CHAPTER IX.In which a very young Actor makes an unexpected Appearance on theScene.
Mr. Beauchamp was sitting alone in the little room of the inn aboutfive hours after Ned Hayward had left him. The day had been very warmfor the season of the year, and though he had taken his walk as usualin the most shady and pensive places he could discover, he had foundit oppressive, and had returned sooner than he ordinarily did. Mr.Groomber, worthy Mr. Groomber, the landlord of the White Hart, hadperceived his return through the glass-doors of the bar, and hadrolled in to tell him, as a piece of news, that the post-boy who haddriven Mrs. and Miss Clifford had been, as he termed it, "had up"before Mr. Wittingham and examined, but had been speedily dismissed,he having sworn most valorously that he could not identify any of thepersons concerned in stopping the chaise on the preceding night.
Mr. Beauchamp merely replied, "I thought so," and taking up a book,gave quiet intimation that he wished to be alone. As soon as the hosthad retired, however, he suffered the open volume to drop upon hisknee, and gave himself up to thought, apparently of not the mostcheerful kind, for the broad open brow became somewhat contracted, thefine dark eyes fixed upon one particular spot on the floor, the lipassumed a melancholy, even a cynical expression, and without movinglimb or feature, he remained for at least a quarter of an hour inmeditation most profound.
For my own part I do not see what business men have to think at all.If it be of the past, can they recall it? If it be of the future, canthey govern it? No, no, and the present is for action, not formeditation. It was very foolish of Mr. Beauchamp to think, but yet hedid so, and profoundly. But of what were his thoughts? I cannot tell.Some I know, some I do not know; or rather like an intercepted letter,the actual course of his meditation was plain enough, written in clearand forcible lines, but the wide world of circumstances to which itreferred, its relations with his fate, with his past history, with hispresent condition, with his future prospects, were all in darkness.
"It is in vain," he said to himself, "all in vain! Peace, happiness,tranquillity--where do they dwell? Are they the mere phantasms ofman's ever-building imaginations? creations of fancy to satisfy thecraving need of the soul? And yet some men can obtain them. This veryCaptain Hayward, he seems at least as well contented, as wellsatisfied with himself, the world, and all the world gives, as it ispossible to conceive. But it is not so--it cannot be so. There is ablack spot somewhere, I am sure--some bitter memory, some disappointedhope, some aspiration ever desired. He owned he dared not venture tolove--is not that to be in a continued chain, to bear a fetter aboutone? and yet he seemed contented with such a fate. It is theregulation of our desires that makes us happy, the bounding them toour means--ay, with those who have no already existing cause forsorrow, but the cup of our fate is ever open for each passing hand todrop a poison into it, and once there, it pervades the whole--thewhole? by every drop down to the very dregs, turning the sweetness andthe spirit of the wine of life to bitterness and death. What is itthat I want that can make existence pleasant? Wealth, health, a mindcarefully trained and furnished with the keys to every door of mentalenjoyment--with love for my fellow-creatures, good will to all men, Ihave all--surely all; but, alas! I have memory too, and like thepillar of the cloud, it sometimes follows me, darkening the past,sometimes goes before me, obscuring the future. Yet this isvery weak. An effort of the mind--the mind I have vainly thought sostrong--should surely suffice to cast off the load. I have triedoccupation, calm enjoyments, fair scenes, tranquil pleasures, peacefulamusements. Perhaps in a more fiery and eager course, in active,energetic pursuits in passions that absorb all the feelings, and wrapthe soul in their own mantle, I may find forgetfulness. In all that Ihave hitherto done--there have been long intervals--open gates forbitter memory to enter, and the very nature of my chosen objects hasinvited her. Oh, yes, there must be such a thing as happiness: thatgirl's fair joyous face, her smile teeming with radiance, told me so.But I will not think of her. She is too bright, and fair, and happy tobe made a partner in so hazardous a speculation as mine. I will goaway from this place: it has given my mind some little repose, and Icould have made a friend of that light, good-humoured Hayward if hewould have let me--but he has left me too--all things leave me, Ithink. Well, he is gone, and I will go too--'tis not worth whilelingering longer."
