that functionary,
who did not think her employer knew what way to take a lass. But the
dressmaker shook her head. "Them that have little harm in themselves are
sometimes the cause of plenty of harm to others," she said,
sententiously. But how could she let the mother know, when all she had
to tell of was that dazzlement in Lily's eyes?
And what a business it was for Lily to get her letter read and her
beautiful locket looked at! She was not so happy as to have a room to
herself, and there was "something to finish," which the girls had to
return to, and which kept them stitching till it was late. When she
tried to get away for a moment her comrades looked black at her, as one
who was evading her share of the work, and Miss Prentice called her
back, with something which sounded like a taunt. "You'll not go out,
young woman, again, to-night," she said. "I was not going out, nor
thinking of going out," said Lily, instantly on the defensive. "I was
wanting--to look out, and see what kind of a night it was." So that it
was not till the morning dawned, and showed her room companion fast
asleep, that Lily ventured to finish reading that beautiful letter which
was like nothing she had ever heard of before. She had not been able to
sleep for thinking of it, and she had held her locket in her hand, and
put it on a ribbon to try how it felt on her neck in the dark, not
venturing to light her candle. In the blue dawn, as it gradually made
everything visible, she did not venture on so much as this; but folded
it away in its paper, after once making acquaintance with it, under
cover of her little bit of curtain. Her companion slumbered soundly,
unmoved by her restlessness. It was a grievance to Lily generally that
this companion snored, but how glad she was that Sarah should snore this
morning, showing herself fast asleep! She read her letter thus over and
over, her young bosom swelling with pride and happiness, her heart
afloat on a vague sea of imaginative delight. How his praises and his
protestations seem to fill her very veins with sweetness, smoothing away
all fear or trouble! The sensation was so exquisite that Lily did not
know how to contain it. She, a country lass and no more, was it she that
was that queen among women, that lily among all the meaner flowers, that
angel on earth? She did not understand it, nor did she believe it. But
the incredulous confusion of wonder and almost amusement in her mind
only enhanced the happiness. Lily had never thought it of any serious
importance what was said to her by any "lad"; lads talked to lasses like
that always from the beginning of time; meaning--yes, something, no
doubt--to make themselves agreeable, to gain a little amusement for
themselves. But no one thought anything more of it: a stroll through the
Lover's Lane, a laughing and a talking, a grip of her hand, or attempt,
never successful, for Lily was _farouche_ in shy pride, at a kiss--that
was nothing, and meant nothing,--but this----?
For the truth was that the young squire had been much more seriously
affected than Lily by the events of the evening. He had been caught in
his love-making, and convicted of it even, for had not the stranger seen
the little locket which he had bought for his Lily? Through the eyes of
that stranger he seemed to see--what? His beautiful Lily, a mere village
belle, to be flirted with by any one--by the stranger's self, perhaps,
when his, Ridley's, back was turned. This thought irritated him in the
wildest way. Perhaps he divined that Lily was not yet "in love with"
himself, and therefore had no defence against the overtures of another;
and real love is always modest, thinking every other adventurer more
likely of success than itself. This idea had been more than he could
bear. He had been a careless fellow enough, harming no one, indeed, but
no way specially on his guard as to the looks he might send hither or
thither, the words he might say; was this the retribution for many a
light flirtation? The idea that Lily was but one of the others, and
would lend as willing an ear to Charley Landale, for instance, or
Charley Landale's friend, stung him to the quick. In an instant all the
difference came home to him. Lily!--there was but one Lily in the world,
and she was his, or else, as all poetry and romance said, he was no more
his own. Nothing like this had happened to him in his life before. The
idea of another man talking of love to Lily, perhaps gaining her
attention, that was not to be endured. It was this that made him write
the letter which she read in the blue morning before even the birds were
awake. "My Lily, my darling! you hold my life in your hands," he said.
Was it true? There was no reason for saying it if it were not true.
Nothing could he gain but Lily, except the loss of all that it was
possible to lose. His father, who was no dainty gentleman indeed, but
proud as Lucifer, proud of his moss-trooping ancestors and old descent,
was capable of excommunicating his son for such a crime, though he could
not disinherit him; and Roger knew very well from what a height of scorn
his sister, she who was to marry young Featherstonhaugh, would look down
upon such a plebeian bride. All these things were food for thought
before he committed himself, but his heart leapt beyond all thought when
he wrote that letter pouring forth his impassioned heart to the soft,
unawakened creature, who as yet knew no more how she was expected to
respond than she understood any other mystery.
