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Under the Mendips: A Tale
Under the Mendips: A Taleполная версия

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Under the Mendips: A Tale

Язык: Английский
Год издания: 2017
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But Joyce told herself she must suffer the consequences of her weakness for ever and a day. No one could ever again be to her what Gilbert had been, in that first happy time of awakening love.

Joyce's pale cheeks and wistful eyes at last attracted her mother's notice. In these days she would have been taken to see a doctor, ordered change of air and scene, and put upon some régime as to food. But, except in cases of severe illness, people did not resort to doctors as they do now-a-days, and the nervous patients and chronic invalids, resigned themselves to unlimited home physic, and took their poor health as a matter of course.

"Joyce," Mrs. Falconer said, one day, early in February, when the season of Christmas they had all dreaded so much was past; "Joyce, I think it would do you good to spend a few days with Aunt Letitia at Wells."

Joyce tried to smile.

"I don't want to be done good to, mother; besides, I can't leave you."

"Yes, you can. Mr. Paget said yesterday you looked as if you wanted a change. It's a wonder Mrs. More has not asked you to Barley Wood again."

"She has been so ill," Joyce said; "it is not likely she could invite me."

"And then there is Mrs. Arundel and her niece that came here last fall; not a word have we heard of them."

"Yes, mother; you forget. I have heard twice, about – about Lord Maythorne. Mrs. Arundel has kept him from coming here again. Besides, she is busy settling into a home, and besides – "

"I think it is very odd, Mr. Arundel has never written, or come here again."

"He wrote to me once," Joyce said, in a low voice.

"Did you answer the letter?"

"No, mother," Joyce said, springing up quickly, and, with a great effort, throwing off her sadness. "No; there was nothing to answer. But I will go and stay a day or two with Aunt Letitia, if you want to get rid of me. Ralph can take a note in to Wells to-morrow, when he goes in to the market. I shall only stay two days, but we must find out whether Aunt Letitia wants me first."

Miss Falconer was really pleased that Joyce should propose a visit, and the little guest-chamber in the Vicar's Close was made ready with willing hands, and Charlotte hailed Joyce's appearance, that she might tell her of all her hopes and fears.

Charlotte had been twice at the Palace during the winter. Mrs. Law, gentle and kindly, had taken an interest in the young people in Wells, and had invited Charlotte, amongst others, to tea. Tea at six o'clock, on some day when the bishop and his chaplain and Mr. Henry Law, were absent on some business in the diocese.

If it had been a great thing to visit Mrs. Hannah More at Barley Wood, it was a greater to take tea at the palace. With the wigs of the last and preceding century, the bishops have thrown off a great deal of the episcopal state, which was once considered a part of the duty of the peer spiritual. And a certain air of solemnity pervaded the Wells palace, even when presided over by such true "gentlefolks" as the bishop and Mrs. Law. That old-fashioned word seems to suit the host and hostess at the Wells palace far better than any other term I could use. That innate grace and refinement of feeling is sometimes, it is true, acquired, but it is a plant of slow growth, especially amongst those, who suddenly raised to a position of importance in the Church, feel the elevation makes them a little dizzy. The Bishop's wife, then presiding over the palace, had always moved in the higher circles of society, and, therefore, neither at Carlisle nor Wells did she find it necessary to impress upon humbler people that she stood on a vantage ground to which few could approach. She was dignified, though she was gentle, and no one would ever pass the barrier which divides familiarity, from free and pleasant intercourse. Mrs. Law, like everyone else, was greatly taken with Joyce Falconer; and again poor Charlotte began to feel that with no effort at all her cousin was winning her way, and making an impression which, with all her efforts, she felt she did not succeed in doing.

Miss Falconer was surprised when, the day after the girls had spent an evening at the palace, Mrs. Law sent a little three-cornered note of invitation to Joyce to spend Sunday at the palace before she returned to Fair Acres. The footman waited for a reply, and the discussion of Mrs. Law's note caused no little excitement in the parlour, of which the servant, if he had been so minded, could have heard every word.

"My dear Joyce, what will you do? You have no suitable dress for such a visit; and yet it is a pity to miss it. I really do not know what to advise."

"I think I should like to go to the palace, Aunt Letitia," Joyce said.

"Like! yes; but are you prepared for such a visit?"

