London Pride, Or, When the World Was Younger

by M. E. Braddon

  CHAPTER XXII.

  AT THE MANOR MOAT.

  Solid, grave, and sober, grey with a quarter of a century's neglect, theManor House, in the valley below Brill, differed in every detail from thehistorical Chilton Abbey. It was a moated manor house, the typical house ofthe typical English squire; an E-shaped house, with a capacious roof thatlodged all the household servants, and clustered chimney-stacks thataccommodated a great company of swallows. It had been built in the reignof Henry the Seventh, and was coeval with its distinguished neighbour, thehouse of the Verneys, at Middle Claydon, and it had never served any otherpurpose than to shelter Englishmen of good repute in the land. Souvenirsof Bosworth field--a pair of huge jack-boots, a two-handed sword, and abattered helmet--hung over the chimney-piece in the low-ceiled hall; butthe end of the civil war was but a memory when the Manor House was built.After Bosworth a slumberous peace had fallen on the land, and in thestillness of this secluded valley, sheltered from every bleak wind bysurrounding hills and woods, the gardens of the Manor Moat had grown intoa settled beauty that made the chief attraction of a country seat whichboasted so little of architectural dignity, or of expensive fantasy inmoulded brick and carved stone. Plain, sombre, with brick walls and heavystone mullions to low-browed windows, the Manor House stood in the midstof gardens such as the modern millionaire may long for, but which only thegrey old gardener Time can create.

  There was more than a mile of yew hedge, eight feet high, and threefeet broad, walling in flower garden and physic garden, the latter theparticular care of the house-mothers of previous generations, the former aparadise of those old flowers which bloom and breathe sweet odours in thepages of Shakespeare, and jewel the verse of Milton. The fritillary hereopened its dusky spotted petals to drink the dews of May; and here, againsta wall of darkest green, daffodils bloomed unruffled by March winds.

  Verily a garden of gardens; but when Angela came there in the chillFebruary there were no flowers to welcome her, only the long, straightwalks beside those walls of yew, and the dark shining waters of the moatand the fish-pond, reflecting the winter sun; and over all the scene aquiet as of the grave.

  A little colony of old servants had been left in the house, which hadescaped confiscation, albeit the property of a notorious Malignant, perhapschiefly on account of its insignificance, the bulk of the estate havingbeen sold by Sir John in '44, when the king's condition was waxingdesperate, and money was worth twice its value to those who clung to hope,and were ready to sacrifice their last jacobus in the royal cause. The poorlittle property--shrunk to a home-farm of ninety acres, a humble homestead,and the Manor House--may have been thought hardly worth selling; or SirJohn's rights may have been respected out of regard for his son-in-law,who, on the maternal side, had kindred in high places under theCommonwealth, a fact of which Hyacinth occasionally reminded her husband,telling him that he was by hereditary instinct a rebel and a king-slayer.

  The farm had been taken to by Sir John's steward, a man who in politics wasof the same easy temper as the Vicar of Bray in religion, and was a staunchCromwellian so long as Oliver or Richard sat at Whitehall, or would havetossed up his cap and cheered for Monk, as Captain-General of GreatBritain, had he been called upon to till his fields and rear his stockunder a military despotism. It mattered little to any man living at ease ina fat Buckinghamshire valley what King or Commonwealth ruled in London, solong as there was a ready market at Aylesbury or Thame for all the farmcould produce, and civil war planted neither drake nor culverin on BrillHill.

  The old servants had vegetated as best they might in the old house, theirwages of the scantiest; but to live and die within familiar walls wasbetter than to fare through a world which had no need of them. The youngermembers of the household had scattered, and found new homes; but thegrey-haired cook was still in her kitchen; the old butler still wept overhis pantry, where a dozen or so of spoons, and one battered tankard ofHeriot's make, were all that remained of that store of gold and silverwhich had been his pride forty years ago, when Charles was bringing homehis fair French bride, and old Thames at London was alight with fire-worksand torches, and alive with music and singing, as the city welcomed itsyoung Queen, and when Reuben Holden was a lad in the pantry, learning topolish a salver or a goblet, and sorely hectored by his uncle the butler.

  Reuben, and Marjory, the old cook, famous in her day as any _cordon-bleu_,were the sole representatives of the once respectable household; but acouple of stout wenches had been hired from the cluster of labourers'hovels that called itself a village; and these had been made to drudge asthey had never drudged before in the few days of warning which preparedReuben for his master's return.

  Fires had been lighted in rooms where mould and mildew had long prevailed;wainscots had been scrubbed and polished till the whole house reekedof bees-wax and turpentine, to a degree that almost overpowered thosepervading odours of damp and dry rot, which can curiously exist together.The old furniture had been made as bright as faded fabrics and worm-eatenwood could be made by labour; and the leaping light of blazing logs,reflected on the black oak panelling, gave a transient air of cheerfulnessto the spacious dining-parlour where Sir John and his daughter took theirfirst meal in the old home. And if to Angela's eye, accustomed to theItalian loftiness of the noble mansions on the Thames, the broad oakcrossbeams seemed coming down upon her head, there was at least an air ofhomely snugness in the low darkly coloured room.