At this point of his meditations some horses passed the window, andshadows darkened the room; but Beauchamp took no notice, till he hearda voice which had become somewhat familiar to him during the lasteighteen hours, exclaiming, "Ostler, ostler!" and in a moment afterNed Hayward was in the room again, but not alone. He was followed bythe portly figure of Sir John Slingsby, dressed in riding costume, andthough somewhat dusty, and certainly very round and heavy, yet bearingthat undefinable and almost ineffaceable look of a gentleman which noteven oddities and excesses had been able to wipe out.
Ned Hayward's words were few and soon spoken: "Mr. Beauchamp, Sir JohnSlingsby; Sir John, Mr. Beauchamp," were all he said, but the oldbaronet soon took up the conversation, shaking his new acquaintancewarmly by the hand.
"Glad to see you, Mr. Beauchamp, very glad to see you. I find myfamily are under a great obligation to you--that is to say, my sisterHarriet, Mrs. Clifford. Devilish impudent thing, by Jove, for thosefellows to attack a carriage at that time of the evening, and verylucky you happened to be there, for my friend Ned Hayward here--thoughhe has a notion of tactics, haven't you, Ned?--and is a stoutfellow--could hardly have managed three of them."
"I look upon myself as very fortunate, Sir John," replied Mr.Beauchamp, "in having taken my evening walk in that direction; but atthe same time, it is but fair to acknowledge that my share in therescue of your sister and her daughter was but small. I only kept oneman in play, while Captain Hayward had to contend with two."
"All the same! all the same, my dear Sir," said the baronet; "thereserve shares all the glory of a battle even if it does not pull atrigger. The ladies, however, are exceedingly obliged to you--verygood girls both of them--not that they have commissioned me to expresstheir thanks, far from it, for they are particularly anxious to do sothemselves if you will give them the opportunity; and therefore theyhave begged me to ask if you would favour us by your company at dinnerto-day, and to say that they will be devilish sorry if any previousengagement should prevent you, though they calculate upon to-morrow,if not to-day."
"I am quite an anchorite here, Sir John," answered Mr. Beauchamp, witha grave smile; but before he could finish his sentence, the oldbaronet, thinking it was the commencement of an excuse, hastened tostop it, saying,
"Quite a quiet dinner, I assure you--all as grave and proper aspossible; no drinking, no laughing, no fun--all upon our goodbehaviour. There will be nobody but you, Ned Hayward, I, and thedoctor there; Harriet, Mary, and my girl--who, by the way, says sheknows you--has seen you twice at the good doctor's--Doctor Miles's."
"I have had the pleasure of meeting Miss Slingsby," said Beauchamp. "Iwas only about to answer you just now, Sir John, that I am quite ananchorite here, and therefore not likely to have many invitations todinner. As I have not much cultivated the people of the place, theyhave not much cultivated me; and I believe they look upon me as asomewhat suspicious character, especially our friend Mr. Wittingham,who I find has been very curious in his inquiries as to whether I paymy bills, and where I go to when I walk out."
"Wittingham's an old fool!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "and like allother old fools, he thinks himself the wisest man in the world. Iwonder what the lord-lieutenant could be dreaming of when he put himin the commission of the peace--a man no more fit for it than myhorsewhip. I'll pay him for it all--I'll pay him--ask him todinner--make him beastly drunk, and lodge him for the night in ahorse-trough."
"I hope not this evening, Sir John," said Beauchamp, with a smile.
"Oh dear no," replied the baronet, with a look of rueful fear, "allvery prim to-night--all as grave as judges--quite proper and discreetwhile my sister Harriet is with us--an archdeacon's wido
w, you know--adean's, after all--though he was only dean for a couple of months--avery good man indeed, but exceedingly proper, terribly proper: thevery sound of a cork frightened him out of his wits. I do believe hefancied that port and Madeira are sent over in decanters, and claretin jugs with handles. However, you'll come, that's settled: half-pastfive, old-fashioned hours, gives plenty of time after dinner. But nowthat's no use," added the baronet, with a sigh, "we might as well dineat seven now--no use of a long evening. However, the girls will giveus a song, or music of some kind, and perhaps we can make up a rubberat long whist, which will make us sleep as sound as dormice. No sin inthat--no, Ned."
