by Ellen Wood
“No, Sir. I am going home. I’ve been up to the Hall, and stayed there longer than I ought.”
“It is too late a great deal for you to be out, and the whole country round about swarming with poachers.”
“True, Sir. But I shan’t go before my time—”
“Nonsense!” interrupted Charles. “Come, I tell you what; I’ll see you home, I have nothing better to do; but first get that man safely housed somewhere, do not leave him out here to be run over.”
“Oh! I’ll soon settle him, sir.”
And while Charles Linchmore struck a light and lit another cigar, Grant went once more into the cottage.
Opening a door, he called up the stairs, “Mrs. Marks! Here’s your husband. I’ve brought him home rather unsteady on his pins; you’d better come down and see after him at once afore he gets into mischief.”
“He is! Is he?” screamed a shrill voice from the top. “I expected as much. I warrant I’ll soon make him steady again!”
With which satisfactory reply Grant rejoined Charles Linchmore, and they left the ‘pikeman singing a drunken song, and vainly trying to shut the gate, the opening of which had previously so baffled his endeavours.
Turning off the high road, they struck into a side path or narrow lane, the tall hedges towering above them on either side, while here and there a tree loomed like a giant overhead.
“So you have been gossiping up at the Hall, Grant?” began Charles, encouraging his companion to talk.
“Yes, Sir; and a sight of company there is there now; not a man or maid able or willing to talk to you; so it’s not much in the way of a gossip I’ve had. No, sir, I went to see my daughter Mary, but she was busy with the young ladies, getting them ready for a big dinner. Sich a sight of carriages in the yard, and the dogs barking like mad. You’d scarce know the place again, Sir. It’s so changed.”
“I’m glad of it. It used to be as dull as ditch water.”
“Lord love ye, Sir! You won’t find it dull or lonesome now. Why afore the frost set in, the roads were all alive with ladies and gentlemen riding over them. Matthew the Pikeman hadn’t no time scarce to eat his victuals, let alone take a drop. So there’s some excuse, Sir, for him getting muddled a bit now, and he didn’t forsee the party up at the Hall to-night.”
“I see,” replied Charles, smiling, “he was overworked, poor man, I’ve no doubt it is so.”
“Well, as to that Sir, I can’t say he’s got much to worry himself about on that score. His wife says he’s an idle dog; but then that’s her way, she never says he’s over-burthened with brains.”
“A vixen, eh? It’s a good thing all women don’t resemble Mrs. Marks.”
“Yes, Sir, it is. Which same is a comfort if you’re thinking of taking a wife; I ask your pardon, Sir, for being so bold.”
“I Grant! I take a wife! That is anything but a sensible speech of yours, and requires a great deal of thought.”
“Well, Sir, I dare say when your time comes, you’ll get one as’ll suit you, as Mrs. Marks suits her husband, he’d be nothing without her, and though he brags and bullies about awful behind her back, he’s like a tame cat afore her. To every word he gives, she lets fly more than a dozen. It’s my belief she’d talk any man dumb in half an hour.”
“A pleasant life for Marks, upon my soul! I no longer wonder he frequents the public house.”
“He don’t go there often, Sir, don’t think it. No, he most allays manages to go on the sly, and it ain’t so easy to ‘scape her eyes. Sometimes when he thinks she’s safe at the wash-tub, he sneaks off; but he darn’t for the life of him go on if he hears her voice calling out after him behind. Then he’s forced to turn tail, and go back home with it ‘tween his legs, with scarce even a growl. But it ‘grees with him, he don’t get so very thin; most others would be worn to skin and bone afore this. And now I’m in sight of the cottage, sir, so I needn’t trouble you to come any further, and I’m much beholden to you, Sir, for coming so far.”
But Charles Linchmore saw him safe to the door, then turned his horse’s head once more towards the Hall.
This time he had not long to wait at the Turnpike Gate. It was swung open by a tall, bony, masculine looking woman, — apparently quite a match for the thin, spare Pikeman — who wished him good night in a loud, shrill voice.
