GIPSY DORA.
At some little distance from Englefield, in a contrary direction to
Meadow Farm, and closely bordering on Berkshire, can be seen from the
railway a picturesque town situated on a hill, overlooking a river.
This part of Hampshire, lying to the north-east, is more varied by hill
and dale, wood and glen, than the low-lying ground near the Channel, and
not far distant from the rich and picturesque country which surrounds
Farnham, in Surrey. Odiham Castle stands on a hill in the neighbourhood,
and at a little distance the ruins of an old keep, called King John's
house. Odiham Castle was used as a prison in the time of Edward III.;
and David of Scotland, who was taken prisoner by Queen Philippa at
Neville's Cross, while Edward laid siege to Calais, was for eleven years
imprisoned in this castle.
The town of Briarsleigh overlooks from its high situation woods and
meadows, and the extensively cultivated estates and parks of more than
one nobleman's seat. It is built on a kind of high table-land, along
which the old coach road runs for miles in both directions with only an
occasional dip. At one end of the town, however, a steep winding lane
leads down to the river.
The town itself has nothing to boast of beyond the old-fashioned church,
which once formed part of a priory, built in the time of Henry I. Its
square tower surmounted by a small steeple and a vane, can be
distinguished for miles. The town hall, the modern literary institution,
one or two Dissenting chapels, and the High Street, with its principal
shops, differ very little from those of other similar market towns.
Its principal wealth arises from its agriculture, and the farms in the
vicinity are remarkable for their rich pastures and produce. A stranger
arriving at the entrance to Briarsleigh on a spring evening, with the
sunset bathing the landscape in a golden misty sheen, would pause to
gaze on a scene so fair; but on the evening of which we write, the
bright landscape and the glowing sunset were unnoticed by the
inhabitants of Briarsleigh Rectory. The lowered blinds, the stillness,
and the absence of any living object near the picturesque building, told
too plainly that it was the abode of death. Presently might be seen
ascending the hilly lane towards the spot on which the church stood two
men, evidently respectable farmers, who had stayed later than usual in
the town on this the market day at Briarsleigh.
As they approached the house, a glance at its quiet aspect and lowered
blinds diverted the thoughts of one from money and the market, and he
exclaimed--
"So the old rector is gone at last, Martin."
"Eh! is he? How do you know?"
"Why, look, the blinds are down; besides I heard of his death two hours
ago in the town."
"Ah, well, it's what we must all come to one day, and rector has lived
out his time; why he must have been fourscore at least."
"Eighty-six, so they say," replied Martin, "and I believe it, too; for I
can remember him all my life nearly, and that's forty year."
"Has he been rector of Briarsleigh so long as that?" asked the other.
"Ay, that he have, and a kind good parson he's been too. Lord Rivers
gave him this living a'most the first thing he did when he come to the
estate at the old lord's death, and that was afore I was born."
"I'm afeard we shan't get such another as Parson Wentworth, whoever it
may be."
"Well, he wasn't much of a preacher in his best days," was the reply,
"and the curate ain't much better, though he's a good young man, but his
sermons send me to sleep. You know there's lots of us go to the Wesleyan
chapel; you can hear sermons there that wake a man up, and no mistake,
though I like the Church prayers best, I'll own that."
"I've been to them Wesleyans once or twice, and what their parson said
was very fine, but he made too much noise about it; and I don't like
their ways and their singing nohow."
"Well, I like Church ways best too, and I assure you, Martin, it's made
me quite miserable lately when I've been at church to see such a lot of
empty pews. Why, if it hadn't been for my lord's family, and the
servants and labourers from Englefield, there wouldn't have been
twenty-five people in the church."
"Yes, I know, and that's why I sticks to it. I'm only one, but if I go,
my wife and the children goes too, and so we make up half a dozen
amongst us. Poor old parson, the poor'll miss him, sure enough."
"Well, Martin," replied his companion, whose education as well as the
number of his farm acres surpassed greatly those of his neighbour, "we
must hope that if the new parson gets the people back to the church, he
will be kind to his poor parishioners also."
And then as farmer Martin turned into his own gate, his companion left
him with a friendly farewell, and stepped on quickly towards his own
home, which, though the neighbouring farm, was at least a quarter of a
mile farther by the road.
From the rectory of Briarsleigh with its shrouded windows, and the
homely conversation of two of the parishioners, we must lead the reader
to a far different scene.
On the evening of the second day after the death of the rector of
Briarsleigh, a family party were seated at dinner in the dining-room at
Englefield, to which we have introduced the reader in a former chapter.
Of the five persons then seated at breakfast, two only are present now,
Lord Rivers and his youngest daughter, Lady Dora, now Lady Dora Lennard.
Lady Mary Woodville, who has married a Scotch nobleman, inherits her
mother's delicate constitution, and seldom visits Englefield. And that
mother, Lady Rivers, whose gentle loving character had endeared her not
only to her husband and children, but also to the lowliest worker on the
estate, has passed away from earth. Even now, after ten years, the
memory of the gentle lady lives in the hearts of those who could claim
no nearer tie to her than that of friend or servant.