"None in the world, Sir John," answered Ned Hayward, "but a great dealof dulness. I never could make out in my life how men, with their witsabout them, could spend hours throwing bits of painted pasteboard in aparticular order for shillings and sixpences."
"Just as reasonable as standing up for hours to be showed forshillings and sixpences," answered Sir John Slingsby, "and both youand I have played at that, you dog. Every thing is folly if you takeit in the abstract--love, war, wine, ambition; and depend upon it,Ned, the lightest follies are the best--isn't it so, Mr. Beauchamp?"
"There is indeed some truth in what you say, Sir John," repliedBeauchamp, with a thoughtful smile; "and I believe amusing follies arebetter than serious ones--at least I begin to think so now."
"To be sure, to be sure," answered Sir John Slingsby; "man was madefor fun and not for sadness. It's a very nice world if people wouldlet it be so. Oh, we'll show you some sport, Mr. Beauchamp, before wehave done with you; but to-day you know we'll all be very proper--verygood boys indeed--and then when the cat's away the mice will play. Ha!ha! ha! At half-past five, you know, and in the meantime, Ned and Iwill ride off and abuse old Wittingham. I'll give him a prettylecture."
Good Sir John was disappointed however; his horses, his groom, and hisbulky person had all been seen from the windows of Mr. Wittingham'shouse as he rode into the town with Ned Hayward, and as a matter ofcourse, Mr. Wittingham was over the hills and far away before thevisit to Mr. Beauchamp was concluded.
When Sir John and Ned Hayward left him, Beauchamp remained for someminutes with a smile upon his countenance--a meditative--nay, amelancholy smile.
"So fleet our resolutions," he said to himself, "so fade away ourschemes and purposes. Who can say in this life what he will do andwhat he will not do the next day--nay, the next minute? Which is thehappiest after all, the man who struggles with fate and circumstance,and strives to perform the impracticable task of ruling them, or hewho, like a light thing upon the waters, suffers himself to be carriedeasily down the current, whirling round with every eddy, restingquietly in the still pool, or dashing gaily down the rapids? Heavenknows, but at all events, fate has shown herself so resolute to takemy affairs into her own hands, that I will not try to resist her. Iwill indulge every whim, and leave fortune to settle the result. I mayas well purchase that property: it is as good an investment as anyother, I dare say, and if not, it does not much signify. I will writeto my agent to transmit the money to-day."
With this resolution he sat down, and had soon despatched a few lines,which he carried to the post himself; then strolled out of the townfor an hour, and then returned to dress, ordering a post-chaise forTarningham House.
How different are the sensations with which one goes out to dinner atdifferent times--ay, even when it is to the house of a newacquaintance, where we have little means of judging previously whetherour day will be pleasant or unpleasant, joyous or sad. As there mustbe more than one party to each compact, and as the age and its objectact and react upon each other, so the qualities of each have theirshare in the effect upon either, and the mood of the visitor has atleast as much to do with the impression that he receives as the moodof the host. Wonderfully trite, is it not, reader? It has been said athousand times before, but it will not do you the least harm to haveit repeated, especially as I wish you clearly to understand the moodin which Mr. Beauchamp went, for the first time, to the house of SirJohn Slingsby. It was then in that of an indifferent mood of which Ihave shown some indications, by describing what was passing in hismind after the baronet and Ned Hayward left him. There are, however,various sorts of indifferent moods; there is the gay indifferent,which is very commonly called, devil-me-carish-ness; then there is theimpertinent indifference, with a dash of persiflage in it, just totake off the chili--as men put brandy into soda-water--which veryempty and conceited men assume to give them an air of that superiorityto which they are entitled by no mental quality. Then there is theindifference of despair, and the indifference of satiety. But none ofthese was the exact sort of indifference which Mr. Beauchamp felt, orthought he felt. It was a grave indifference, springing from a sort ofmorbid conviction that the happiness or unhappiness of man is not atall in his own hands, or that if it be at all so, it is only at hisoutset in life, and that the very first step so affects the wholecourse of after events, as to place the control over them totallybeyond his own power. It is a bad philosophy, a very unsafe, untrue,unwise philosophy, and a great author has made it the philosophy ofthe devil:
Thus we In our first choice are ever free; Choose, and the right of choice is o'er, We who were free, are free no more.