“Mrs. Marks,” thought Charles. “Her voice sounds hoarse, as though she had been pitching into that unfortunate husband of hers pretty considerably. I hope there’s no second Mrs. M. to be had, or reserved for me, as Grant half hinted, in some snug corner.”
As he entered the Lodge gate, he wondered if Miss Neville had joined the guests at dinner; who had taken her in, sat next her, and talked to her; and whether he should find her the centre of an admiring circle, or flirting in some “snuggery,” or on the “causeuse,” where he had had such a desperate flirtation with his cousin, Frances Strickland, only a year ago.
But he had scarcely taken half-a-dozen steps in the Hall, before he saw her standing at the further end, by the large roaring Christmas fire.
He crossed at once to where she was; holding out his hand cordially, forgetting in a moment all his savage thoughts and suspicions.
“Good evening, Miss Neville. You have not forgotten an old friend?”
Amy gave him her hand, but not quite so eagerly as it was clasped in those strong fingers of his.
“The sight of the fire is quite cheering. I am half frozen with the cold,” continued he, drawing nearer to it.
“It is a bleak drive from the station; and I always fancy colder on that road than any other.”
“I rode it; and should have been warm enough if the frosty roads would have allowed of a gallop. I met Grant, the head Keeper, as I came along, and saw him home; it was too late for him to be out alone, and a price set on his head by those cowardly ruffians, the poachers.”
“You heard about the fight then. What a sad affair it was from beginning to end. It has made us all nervous and fearful for Grant, as he gave the principal evidence against the unfortunate man who was hung; and they have vowed to be revenged on him; but Mr. Linchmore has doubled the number of Keepers nearly, so we hope that will intimidate them.”
“I hope it may; and now suppose we talk about something more lively; the dinner for instance. How many people are here?”
“About thirty altogether. But they have all left the dining-room now some little time. You are late.”
“I meant to be. I hate dinners,” he said crossly, half inclined to be out of temper again, as of course she must be waiting for somebody out there; otherwise why all alone?
“Here Bob,” said he aloud, “here’s room for you, old fellow; come and warm your toes. He’s no beauty, Miss Neville, is he?” and he glanced inquiringly in her face. “Would she think him a horror, as his Cousin Frances had done?
“Decidedly not,” replied Amy, “but I like dogs.”
“I am glad of it. I am very fond of Bob, I believe he is the only creature who cares for me. By-the-by how is my sister’s fat pet? Poor beast, what a specimen of a dog he is! Bob and he never got on well together.”
“He is as asthmatic as ever, and has not had a fit for an age. I cannot say what the sight of your dog may do, especially if he turns the right side of his face towards him.”
“Yes. That eye is certainly rather so-so; and the lip uncomfortably short; but I am proud of those marks, and so is he; they are most honourable wounds, and show he has borne the brunt of many a battle without flinching.”
While Amy and he both laughed, Frances Strickland came into the hall. She glanced at the two in surprise, and stood for a moment irresolute. Once she made as though she would have gone towards them, then turning, went swiftly into the music-room; came back as softly, and with another look re-entered the drawing-room.
Closing the door, her eyes wandered restlessly until they fixed their gaze on Mrs. Linchmore, who, seated on the music stool, was carelessly turning the pages of a book, while two o
r three young men seemed eagerly proffering their services, or selecting from among a number of songs the one she was to sing.
An expression of disappointment flitted over Frances’ face while going towards the piano. One of the gentlemen had just moved away to another part of the room. So laying down the music she held in her hand, she advanced towards the vacant seat, and had nearly secured it, when it was filled by another, just as Mrs. Linchmore began one of the airs from “Lurline.”
Again that vexed, baffled look, with a dimly perceptible frown. As she turned away, Anne Bennet rose and seated herself by Julia.
“Look at Frances, Maggie,” whispered she, “and tell me what you see in her face.”
“What should I see?” laughed Julia, “but pride. I have never been able to find any other expression.”