Lord Woodville, the heir, is in London with his brother-in-law, Sir
William Lennard, and thither his father and sister purpose following him
on the morrow. A few intimate friends and relatives by marriage are
present on this occasion, making a pleasant gathering of eight.
Lady Dora is seated at the head of the table, opposite to the earl. She
has the same bright dark eyes and brunette complexion which made her
brother Robert once call her a gipsy. The face and form have a matronly
dignity and appearance very different from the lively girl of seventeen
who was so interested in the marriage of Fanny Franklyn; but the change
is a decided improvement, and at thirty-three Lady Dora Lennard is a
very handsome woman.
And the earl has changed since he paid a congratulatory visit to his old
tutor on the marriage of his daughter; his hair is white as snow, but
his eyes have lost none of their dark lustre, and the finely cut
features still preserve their delicate outline, and even at the age of
sixty his form has lost none of its stately bearing.
The dinner has been removed, and the dessert in its rich and delicate
china of green and gold has been placed on the table. The wine-glasses,
finger-glasses, and decanters; the silver knives and forks, the polished
damask of the tablecloth, and the prisms of the chandelier drops above
it, glitter and sparkle in the light of many wax tapers. In that sombre
yet noble room, with its carved oak panellings, its many and richly
draped windows, chairs of mahogany and ebony, and a thick handsome
carpet, beyond the bordering of which appears the oaken floor; the
dinner-table, the dresses of the ladies, and the men-servants in their
gay livery, form a dazzling spot of brightness by contrast.
It would seem as if nothing could enhance that brightness, yet a few
moments proved the contrary. The door opened, and three children entered
the room--a girl of twelve, a boy of ten, and a little one of six, who
escaping from the hand of her nurse, and disregarding her elder sister's
remonstrance, bounded across the room to the side of grandpapa.
"Well, Gipsy," said the earl, as he lifted the little girl on his knee,
"who sent for you?"
"Mamma did," she replied; and then added quickly, "Grandpapa, I'm not a
gipsy; I saw real gipsies to-day, and they are ugly; they wear red
cloaks and old frocks, and the little girl gipsies have no shoes or
stockings. I don't be dressed like that."
A general laugh followed this speech; most certainly the little fairy in
white lace, blue morocco shoes, and silk socks was very unlike the
children she described, at least in dress. But well might she claim the
pet title of "Gipsy Dora." The dark flashing eye, softened by its long
eyelashes; the clear brunette complexion, through which the damask rose
colour showed itself on the glowing cheek, and the long dark brown curls
that fell round her dimpled shoulders, made her far more deserving of
the name than her mother had ever been.
The sisters were dressed alike, but May, the elder, differed greatly
from Dora in appearance; tall and slight, with blue eyes and fair hair,
her gentle manner and delicate face showed a striking resemblance to the
late Lady Rivers. The boy, who stood by his mother, his blue velvet
tunic contrasting with her light silk dress, appeared a manly, spirited
little fellow, yet neither so gipsy-like as one sister nor so fair as
the other. So far as the change of conversation is concerned, we need
only have introduced Gipsy Dora, excepting to add brightness to the
picture in the earl's noble dining-room, which children on such
occasions so often do.
"Papa," said Lady Dora, presently, "talking about gipsies reminds me of
that morning so many years ago, when I read the notice of Miss Halford's
marriage in the paper at Englefield Grange, and you gave me an imaginary
cause for the origin of the word Englefield."
Lord Rivers smiled, but he did not reply.
"What was it, Rivers?" exclaimed an old squire, who with his wife and
daughter were guests at the table. "I have often wondered myself at the
singular title."
"Most likely from Engle, or angle, a corner," said the earl, demurely,
"the corner of a field being no doubt the earliest possession of my
ancestors."
"Papa, that is worse than your other definition," cried his daughter;
and then with her usual vivacity she related the conversation in which
Lord Rivers had suggested that his family were descended from the
gipsies.
"At all events, Mary and Willie are not gipsies," said the earl,
quietly.
He was thinking of the other subject referred to by his daughter--the
marriage of Fanny Halford; and while those round the table were
discussing the gipsy question with Lady Dora, his memory recalled the
sad events that had occurred since that time in his own family, as well
as in that of his old tutor. Many years had passed after the visit of
congratulation which he had paid to the residents at Englefield Grange
on the occasion of Fanny's marriage, before the earl visited Dr. Halford
a second time. The health of Lady Rivers had rendered it necessary for
her to reside in the south of France for years before her death, and on
the return of Lord Rivers to England after that sad event he could not
for a long period visit the friends of his youth who so well remembered
the fair, gentle lady who became the earl's bride. He answered Dr.