So says G?the, according to Auster's beautiful translation, and Ithink it much better to give that translation which every body canunderstand, than the original which one half of my readers cannot, andwhich would not be a bit better if they could.
Now Mr. Beauchamp was not the devil, or any thing the least like it,but yet this philosophy had been driven into him by his own previoushistory, and though he often resisted its influence, and strove tostruggle with it, and by new acts to shape a new fate, yet he had beenso often disappointed in the attempt, he had found every course,indeed, so constantly lead to the same result, that the philosophyreturned as soon as the effort was over, and he looked upon almostevery event with indifference, as destined to end in one manner, andthat not a pleasant one.
Nevertheless, he could enjoy for the time: there was no man by naturebetter fitted for enjoyment. He had a fondness for every thing thatwas great and beautiful; for every thing that was good and noble; heloved flowers, and birds, and music, and the fair face of nature. Hisbreast was full of harmonies, but unfortunately the tones were neverprolonged; to borrow a simile from the musical instrument, there was adamper that fell almost as soon as the chord was struck, and thesound, sweet as it might be, ceased before the music was complete.
In driving along, however, the post-boy went somewhat slowly, and witha peculiarly irritating jog in the saddle, which would have sadlydisturbed a person of a less indifferent mind--there was plenty ofroom for pleasant observation if not reflection. The road ran throughwooded groves, and often turned along the bank of the stream. At timesit mounted over a hill-side, and showed beyond a rich and leafyforeground, the wide extended landscape, undulating away towards thehorizon, with the lines of wood and slope beautifully marked in theaerial perspective, and filling the mind with vague imaginations ofthings that the eye could not define. It dipped down into a valleytoo, and passed through a quiet, peaceful little village, with a groupof tall silver poplars before the church, and a congregation of fineold beech trees around the rectory. The whole aspect of the place washome tranquillity; that of a purely English village under the mostfavourable circumstances. Cleanliness, neatness, rustic ornament, anair of comfort, a cheerful openness, a look of healthfulness. Howdifferent from the villages one sometimes sees, alas! in everycountry; but less in England than anywhere else in the wide world, theabodes of fever, dirt, penury, wretchedness.
As he passed the rectory, with its smooth, well-mown lawn, and greengates, Beauchamp put his head to the carriage-window and looked out.He expected to see, perhaps, a neat one-horse chaise at the door, anda sleek, well-fed beast to draw it; but there was nothing of the kindthere, and he remarked the traces of a pair of wheels
from the gateson the road before him. Half a mile further were the gates of Sir JohnSlingsby's park. It cannot be said that they were in very good order,the iron-work wanted painting sadly, one or two of the bars had got asad twist, the columns of stone-work to which they were fixed neededpointing, if not more solid repairs. The lodge had all the shuttersup, and the post-boy had to get down and open the gates.
Beauchamp sighed, not because he took any great interest in the placeor the people it contained, but because the aspect of desolation--ofthe decay of man's works--especially from neglect, is well worth asigh. The drive through the park, however, was delightful. Old treeswere all around, glorious old trees, those ever-growing monuments ofthe past, those silent leafy chroniclers of ages gone. Who plantedthem, who nourished, who protected them? what times have they seen,what deeds have they witnessed, what storms have passed over them,what sunshine have they drunk, what sorrows, and what joys havevisited the generations of man, since first they sprang up from thesmall seed till now, when they stretch out their giant arms to shelterthe remote posterity of those whom they have seen flourish and passaway? Who can wander among old trees, and not ask such questions, ay,and a thousand more.
The sight was pleasant to Mr. Beauchamp, it had a serious yet pleasingeffect upon his mind, and when the chaise drew up at the door ofTarningham House, he felt more disposed than before to enjoy thesociety within, whatever it might be.
The outer door was open, the fat butler threw open pompously the twoglass doors within, a couple of round footmen, whose lineaments werefull of ale, flanked the hall on either side, and thus Mr. Beauchampwas marshalled to the drawing-room, which he entered with his calm anddignified air, not in the slightest degree agitated, although he waswell aware that two very pretty faces were most likely looking for hisarrival.