"Oh! yes; I have my best frock, the black bombazine, and my crape bonnet. That need not hinder me."

"But, my dear, people in Mrs. Law's position wear evening gowns, with low necks and short sleeves. I have moved in these circles, and of course – "

"We must not keep the servant waiting, Aunt Letitia; if you give me leave, I should like to accept the invitation."

"Very well," said Miss Falconer; "there is my writing-case; take care how you write; begin, 'Miss Joyce Falconer presents her respects.'"

"But Mrs. Law addresses me as, 'Dear Miss Falconer'; had I not better begin, 'Dear Madam, or dear Mrs. Law'?"

"Oh! not 'Dear Mrs. Law.' My dear child, how ignorant you are of etiquette."

Joyce seated herself, and wrote a few words accepting the invitation from Saturday to the Monday following, and took it herself to the footman.

"You should have rung for Phœbe, really Joyce, my dear!" But it was too late. Charlotte, who had been "composing" in the sitting-room upstairs, had heard voices, and now came down just as Joyce had closed the door on the footman from the palace.

"An invitation to stay at the palace! Oh! Joyce, how fortunate you are. Mrs. Law might have asked me!"

"She knows you live in the place, my love," said Miss Falconer.

Charlotte sighed. "If I did not live here it would be all the same."

But Charlotte was really an amiable girl, and her devotion to Joyce was sincere and true.

"Well," she said, "what will you wear, dear? Can I lend you any pretty things? My amber beads – or – my filigree comb. Oh! I forgot! Of course, you are still in deep black."

"It is very kind of you, Charlotte," Joyce said; "you always are kind; but I don't want anything."

The whole of that day Joyce's visit to the palace engrossed the little party in the Vicar's Close. Some cronies of Miss Falconer came in for a gossip by the fireside, and were duly informed of the invitation, and were duly congratulatory and a little jealous, although there was a certain amount of satisfaction, that it was not Charlotte whom Mrs. Law had delighted to honour.

It was a memorable visit to Joyce, and in a way she little expected. The first evening passed pleasantly; and with a white muslin fichu, which Miss Falconer insisted upon making for her, crossed over her black gown, Joyce looked her best. The sleeves of best gowns in those days were cut rather short, and Joyce wore on her round, white arms a pair of black lace mittens, which Charlotte had lent her.

Her beautiful hair needed no adornment; it fell round her forehead in natural curls, and was piled up without the help of cushions or frizzettes, a natural crown of chesnut and gold. As at Barley Wood, so at the palace; Joyce was too simple-minded to be stiff or constrained in manner, and she conversed so pleasantly with a young son of the bishop, who gave her his arm when they went to dinner, that he, in his turn, did his best to be agreeable, and she was soon telling him of her little sailor brothers, of Piers and his collection of butterflies, of Ralph and his love of study, and the brave way in which he had come to live at Fair Acres and do his best to turn into a farmer.

If the Saturday evenings were pleasant, how delightful was the Sunday, when, in the sunshine of the early February day, the party from the palace crossed to the cloister door, and went to the morning service in the cathedral. It has been said of Wells that it is always Sunday there; no sounds but the ringing of bells for service; no business, and no traffic in the streets. But certain it is, that nowhere is the real Sabbath stillness more profound, nor more refreshing to the tired in spirit, on a day like that February day, when Joyce was seated in the high pew belonging to the Bishop. The cathedral is always a vision of beauty, and when the swelling of the organ and the voices of the choristers are hushed, and a pause occurs after the benediction has been pronounced, the sounds without the building seem in direct harmony with those within; for the Lady Chapel abuts on the lawn of the Sub-Dean's residence, where the waters of St. Joseph's Well lie deep; and there is the murmur of the streams, the chirp of birds, the soft coo of pigeons, and the distinct chatter of the jackdaw from the West front.

Joyce went out of the cathedral filled with peaceful thoughts of the temple, of which this was but the faint shadow, the temple which has no need of the sun to lighten it, for the Lamb is the light thereof.

Quite forgetting that she ought to turn towards the cloisters, Joyce walked on down the nave before the Bishop's party had missed her. The sweet seriousness of her face as she went out into the sunshine almost held back the welcome, which was trembling on the lips of someone who was standing near the porch, and had watched her coming down the wide nave.