  On that first evening there had been much to interest and engage her. Shehad the old house to explore, and dim childish memories to recall. Here wasthe room where her mother died, the room in which she herself had firstseen the light--perhaps not until a month or so after her birth, sincethe seventeenth-century baby was not flung open-eyed into her birthdaysunshine, but was swaddled and muffled in a dismal apprenticeship to life.The chamber had been hung with "blacks" for a twelvemonth, Reuben told her,as he escorted her over the house, and unlocked the doors of disused rooms.

  The tall bedstead with its red and yellow stamped velvet curtains andcarved ebony posts looked like an Indian temple. One might expect tosee Buddha squatting on the embroidered counterpane--the work of half alifetime. When the curtains were drawn back, a huge moth flew out of thedarkness, and spun and wheeled round the room with an awful humming noise,and to the superstitious mind might have suggested a human soul embodied inthis phantasmal greyness, with power of sound in such excess of its bulk.

  "Sir John never used the room after her ladyship's death," Reubenexplained, "though 'tis the best bed-chamber. He has always slept in theblue room, which is at the furthest end of the gallery from the room thathas been prepared for madam. We call that the garden room, and it is mightypretty in summer."

  In summer! How far it seemed to summer-time in Angela's thoughts! What along gulf of nothingness to be bridged over, what a dull level plain tocross, before June and the roses could come round again, bringing with themthe memory of last summer; and the days she had lived under the same roofwith Fareham, and the evenings when they had sat in the same room, orloitered on the terrace, pausing now and then beside an Italian vase ofgaudy flowers to look at this or that, or to watch the mob on the river;and those rare golden days, like that at Sayes Court, which she had spentin some excursion with Fareham and Henriette.

  "I hope madam likes the chamber we have prepared for her?" the old mansaid, as she stood dreaming.

  "Yes, my good friend, it is very comfortable. My woman complained of thesmoky chimney in her chamber; but no doubt we shall mend that by-and-by."

  "It would be strange if a gentlewoman's servant found not something togrumble about," said Reuben; "they have ever less work to do than any oneelse in the house, and ever make more trouble than their mistresses. I'llsettle the hussy, with madam's leave."

  "Nay, pray, Mr. Reuben, no harshness. She is a willing, kind-hearted girl,and we shall find plenty of work for her in this big house where there areso few servants."

  "Oh, there's work enough for sure, if she'll do it, and
is no fine citymadam that will scream at sight of a mouse, belike."

  "She is a girl I had out of Oxfordshire."

  "Oh, if she comes out of Oxfordshire, from his lordship's estate, I dareswear she is a good girl. I hate your London trash; and I think the greatfire would have been a blessing in disguise if it had swept away most ofsuch trumpery."

  "Oh, sir, if a Romanist were to say as much as that!" said Angela,laughing.

  "Oh, madam, I am not one of they fools that say because half London wasburnt the Papishes must have set it on fire. What good would the burning ofit do 'em, poor souls? And now they are to pay double taxes, as if it wasa sure thing their faggots kindled the blaze. I know how kind and sweet asoul a Papish may be, though she do worship idols; for I had the honour toserve your ladyship's mother from the hour she first entered this housetill the day I smuggled the French priest by the back stairs to carry herthe holy oils. Ah! she was a noble and lovely lady. Madam's eyes are of hercolour; and, indeed, madam favours her mother more than my Lady Farehamdoes."

  "Have you seen Lady Fareham of late years?"

  "Ay, madam, she came here in her coach-and-six the summer before thepestilence, with her two beautiful children, and a party of ladies andgentlemen. They rode here from his Grace of Buckingham's new mansion bythe Thames--Clefden, I think they call it; and they do say his Grace do solavish and squander money in the building of it, that belike he will beruined and dead before his palace be finished. There were three coachesfull, with servants and what not. And they brought wine, and capons readydressed, and confectionery, and I helped to serve a collation for them inthe garden. And after they had feasted merrily, with a vast quantity ofsparkling French wine, they all rushed through the house like madcaps,laughing and chattering, regular French magpies, for there was more of 'emFrench than English, her ladyship leading them, till she comes to the doorof this room, and finds it locked, and she begins to thump upon the panelslike a spoilt child, and calls, 'Reuben, Reuben, what is your mystery? Surethis must be the ghost-chamber! Open, open, instantly.' And I answered herquietly, ''Tis the chamber where that sweet angel, your ladyship's mother,lay in state, and it has never been opened to strangers since she died.'And all in the midst of her mirth, the dear young lady burst out weeping,and cried, 'My sweet, sweet mother! I remember the last smile she gave meas if it was yesterday.' And then she dropped on her knees and crossedherself, and whispered a prayer, with her face close against the door;and I knew that she was praying for her lady-mother, as the way of yourreligion is, madam, to pray for the dead; and sure, though it is a simplething, it can do no harm; and to my thinking, when all the foolishness istaken out of religion the warmth and the comfort seem to go too; for I knowI never used to feel a bit more comfortable after a two hours' sermon, whenI was an Anabaptist."