Sir John Slingsby in the blue coat, the white waistcoat, the blackbreeches and stockings, with the rubicund countenance and white hair,advanced at once to receive him, and presented him to Mrs. Cliffordand her daughter.
"This young lady you already know, Mr. Beauchamp," he said, pointingto his daughter, "so I shan't introduce you here."
But that gentleman shook hands with Miss Slingsby first, proving thattheir acquaintance, however short, had made some steps towardsfriendship.
Isabella was a little fluttered in her manner, why, she scarcely knewherself, and the colour grew a little deeper in her cheek, and hersmile wavered, as if she would fain have seemed not too well pleased.All this, however, did not at all take from her beauty, for as a fairscene is never lovelier than when the shadows of drifting clouds arepassing over it, so a pretty face is never prettier than under theinfluence of slight emotions.
Miss Slingsby and Mary Clifford were standing both together, so thatBeauchamp had both those sweet faces before him at once. Isabella wasas fair as a lily with eyes of a deep blue, and warm brown hair,neither light nor dark, clustering richly round her brow and cheek inwilful curls that would have their own way. Mary Clifford was darkerin complexion, with the hair braided on her brow, there was deep butgentle thought in her dark eyes, and though the short chiselled upperlip could at times bear a joyous smile enough, yet the generalexpression was grave though not melancholy.
Beauchamp was a serious man, of a calm, quiet temper, somewhatsaddened by various events which had befallen him, but which of thosetwo faces, reader, think you he admired the most? The gay one, to besure, the one the least like himself. So it is wisely ordained bynature, and it is the force of circumstances alone that ever makes uschoose a being precisely similar to ourselves to be our companionthrough existence. Two tones, exactly the same, even upon differentinstruments produce unison not harmony, and so it is throughout allnature.
After a few words to Isabella, Mr. Beauchamp turned again to Mrs.Clifford, who at once spoke of their adventure of the night before,and thanked him for his kind assistance. Beauchamp said all thatcourtesy required, and said it gracefully and well. He expressed thepleasure that he felt to see that neither of the ladies had sufferedfrom the fear or agitation they had undergone, and expressed greatsatisfaction at having been near the spot at the moment the attack wasmade.
While they were speaking, Sir John Slingsby had twice taken out hiswatch--it was a large one, hanging by a thick gold chain, and Mr.Beauchamp, thinking that he divined the cause of his disquiet,observed with a smile,
"Dr. Miles must be here, I think, for judging by small signs, such asthe traces of wheels and an open gate, I imagine that he had left homebefore I passed."
"Oh yes, he is here," answered Sir John Slingsby, "he has been hereten minutes, but the old boy, who is as neat in his person as in hisideas, had got a little dust upon his black coat, and is gone to brushit off and wash his hands. That open chaise of his costs him more timein washing and brushing, than writing his sermons; but I can't thinkwhat has become of that fellow, Ned Hayward. The dog went out twohours ago for a walk through the park up to the moor, and I suppose'thoughtless Ned,' as we used to call him, has forgotten that we dineat half-past five. Well, we won't wait for him; as soon as the doctorcomes we will order dinner, and fine him a bumper for being late."
While he was speaking, Dr. Miles, the clergyman of the village throughwhich Beauchamp had passed, entered the room, and shook him warmly bythe hand. He was a tall, spare man, with a look of florid health inhis countenance, and snow-white hair; his face was certainly nothandsome, and there was a grave and somewhat stern expression in it,but yet it was pleasing, especially when he smiled, which, to say thetruth, was not often. It may seem a contradiction in terms to say thathe laughed oftener than he smiled, yet so it was, for his laugh wasnot always good-humoured, especially in the house of Sir JohnSlingsby. There was from time to time, something bitter and cynical init, and generally found vent when any thing was said, the folly ofwhich he thought exceeded the wickedness. He was one of the few men ofperfect respectability who was a constant visitor at Tarningham House;but the truth was, that he was the rector of Sir John Slingsby'sparish. Now no consideration of tithes, perquisites, good dinners,comforts, and conveniences, would have induced Dr. Miles to do anything that he thought wrong, but he argued in this manner:--
"Sir John Slingsby is an old fool, and one who is likely to get worseinstead of better, if nobody of more rational views, higher feelings,and more reasonable pursuits takes any notice of him. Now I, from myposition, am bound to do the best I can to bring him to a better stateof mind. I may effect something in this way, by seeing him frequentlyat all events, I can do much to prevent his becoming worse; mypresence is some check upon these people, and even if it does littlegood to the father, there is that sweet, dear, amiable girl, who needssome support and comfort in her unpleasant situation."