She was passing out, wrapt in her own meditations when Gilbert Arundel put out his hand:

"Joyce!"

She started, and blushed rosy red.

"You did forget me, then!" he exclaimed, reproachfully.

"Forget you, no."

"You did not reply to my letter?"

"You did not ask me to write."

They now found themselves by the turnstile under the old clock, that quaint clock which, it is said, was made to strike many times in succession for the amusement of that gracious and sagacious King James, who laughed till his sides ached, as the old knights, in their black armour, hit the bell with their battle-axes, beneath the suggestive motto, "Ne quid pereat." They hit it now with, all their wonted vigour four times, and then the clock struck one.

"We have come the wrong way. I am staying at the palace till to-morrow," Joyce said.

"At the palace! I am glad to hear it; but your mother, whom I saw yesterday, did not know it."

"No; it was a sudden thought. I mean Mrs. Law only asked me on Friday."

"I am glad you are at the palace," Gilbert said. "I know I shall have a friend in the Bishop."

Joyce made no remark to this, and they retraced their steps in silence till they had crossed the drawbridge and were in the palace grounds.

"I have thought so much of you," he said, earnestly. "I am now come, as I said I should, to present my petition. Is there any hope?"

Joyce turned away her head, and did not answer.

When they reached the palace, a footman threw open the door:

"Dinner is served," he said, in a voice which was intended to be a mild reproof.

"Can I see his lordship?" Gilbert asked; while Joyce ran upstairs to her room on the upper floor.

"His lordship is just sitting down to dinner, sir. What name – "

Gilbert took out a card and handed it to the man, leaving him in the hall till he knew the Bishop's will.

Presently he reappeared.

"I am requested to beg you, sir, to go into the dining-room at once: this way."

The Bishop rose, and gave Gilbert Arundel a very different greeting from that which he had granted Lord Maythorne.

"My dear young friend, welcome for your mother's sake, always welcome, and for your own. How could you doubt it? Why stand on ceremony? But we are in some distress," he said, with a sly twinkle in his eye; "we have lost a young lady: she vanished into thin air as we left the cathedral. Perhaps some knight-errant has carried her off. Ah! I see you know something about her. Well, sit down; and, Barker," to one of the servants, "Miss Falconer's place next Mr. Arundel's."

The Bishop dearly loved a little love affair, and he fancied he descried one in "the air."

It was a great trial of Joyce's self-possession when the door of the dining-room was opened for her by a servant, and she had to pass to her place at the long dining-table. The Bishop's son came to the rescue, making room for her by standing up and showing her the vacant place.

"I am sorry I was late," she said.

"It is a lovely day," was the rejoinder. "I do not wonder that you took a turn after service."

"Yes," said Mrs. Law, kindly. "I saw your cousin in the cathedral, and I thought it probable that you would walk home with her."

"No," Joyce said, in a low voice, "I did not go home with Charlotte."

One person at least appreciated the honesty of this confession, and Gilbert told himself that it was a part of Joyce's crystal transparency of character, that she would not even allow an assertion about herself to pass if it were not absolutely true.

When Joyce was sitting after dinner, with Mrs. Law and several ladies, in the long gallery, the Bishop's son brought her a message.

"My father would like to see you in his study for a few minutes. Will you kindly follow me?"

Joyce obeyed, but her heart beat fast, and she dreaded what the Bishop might have to say to her. Something about Melville; some bad news of the little Middies: her thoughts flew in all directions.

The Bishop had already seated himself in his crimson leather chair, and, when Mr. Law closed the door, she found herself alone with his lordship.

"My dear young lady," he said, in his slow, sonorous tones, "as I know you are, alas! fatherless, will you allow me to stand, for the moment, in the place of a father? A young gentleman, the son of an old friend, has told me to-day that he seeks the honour of paying his addresses to you. He went to Fair Acres last night and received your mother's sanction, tempered, no doubt, with the natural pain of losing you. But she gives her consent, and I venture to endorse it. As chief pastor and father of the diocese, over which I have so recently come to preside, I do earnestly commend to you the son of my old friend, Gilbert Arundel. I propose that you should take a ramble together after service, in the spring twilight, and when we meet at the evening meal, I hope I may find you have made my young friend happy."