  "Are you not an Anabaptist now, Reuben?"

  "Lord forbid, madam! I have been a member of the Church of England eversince his Majesty's restoration brought the Vicar to his own again, andgave us back Christmas Day, and the organ, and the singing-boys."

  Angela's life at the Manor was so colourless that the first blossoming of afamiliar flower was an event to note and to remember. Life within conventwalls would have been scarcely more tranquil or more monotonous. Sir Johnrode with his hounds three or four times a week, or was about the fieldssuperintending the farming operations, walking beside the ploughman as hedrove his furrow, or watching the scattering of the seed. Or he was inthe narrow woodlands which still belonged to him, and Angela, taking hersolitary walk at the close of day, heard his axe ringing through the wintryair.

  It was a peaceful, and should have been a pleasant, life, for father andfor daughter. Angela told herself that God had been very good to her inproviding this safe haven from tempestuous seas, this quiet little world,where the pulses of passion beat not; where existence was like a sleep, agradual drifting away of days and weeks, marked only by the changing noteof birds, the deepening umber on the birch, the purpling of beech buds, andthe starry celandine shining out of grassy banks that had so lately beenobliterated under the drifted snow.

  "I ought to be happy," she said to herself of a morning, when she rose fromher knees, and stood looking across the garden to the grassy hills beyond,while the beads of her rosary slipped through her languid fingers--"I oughtto be happy."

  And then she turned from the sunny window with a sigh, and went down thedark, echoing staircase to the breakfast parlour, where her own littlesilver chocolate-pot looked ridiculously small beside Sir John's quarttankard, and where the crisp, golden rolls, baked in the French fashionby the maid from Chilton, who had been taught by Lord Fareham's _chef_,contrasted with the chine of beef and huge farmhouse loaf that accompaniedthe knight's old October.

  After all his Continental wanderings Sir John had come back to substantialEnglish fare with an unabated relish; and Angela had to sit down, day afterday, to a huge joint and an overloaded dish of poultry, and to reassure herfather when he expressed uneasiness because she ate so little.

  "Women do not want much food, sir. Martha's rolls, and our honey, and theconserves old Marjory makes so well, are better for me than the meat whichsuits your heartier appetite."

  "Faith, child, if I played no stouter a part at table than you do, I shouldsoon be fit to play living skeleton at Aylesbury Fair. And I dubitate as toyour diet-loaves and confectionery suiting you better than a slice of chineor sirloin, for you have a pale cheek and a pensive eye that smite me tothe heart. Indeed, I begin to question if I was kind to take you from allthe pleasures of the town to be mewed up here with a rusty old soldier."

  "Indeed, sir, I could be happier nowhere than here. I have had enough ofLondon pleasures; and I was meditating upon returning to the convent, whenyou came to put an end to all my perplexities; and, sir, I think God sentyou to me when I most needed a father's love."

  She went to him and knelt by his chair, hiding her tearful eyes against thecushioned arm. But, though he could not see her face, he heard the break inher voice, and he bent down and lifted her drooping head on his breast, andkissed the soft brown hair, and embraced her very tenderly.

  "Sweetheart, thou hast all a father's love, and it is happiness to me tohave thee here; but old as I am, and with so little cunning to read amaiden's heart, I can read clear enough to know thou art not happy.Whisper, dearest. Is it a sweetheart who sighs for thy favours far off, andwill not beard this old lion in his den? My gentle Angela would make no illchoice. Fear not to trust me, my heart. I will love whom you love, favourwhom you favour. I am no tyrant, that my sweet daughter should grow palewith keeping secrets from me."

  "Dear father, you are all goodness. No, there is no one--no one! I am happywith you. I have no one in the world but you, and, in a so much lesserdegree of love, my sister and her children--"

  "And Fareham. He should be to you as a brother. He is of a blackmelancholic humour, and not a man whom women love; but he has a heart ofgold, and must regard you with grateful affection for your goodness to himwhen he was sick. Hyacinth is never weary of expatiating upon your devotionin that perilous time."

  "She is foolish to talk of services I would have given as willingly to asick beggar," Angela answered, impatiently.

  Her face was still hidden against her father's breast; but she lifted herhead presently, and the pale calmness of her countenance reassured him.

  "Well, it is uncommon strange," he said, "if one so fair has no sweetheartamong all the sparks of Whitehall."

  "Lord Fareham hates Whitehall. We have only attended there at greatfestivals, when my sister's absence would have been a slight upon herMajesty and the Duchess."

  "But my star, though seldom shining there, should have drawn somesatellites to her orbit. You see, dearest, I can catch the note of Courtflattery. Nay, I will press no questions. My girl shall choose her ownpartner; provided the man is honest and a loyal servant of the King. Herold father shall set no stumbling-block in the high-road to her happiness.What right has one who is almost a pauper
to stipulate for a wealthyson-in-law?"