Such were some of the considerations upon which Dr. Miles acted. Therewere many more indeed, but these are enough for my purpose. He shookBeauchamp warmly by the hand, as we have seen, and seemed to be moreintimate with him than any body in the room, taking him aside, andspeaking to him for a moment or two in private, while Sir JohnSlingsby rang the bell, and ordered dinner without waiting for CaptainHayward.
"William Slack, Sir John, has seen him," said the butler, "coming downthe long avenue with something in his arms--he thinks it's a fawn."
"Well then, he'll be here soon," said the master of the mansion,"serve dinner, serve dinner, by Jove, I won't wait. Devil take thefellow, the ensign shouldn't keep his colonel waiting. It's notrespectful. I'll fine him two bumpers if the soup's off before hemakes his appearance."
In the meantime the first words of Dr. Miles to Mr. Beauchamp were, "Ihave made the inquiries, my dear Sir, according to your request, andit is well worth the money. It will return they say four per cent.clear, which in these times is well enough."
"I have already determined upon it," said Beauchamp, "and have writtento London about it."
"Ay, ay," said the worthy doctor, "just like all the rest of theworld, my young friend, asking for advice, and acting without it."
"Not ex
actly," answered Beauchamp, "you told me before what youthought upon the subject, and I knew you were not one to express anopinion except upon good grounds. The only question is now what lawyerI can employ here to arrange minor matters. The more important must,of course, be referred to my solicitors in London."
"We have no great choice," replied Dr. Miles, "there are but two inTarningham, thank God. The one is a Mr. Wharton, the other a Mr.Bacon, neither of them particularly excellent specimens of humanity;but in the one the body is better than the mind, in the other the mindbetter than the body."
"Probably I should like the latter best," answered Beauchamp, "butpray, my dear doctor, give me a somewhat clearer knowledge of thesetwo gentlemen for my guidance."
"Well then though I do not love in general to say aught indisparagement of my neighbours behind their backs," Dr. Miles replied,"I must, I suppose, be more definite. Mr. Wharton is a quiet, silentman, gentlemanlike in appearance and in manners, cautious, plausible,and affecting friendship for his clients. I have never known him setthe poor by the ears for the sake of small gains, or promotedissensions amongst farmers in order to make by a law-suit. On thecontrary, I have heard him dissuade from legal proceedings, and saythat quarrels are very foolish things."
"A good sort of person," said Beauchamp.
"Hear the other side, my dear Sir," rejoined the doctor, "such game asI have been speaking of is too small for him. He was once poor; he isnow very rich. I have rarely heard of his having a client who somehowdid not ruin himself; and although I do not by any means intend to saythat I have been able to trace Mr. Wharton's hand in theirdestruction, certain it is that the bulk of the property--at least alarge share of what they squandered or lost has found its way into hispossession. I have seen him always ready to smooth men's way todestruction, to lend money, to encourage extravagance, to lullapprehension, to embarrass efforts at retrenchment, and then when thebeast was in the toils, to despatch it and take his share. No mercythen when ruin is inevitable; the lawyer must be paid, and must bepaid first."
"And now for Mr. Bac on?" said Beauchamp.
"Why he is simply a vulgar little man," answered the clergyman,"coarse in manners and in person: cunning and stolid, but with acompetent knowledge of law; keen at finding out faults and flaws. Hispractice is in an inferior line to the other's, but he is at allevents safer, and I believe more honest."
"How do you mean, cunning and stolid?" asked Beauchamp, "those twoqualities would seem to me incompatible."