“Then you are a greater simpleton than I; and if I had the stick the fool gave to the king on his death bed, you should have it; for I see a great deal more.”
“Wise sister Anne. What do you see?”
“An angry, spiteful, vexed look; as if she had seen a ghost in the music-room, where I know she went just now.”
“Nonsense! Even if she had it would not frighten her, she would think it had only made its appearance to fall down and worship her; and would spurn it with her foot.”
“I am certain she saw something out there, and I am determined to see what it was.”
“Of course,” said Julia demurely, “and here comes Mr. Hall to help you.”
“Always coming when he is not wanted,” exclaimed Anne crossly. “I shall not say a word to him; or if I do, I will be abominably rude.”
Quite unconscious of what was awaiting him Mr. Hall advanced, and said good humouredly,
“I have been thinking Miss Anne, where we shall go to-morrow for the walk you have so kindly threatened me with.”
“It will most likely pour in torrents,” replied she.
“I do not anticipate it, the glass is rising, so there is every prospect of our walk coming off; and if I might be allowed to choose, I know of a very lovely one, even in winter time.”
“That is impossible,” said she sharply, “everything looks cold and bleak.”
“Not while the snow remains in the branches of the trees; even then the Oak Glen can never look ugly; the large rocks prevent that.”
“The Oak Glen! Oh, pray do not trouble yourself to take me there; I will lead you blind-fold.” That will settle him, thought she.
But no, Mr. Hall was not to be defeated in that style, and went on again quite unconcernedly.
“You have sketched it, perhaps. It would make a lovely painting.”
“I do not paint; that is to say only caricatures of people that make themselves ridiculous.” That must finish him, thought she, as Julia gave her dress a slight pull.
But Mr. Hall had not the slightest idea of leaving, and seemed as though he heard not; and quite out of temper Anne said;
“What are you pulling at my dress for, Julia? I think she has a secret to tell me Mr. Hall, so you really must go away.”
“I dare say it will keep until to-morrow,” replied the impenetrable Mr. Hall; “young ladies never have any very serious secrets.”
“You are quite right, Mr. Hall,” said Julia, “my secret will keep very well until to-morrow.”
“What a wretch he is!” thought Anne, tapping her tiny foot impatiently on the ground; “Isabella will have finished that song soon, and then it will be too late. How tiresome I cannot get rid of him, when every moment is so precious.”
“Mr. Hall,” said she aloud, “If Julia’s secret will keep, mine will not; and since you are determined to remain here, why you must be a sharer in it; there is no help for it.”
“By all means,” replied he, coolly, “I am all attention.”
“You will only hear part of it; but men are so curious, I dare say you will soon ferret out the rest. Can I trust you?”
“Of course. It is only the fair sex that are not to be trusted.”
“I have no time to quarrel with you, or I would resent such a rude speech. Now will you attend, please. I am going to ask you to help me — that is if you will.”
“Certainly I will. I am all attention.”
“I am desirous of leaving the room without Miss Strickland’s knowledge; can you help me to manage it?”
“Is that all? You shall see.”
He went over to where Frances still stood by the piano; with huge, ungainly strides, as though a newly ploughed field was under his feet, instead of the soft velvet carpet.
“What an awkward bear he is!” said Anne to her sister, as she watched him; “I shall give him a hint to get drilled, or become a volunteer parson, he would be sure to shoot himself the very first time he handled a rifle; do only look at him Mag, he is like a large tub rolling along.”
“Do not abuse him Anne, see how quickly he has done what you wished; I am sure he deserves praise for that.”
“I wish he always would do what I wish; and then I should not be tormented with him so often,” replied Anne.
CHAPTER XI.
THE MEETING IN THE SCHOOL-ROOM.
Thus, when I felt the force of love,
When all the passion fill’d my breast, —
When, trembling, with the storm I strove,
And pray’d, but vainly pray’d, for rest;
’Twas tempest all, a dreadful strife
For ease, for joy, for more than life:
’Twas every hour to groan and sigh
In grief, in fear, in jealousy.