The Bishop's speech may sound to us unnecessarily long and formal, but, sixty years ago, the old spirit of chivalrous respect towards maidens, in approaching the subject of marriage, had not then died out. Perhaps, also, in the time of the good Bishop, when the first gentleman in Europe was setting so wretched an example in his behaviour, good and honourable men felt it the more incumbent on them to give the woman the full privileges of her position.

Love was to be sought as a favour granted, not claimed in a careless fashion as a right; while the whole aspect of courtship and marriage was dealt with more seriously than it is in our day.

Barriers are more easily broken down than set up again, and, perhaps, there is too great a tendency now-a-days to treat what is grave as a jest, and to show but little inclination to tread in the paths which our mothers and grandmothers found safe. Thus the Bishop, when he had heard from Gilbert's lips the object of his visit to Wells, thought it his duty to speak to Joyce in the grave manner I have described.

The Bishop rose from his chair, and, laying his hand on Joyce's head, solemnly pronounced a blessing, and, with crimson cheek and bowed head, she left him, to prepare to go to the afternoon service.

Later in the day, the supreme moment in her young life came, when she walked with Gilbert in the fields towards Dinder, turning to the left, where, in a tangled copse, the first budding flowers of the starry celandines were peeping amidst fallen leaves and mosses.

The clustering primrose buds were hardly yet showing themselves amongst their crinkled leaves, and only the upright stems of the alders, and the lowest boughs of the maples and hazel bushes displayed the first emerald green of spring. It was a time and place for the exchange of first young love, and confidences never to be forgotten.

And in all the changes and chances of her future life, Joyce could look back to that first spring afternoon, and say from her heart that it was the opening for her of a new and beautiful chapter. If the hopes of the earlier days of their acquaintance had lain dormant during the winter, they now sprang up with the coming life of the spring time, and were sweet with the promise of the future.

When once Gilbert had found voice to tell his story he was eloquent, and when once Joyce had given her response there was no further need for reticence.

"And why did you not write to me?" he asked.

"As I said, because you did not ask me; and then when your uncle came, he told me that you cared for Miss Anson; and I thought, half thought, it might be true."

Gilbert made an impatient gesture.

"You only half thought so; you knew, Joyce, you knew better. So," he went on under his breath, "that is the mischief he went to Fair Acres to work. My mother soon stopped him from daring to persecute you."

"Mr. Paget and Mr. Gill said there was no lawful claim on poor Melville, for the money had been lent him to gamble with, and that Lord Maythorne knew he had no just claim to it."

"Of course he knew it; he thought he would frighten you, and your poor mother. But let us not speak more of him."

"I wonder what will be done when Melville comes home, for I suppose he will come home in the summer."

"Yes; perhaps he may have turned over a new leaf, as the children say; anyhow, I can't help being grateful to Melville."

"To Melville?" she said.

"Yes; for was it not he who invited me to Fair Acres, to find you, my darling."

Then he drew her closer, and with her hand in his arm, they walked through the quiet fields back to the little city.

The cathedral stood up in a dark mysterious mass against the clear sky. The last purple gleam was dying from the distant hills which encircle Wells; Venus hung her silver lamp over the central tower of the cathedral, and the whole scene was one of infinite peace.

They did not speak of the future, the present was sufficient for them; but the cry of Joyce's heart, even in its happiness, found words:

"Oh! that my father knew."

"He may know, my darling," Gilbert said; "and I think we may rest in the certainty that if he were here he would give me a welcome."

"Yes," Joyce said, softly; "yes, I know he would. Oh! dear father."

PART II.

AFTER MANY DAYS

'Tis Nature's planThe child should grow into the man;The man grow wrinkled, old, and grey.In youth the heart exults and sings,The pulses leap, the feet have wings;In age the cricket chirps and bringsThe harvest home of day.

CHAPTER XII.

ON THE ROAD TO BRISTOL

A carriage stood before the door of Fair Acres one bright morning in April, an old-fashioned travelling carriage, with a "dickey," or back seat piled with luggage, and more packages waiting to be pushed under the seat inside, which a lady was superintending and remonstrating with a young sailor for his rough and ready help.

"Take care, take care, Harry; there is glass in that hamper. Oh! we must have the carriage closed after all."