"Oh dear no," replied Dr. Miles; but before he could explain, thebutler announced dinner, and as Sir John gave his arm to Mrs.Clifford, Beauchamp advanced towards Isabella. The doors were thrownwide open, and the party were issuing forth to cross the vestibule tothe dining-room, when suddenly Sir John and his sister halted,encountered by an apparition which certainly was unexpected in theform that it assumed. In fact they had not taken two steps out of thedrawing-room ere the glass doors were flung open, and Ned Haywardstood before them as unlike the Ned Hayward I first presented to thereader as possible. His coat was covered with a dull whitish graypowder, his linen soiled, and apparently singed, his hands and face asblack as soot, his glossy brown hair rugged and burnt, no hat upon hishead, and in his arms a very pretty boy of about two years old, or alittle more perhaps, on whose face were evident marks of recent tears,though he seemed now pacified, and was staring about with large eyesat the various objects in the large house to which he was justintroduced.
"Why Ned, Ned, Ned, what in the mischief's name has happened to you?"exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "have you all at once become a poor youngman with a small family of young children?"
"No, my dear Sir," answered Ned Hayward in a hurried tone, "but if youhave any women in the house I will give this little fellow into theircare and tell you all about it in a few minutes. Hush, my little man,hush. We are all friends: we will take care of you. Now don't cryagain: no harm shall happen."
"Women! to be sure!" cried Sir John, "call the housekeeper, one of yourascals. Women! Hang it, Ned, do you think I could live in a housewithout women? A bottle of claret is not more necessary to myexistence than the sight of a cap and a petticoat flying about thehouse--in the distance, Ned, in the distance! No brooms and dust-panstoo near me; but in a discreet position, far enough off yet visible;woman is the sunshine of a house."
"Give him to me, Captain Hayward," said Miss Clifford, holding out herarms for the boy. "He will be quiet with me, I am sure. Won't you, mypoor little fellow?"
The child gazed at her strangely as she took him, letting go Dr.Miles's arm to do so; but meeting the sweet smile that lighted up herbeautiful face, he put his little arms round her neck the next moment,and hid his large blue eyes upon her shoulder. She held him kindlythere, speaking a few gentle words to him, while Ned Hayward lookinground the party addressed himself to the worthy clergyman, inquiring,"You are the rector of this parish, Sir, I think?"
Dr. Miles made a stiff bow, not prepossessed in favour of any of SirJohn Slingsby's old friends, and answered as briefly as possible, "Iam, Sir."
"Then can you tell me," asked the young gentleman, eagerly, "if therewas any woman up at the cottage on the moor?"
Dr. Miles started, and replied with a look of much greater interest,"No, Sir, no. What has happened? Why do you ask? What cottage do youmean? There are three."
"I mean the cottage of a man called Gimlet," answered Ned Hayward. "Isaw some women's clothes--gowns and things; and I thought there mightbe a woman there, that's all. There was none then?"
"There was one six months ago," replied the clergyman, in a very gravetone, "as lovely a creature as ever was seen, but she lies in mychurchyard, poor thing. She is at peace."
"Thank God," said Ned Hayward, in a tone of relief. "Ah, here comessomebody for the child. My good lady, will you have the kindness totake good care of this little fellow. See that he is not burnt orhurt, and let him have some bread-and-milk, or things that childreneat--I don't know very well what they are, but I dare say you do."
"Oh, by Jove that she does!" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, "she feedshalf the children in the parish. You take good care of him, Mrs.Hope--and now, Ned," he continued, turning from the housekeeper to hisguest, "what the devil's the meaning of all this?"
"I will tell you by and by, Sir John," answered Captain Hayward. "Praygo to dinner and I will be down directly. Many apologies for beinglate; but it was not to be helped. I will not be ten minutes; but donot let me detain you--"
"But what is it all about? What has happened? Who the deuce is thechild?" exclaimed Sir John. "Do you think either men or women can eatsoup or digest fish with their stomachs full of curiosity?"
"By and by, Sir John, by and by," said Ned Hayward, making towards thestairs. "You shall have the whole story for dessert. At present I amdirty, and the dinner's waiting. It will get cold, and your curiositykeep hot."
Thus saying he left them, and the rest of the party proceeded todinner.
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