Halford's sympathising letter, but it was not till he read in the
_Times_ the notice of Fanny Franklyn's death that he visited his old
tutor again, and witnessed with sincere regret the effects of sorrow in
the change and wreck of the friend of his boyhood, Clara Marston.
Henry Halford was on this occasion absent at Oxford, and the earl
renewed his promise that the first living in his gift that fell vacant
should be his. Of Mrs. Halford's death he had been informed in a letter
from the bereaved husband; since then, in the very midst of the
excitement occasioned by the tragic end of the second Mrs. Franklyn, an
account of which appeared in the papers, he had also read Henry
Halford's name in the list of ordinations by the Bishop of London.
Rapidly all these memories passed through his mind, and he started
almost perceptibly when Squire Hartley exclaimed--
"You've heard of Parson Wentworth's death, I suppose, Rivers?"
Opposite to the squire sat another guest, a bluff old colonel, also a
neighbour of the earl's, who exclaimed--
"Heard of a living in his gift having become vacant, squire! What an
unnecessary question! Why, man, the parson died on Sunday, and this is
Wednesday! I for one shouldn't like to have to read all the letters on
the subject, which Rivers has no doubt by this time received."
The earl glanced at his daughter. Lady Dora rose, and, accompanied by
the ladies and her children, left the three gentlemen to themselves.
Then the squire made another attempt to introduce the subject so
abruptly interrupted, by saying--
"I suppose the living of Briarsleigh is not already given away?"
"No indeed," was the reply, "although you are correct in your surmises,
colonel, respecting the letters I have received; but I never decide
hastily on such matters. Come, squire, help yourself, and pass the
decanter," added the earl, in a tone far less serious; "and tell me how
you have arranged about Henley's farm."
This reference stirred up the squire to descant on a personal matter
with great gusto, and changed the subject.
The gentlemen did not delay to join the ladies in the drawing-room;
indeed, very little time elapsed before the visitors had taken their
departure. A drive of four or five miles is not very pleasant after ten
o'clock on a cold spring night even in a close carriage. And yet how
often is a visit of this kind followed by a drive home of even more than
ten miles during a night in winter!
Lady Dora had taken leave of her guests, and finding herself alone in
the drawing-room with her father, she approached him as he stood with
his back to the fire in true English fashion, and said--
"Papa, I believe I understand why you dismissed me so suddenly from the
table this evening."
The earl smiled as he replied--
"Well, my daughter, and what is it you understand?"
"Your intentions, papa. You mean to give the living of Briarsleigh to
the son of your old tutor."
"I have some thoughts of doing so, Dora--at least of making him the
offer, although I have had more than one letter on the subject."
"Has Dr. Halford written to you?"
"No, my dear, he is not a man likely to do so; yet I know the doctor's
son is ordained. I saw his name in the list of ordinations. The old
rector of Kilburn has given him a title."
"Is this son the clever little boy you became acquainted with when you
visited Dr. Halford after his daughter's marriage?"
"Yes, his youngest and only surviving son, and I have no doubt clever
and talented as a man."
"Is the living of Briarsleigh a valuable one, papa?"
Again the earl smiled.
"Why, Dora, you are taking as much interest in this young clergyman as
you did in the marriage of his sister so many years ago."
Lady Dora did not blush as she had done when, at seventeen, her father
had remarked her girlish interest in Fanny Halford's marriage, but she
replied--
"Papa, this is a very different matter. I have heard enough of late
years to make me feel the greatest sympathy for curates. It seems quite
shocking to think of a gentleman with refined manners and a university
education being obliged to support himself and perhaps a wife and
children on a less income than a mechanic, who has no appearance to keep
up."
"Too true, Dora; and if you were to read the letters I have received
from friends on behalf of curates situated as you have described, you
would understand the difficulties in which owners of Church livings are
placed. These gentlemen are equally talented, and as truly well born and
bred as Dr. Halford's son, but I cannot give the living to all of them,
and my promise to my old tutor is binding. I must not go from my word. I
hope to pay the family a visit next week, and make the young man an
offer of the living personally. I do not suppose he will belie the
promise of his boyhood. And perhaps I may contrive to hear him preach at
Kilburn on Sunday."
"I am very glad to hear your decision, papa," replied Lady Dora; "and at
all events one curate will be saved from poverty and starvation."
"Well," replied the earl, laughing, "that is scarcely true in Henry
Halford's case: he could still follow the profession of a schoolmaster,
and secure a good income; but I do not think a clergyman can
conscientiously perform both duties well or with comfort to himself."
"And what income will he have as rector of Briarsleigh?" she asked
again.
"Seven hundred a year, Dora. And now, my dear, as we have to travel
to-morrow, perhaps we had better say 'Good night.'"
And so, while Mr. Armstrong was mourning the loss of his daughter's
marriage portion, the young "parson" he despised was about to obtain an
income of his own. But of this good fortune neither he nor his young
companion knew anything when they met in the train on its way to
Kilburn.