"Nonsense, Joyce; I'll manage it. There, let that bag go into the hold, and heave over the box. I'll cram them all in."

"The captain is right, miss – beg your pardon, missus, I should say" – said old Thomas, wiping his head vigorously with his pocket handkerchief.

"Very well; now we are all ready. I hope mother is coming. Gently, Falcon, gently; don't pull dear old Duke so roughly."

"I want to take Duke to Bristol, mother; Grannie has left Fair Acres, and she is old; why shouldn't Duke?"

"Duke would not be happy in Great George Street; would you, dear Duke?"

Joyce bent down to the grizzled head of the friend of so many years, and said:

"Ah! Duke, we are all getting old."

Presently more voices were heard in the hall, and Mrs. Falconer appeared with a little grand-daughter on either side, while Susan Priday brought up the procession with the baby in her arms.

"Now, dear mother, I think we are all ready. Have you enough wraps? Where are Melville and Gratian and Piers?"

"Melville is not dressed," said Piers, coming forward, "and Gratian has just had her cup of chocolate taken her in bed."

"I must run and say Good-bye to her," exclaimed Joyce. "What a pity to lie in bed on this lovely morning!"

Joyce tripped upstairs and tapped at the door of the room which had been her mother's in years past.

To the amazement of all the world, Gratian Anson had signified to Melville Falconer that she was ready to be mistress of Fair Acres, and include him in the bargain. On the whole the plan had answered fairly well; but Mrs. Falconer had found the new régime a perpetual vexation, and three years before this time had, by her son-in-law's advice, retired to a little cottage on Clifton Down with Piers, within reach of the great joy and comfort of her declining years – Joyce and her husband and children.

Gratian kept Melville in good order. There were rumours in the neighbourhood that she took charge of the purse, and that an allowance was doled out to her lord and master, which she never permitted him to exceed. However that might be, Gratian certainly managed to get through without heavy debts, and the squire's will had provided for the maintenance of his widow, and the boys had each their portion paid from the estate.

Mr. Watson and Ralph virtually managed the farm, and Ralph held a good position and was greatly respected. Only one of the twins was left. The sea rolled over the bright hair of Bunny, on his second voyage. He was washed from the mast by a huge wave, off the coast of Africa, and engulfed in the stormy waters, never to rise again. This sorrow had told greatly on Mrs. Falconer, and she had aged very much since we saw her last. But she was touchingly gentle and tender to Joyce, and her children were the delight of her heart.

Joyce's tap was answered by a sleepy "Come in."

"We are just starting, Gratian," Joyce said; "I could not go without bidding you good-bye, and thanking you for a very pleasant visit."

"What makes you start so early?"

"Gilbert wished us to be off by ten o'clock. He says Bristol is likely to be in a ferment to-day, and he did not wish us to be late."

"Late! Well I should think twelve would have been time enough to start. Bid mother and Piers good-bye for me. Is Melville down stairs?"

"I have not seen him," Joyce said; "but perhaps he is in the study."

"Good-bye again," Joyce said, stooping to kiss Gratian; "we have had a very happy fortnight. I do like my children to know the dear old place."

"We are very glad to have you," Gratian replied; "and, Joyce, if you pay a visit at any of the best houses at Clifton, or near Bristol, notice if the curtains are flowered damask or watered, for new curtains we must have in the dining room."

Another yawn, and "Good-bye, love to Aunt Annabella," and Gratian's head, in the many-frilled night-cap, which scarcely hid a row of curl-papers, fell back upon the pillow.

And now Falcon's voice was heard.

"Mother, do come; why doesn't Aunt Gratian get up? mother! How lazy she is!"

"Hush! Falcon," for Joyce saw her brother issuing forth from his dressing-room in a magnificent loose dressing-gown, and a scarlet fez with a tassel on his head.

"Why! Joyce, off already?" he said; "I must come down and see the last of the infants. Thank goodness they are not mine!"

"I have been to bid Gratian good-bye, and thanked her for her kindness; we are a large party."

"Oh! so much the better," said Melville, good-temperedly; "we are very glad to have you. What a regular family coach! Where did that come from?"

"From the 'Swan.' Ralph ordered it yesterday."

At last they were all packed in.

Joyce was the last, and she was just about to step into the carriage when Mr. Paget came riding up.

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