Crabbe.
Frances did not look very well pleased when she saw Mr. Hall advancing; in fact turned away her head almost rudely, so that any very timid man would have taken the hint and retreated.
But Mr. Hall, however simple he looked, was not timid; he had a way of always carrying his point. That strong unflinching will of his would have subdued a much more formidable enemy than a proud, weak woman. I say weak, because when a woman gives way to or does not strive against any besetting sin, she lays herself open to attack, and is easily wounded when that most palpable fault is assailed. So it was with Frances.
Her mother and Mrs. Bennet were sisters, the first had married a rich merchant, the other a comparatively poor man, whose five daughters did not conduce to enrich him, however much they might his family fireside. Mrs. Linchmore’s mother was an elder sister, she had died young leaving her only child to the care, as has been seen, of Mrs. Elrington. Frances and Mrs. Linchmore somewhat resembled one another. The same haughty look, and at times, scornful expression appeared in both, but with this difference, that the former could command hers at will almost, while the latter was either not so well versed in the art of concealment or scorned to use means to prevent its being visible.
They were both rich. Riches do not of necessity bring pride, although they in a great measure foster and increase it. They make the seeds bear fruit which otherwise would remain dormant for ever, and Frances being an only daughter had been early taught to believe she was a magnet, towards which all hearts would turn, and that wealth was necessary to happiness, while her cousins the Bennets were quoted as examples of poverty, until she thoroughly learnt to despise and pity them, believing in her ignorance that they and all must envy her and her parents wealth.
Mr. Hall, in her ideas, was a poor simpleton almost beneath her regard, and she would have taken no notice of him had it not been for his admiration of Anne. She could not bear another should receive worship while she was present. He was simply a being to be made useful, as in the instance of the skein of wool; though that little episode had in some slight measure induced her to think he was not quite such a Simon Pure as he looked, and although Mr. Hall on this occasion really exerted himself to be agreeable, the tangled mass lying in the sofa table drawer, was too recent an injury to be easily forgotten; and he only received monosyllables in reply to his remarks.
But he was not to be defeated. Anne had asked him to help her
, and help her he would; so notwithstanding Frances’ ungraciousness he talked on, and so engrossed her attention that he soon had the satisfaction of watching Anne’s unobserved escape from the room, and of thinking that perhaps she would like him a little better for his clever management.
Alas! Anne had far too much curiosity to think of anything but gratifying that. Until that had been satisfied not a thought had she for anything else. Her inquisitiveness was as great almost as Frances’ pride. There never was a plot concocted at home, or a pleasure planned as a surprise for her, but she had found out all about it before it was in a fair way of completion. Her sisters were constantly foreboding scrapes and troubles for her, but nothing as in this instance daunted her. She would not be baffled. She guessed from Frances’ face that something had annoyed her; that trouble was in consequence in store for some one, and she was resolved to find out what that something was.
As she stood outside in the hall, she saw at a glance Frances’ ghosts, and ever impulsive, was beside them in a moment.
“Good evening, Charles. There are at least a dozen cousins in there,” and she pointed in the direction of the drawing-room, “waiting to say the same to you.”
“Then let them wait, until I have warned and nerved myself to encounter such an immense array of females.”
“Most men would have been roasted in less time; but you have had very pleasant company,” and she glanced at Amy, “to perform your deed of martyrdom in.”
“I had a cold ride,” replied he drily, “and only arrived a short time ago from the Brampton Station.”
“In these fast days even the clocks are somehow in the fashion, and go faster than they did formerly. I remember when I used to think half-an-hour an awful long time to wait for anybody, and I suspect Mrs. Linchmore’s patience is fast evaporating.”
“Nonsense! How should she know I have arrived?”
“Because all ill news travels fast.”
“Do not be surprised, Miss Neville,” said Charles, apologetically, “at any thing you hear fall from Miss Bennet’s lips, she is — ,” he hesitated a moment, “rather peculiar.”