And there had been another stimulant to his rising passion administered
that same afternoon. When Lily fled, Roger had stood still, thrilling in
every nerve, and talked to the new-comers, longing all the time to pick
a quarrel with them, little suspecting who one of them was; and when,
having got rid of them, he turned, excited and irritated, homeward, whom
should he meet but Featherstonhaugh, his brother-in-law that was to be.
Sir Richard's engagement to his sister Mary had not been much to Roger's
taste. The fellow had but half a heart, he always thought, and he was
not worthy of Mary Ridley. Mary had thought otherwise, however, and it
was she who had to decide. But when the young squire met his rival
potentate in the moment of his own discomfiture, when all his nerves
were jarring and thrilling, it is impossible to describe the causeless
irritation that seized him. He felt more like a quarrel than he had ever
felt before in his life.
"Going home?" the one said to the other, with all the dulness of a man
who has nothing else to say.
"Yes; are you dining with us?" said Ridley, equally commonplace.
"Not to-day; I have still my house full. Did you meet any one as you
came along? I have just seen a--vision--a--I don't know who she was--a
wonderful creature to behold upon the road to Waterside."
"Here is enthusiasm!" said Roger, laughing harshly. "If it were not
Mary--Mary, I think, has reason to complain."
"Mary!--oh, it was not a lady at all!" cried Sir Richard, with some
eagerness. "It was--a girl--a--somebody of the lower classes. Mary! She
would have admired as much as I did, had she been here."
"I would not advise you to trust to that," said Roger, growing less and
less pleasant in tone. Featherstonhaugh looked at him surprised. He did
not feel guilty in respect to Mary; in fact, he had not thought of Mary
at all, and the suggestion annoyed him a little. Surely he was not
compelled to shut his eyes in future to every beautiful face because of
Mary! He looked at Roger curiously. The incipient rivalry and enmity
between the two had not gone so far with him as with the other, but yet
he felt it also. Roger was not of his species, a rough fellow, given to
sports and rural dissipation, who did not know a Claude from a Poussin,
or a Hobbema from a Ruysdael (in Sir Richard's day the worship of the
early Italians was for the moment in abeyance, so he did not swear by
Botticelli). The thought came upon him then strongly, as he stood
confronting his neighbour and future relation, that to go through the
world with this fellow always near would take a great deal of the
pleasure out of life.
"And what was the goddess like?" Roger added in his own despite. He was
so wroth and so sore that the smile he forced grew into a sneer without
any will of his. Had the lout been drinking? was the question which,
with some disgust, Sir Richard asked himself.
"I daresay it is some beauty of the village," he said, keeping his
temper; "but since you did not see her, it is not worth while talking
about it. I asked for mere--curiosity--because it is rare to see so
perfect a face." Then he added, after a pause, "You met those other men,
I suppose? I hear Charley Landale had a great scholar with him. Who is
it, do you know? A known man? or only one of the lesser lights who may
represent great scholarship here?"
"I never knew we were so ignorant in Waterdale," said Roger, finding it
very difficult to master himself, "but I daresay you're right enough,"
he added, forcing a smile. "I saw Charley Landale with some owl or
other, but I did not pay much attention. Scholars don't lie much in my
way. I leave all that sort of thing to you, Featherstonhaugh; there may
as well be some division of labour, you know."
"What will be your share?" said the other, not intending any insult; for
indeed, it seemed to him, a man who knew nothing about art and did not
care for knowledge, what could be his share of anything worth thinking
of? Roger coloured to his hair, and said something that was not pious
under his breath.
"I'm off," he said. "It is pleasant to know that you entertain so good
an opinion of me." And with a wave of his hand he turned away. On the
whole Sir Richard had the best of it. Roger went home with an additional
sting in his heart: for it was true enough that Featherstonhaugh knew
much more than he did, and could take advantage of all he knew, and
probably a little more. And he was Mary's betrothed lover, confound him,
and yet had noticed _her_! But of that, indeed, who could say anything?
Could there be on the face of the earth a clod so heavy, a lout so
insensible, as to see her and pass her by without wondering worship? A
perfect face! Yes, indeed, it was a perfect face, but not one that would
ever smile for Dick Featherstonhaugh.