Under the Mendips: A Tale

"It was very kind of you to take this trouble. Who is the person?"

"He is a step-uncle of mine; my mother's half-brother, Lord Maythorne."

"Quite a grand person, then?" Joyce said.

"Grand in his own eyes; yes, undoubtedly; but there is every hope that, having got what he can out of Melville, he will leave him alone. You do not know how ashamed I am to own him as a relation; and I am anxious to do all I can to atone for the mischief he may have done your brother."

"Was he at Oxford with Melville?"

"No: but, unhappily, he has a small place near Oxford, and was continually coming in."

"Shall I tell father all about what you have told me?"

"I have told him already a good deal. What I want you to do is to use every effort to persuade your father to let Melville start soon."

"It would be far better if I could persuade Melville to stay here, and learn about farming."

"Yes; but that, I am afraid, you will never do; and considering that your father wished him to work on the estate it was a mistake to send him to Oxford at all."

"Oh, yes; but it was mother's wish, you know," Joyce said, with a heightened colour. "Mother always feels that her family was not considered as good as father's; they were simple, homely, good people, but not what are called gentry, and I think it has always been mother's desire that Melville should have exactly the same advantages as the sons of our neighbours. Charlie Paget went to Oxford; they live at Ebbor Court; and so it seemed her eldest son ought to go. It is so strange that mother should be quite consistent on every subject but one, and that one, the indulgence of Melville; and now I believe he will break her heart."

"No, no, I trust not so bad as that," Mr. Arundel said. "I have hopes that there will be a change for the better, and all this folly and aping his betters will drop off like an old cloak one day."

Joyce sighed.

"I wish I could have hopes too; there is always, I suppose, some cloud in everyone's sky; and we are so happy, that if it were not for Melville, we should have all we wished for. Yesterday in the hay-field I felt as if even to be alive was delicious, everything was so bright and joyful. Then Mrs. Hannah More came and invited me to Barley Wood. Have you heard of Mrs. More?"

"Yes, I think I have. A very good old lady, who has set up schools for the poor children. My mother knows all about her. Will you like going to Barley Hill?"

"Barley Wood," Joyce corrected. "Yes, I think I shall. Charlotte is to come also; and I dare say I shall like it when I am there, and it may do me good. You know Aunt Letitia always calls me 'a little rustic.' Of course I am, but I do not know that it is of such great consequence as Aunt Letitia thinks."

"It would be a pity, indeed, if you were anything but what you are," Gilbert said earnestly. "A change could hardly be an improvement."

"Oh, do not say that," Joyce said. "I want to know more, and though I read everything I can in father's library, I do not get any new books. Ralph helps me with Latin, and Piers and I learn French together, though I expect our pronunciation would make you laugh. We have just read Madame de Stael's 'Corinne' and a story called 'Matilde,' which Charlotte lent me. Is not Piers wonderful?" she asked; "he is so happy, and have you seen his collection of moths and butterflies? You must come into his room and see them."

"Yes, I should like to do so very much, if you will be showwoman."

He liked to hear her talk of her simple home pleasures and interests; he liked to watch the ever-changing expression of her lovely face; he felt within himself that this hour on the hill-side, was to remain a bright memory with him for many a day, to which he would recur with pleasure, and over which no cloud could come.

At last the sound of the boys' voices in the copse below, roused them both from their earnest talk, and Joyce's name rang through the still summer air —

"Joyce! Joyce! tea has been ready ever so long. Mother does not like waiting. Do come!"

"Yes, pray come, Joyce; there is no one to pour out tea, or cut the cake. Mother says you ought not to have put sugar on the cake," said Bunny. "I am so glad you did."

Joyce flew swiftly down through the wood, and by the time Mr. Arundel and her brothers had reached the house, she was at her post behind the large bronze urn, and taking up her accustomed duties with a face so bright and winning, that her mother forgot her vexation, merely saying:

"I like punctuality at meals, Joyce, especially on Sunday; for it puts the servants out if they are driven."

"Why, my Sunshine," her father said, "where have you been hiding? We thought you were lost."

"Joyce has been sitting under the fir-tree with Mr. Arundel," shouted Bunny in his ringing, boyish treble. "They have been there two hours."

Bunny was in advance of the other boys and their guest; and it was Piers who said: "You need not shout as if you were the town-crier!" While Melville dragged himself out of the depths of a large sofa covered with horse-hair, where he had been sleeping off the effects of his large dinner and repeated glasses of ale and wine, and said the boys' voices were a perfect nuisance, and he did not know what Arundel thought of such a hubbub.

A laugh from the person in question, as he passed the open window with Ralph, seemed to point to the fact that Gilbert had as light a heart as any of the young brothers at whom Melville so often took offence.

Family prayers were the exception in many households in these days; but as there was only one service in the church on Sundays, the squire, following his father's custom before him, always assembled the household in the evening, and read a chapter from the old family Bible, and a short dry sermon with a prayer from an old book, in which was written his mother's name. It might be questioned whether the rosy-cheeked maiden and the stalwart young men from the Farm, who sat with their hands one on each knee, staring at Melville and the visitor, as strange specimens of humanity, could understand a word of the sermon or follow the prayer.

Perhaps Joyce scarcely realised how dry and formal this service was, and yet this evening a new spirit seemed to be stirring within her, an aspiration for something, she hardly knew what, but something which was not outside of her, but touched her inmost heart.

Her mood was subdued and quiet during the rest of the evening, and when she knocked at Piers' door to be admitted, as was her invariable custom, to make his room tidy, and place his crutches near the bed, the boy said:

"Do you like Mr. Arundel, Joyce?"

"Yes, dear; I think I like him very much."

Piers was silent.

"The next thing will be that you like him better than me."

"Nonsense, Piers; is that likely?"

Joyce had finished her labours in the little room now, and had seated herself in the window-seat looking out into the grounds.

The moon, nearly at the full, was lifting her round, white face above the low-lying range of hills eastward while the colour of the sunset sky still lingered in the west.

The window was open, and from below Joyce heard the sound of her father's voice and Mr. Arundel's. She knew what they were talking about, and she said:

"Of course I like Mr. Arundel, who is so good about Melville, and came here solely to try to be of use to him: very few people would have taken that trouble."

Piers gave a low rejoinder, which might be taken for consent.

"He says, Piers, a man he knows has a bad influence over Melville, and that he is a relation of his, and that he thinks Melville ought to be sent abroad."

"To do just what he likes, as he always does," was Piers' rejoinder. "It is a shame that Melville should bring so much trouble on us."

"Yes, it does seem a shame," Joyce said; and then she went to the bed, and, kneeling down, kissed Piers' hand as it lay upon the counterpane.

"I felt so sorry for you this afternoon, dear," she said. "It gave me a great pain to hear Melville speak as he did to you."

"Never mind, Joy, never mind. What does it matter?" And the boy stroked his sister's hair fondly. "I don't mind; I would rather have my crooked, helpless legs than be like him. Yes, I really would," he repeated. "But Joyce, don't begin to care for any one more than me; that is what I dread."

"You foolish boy," she answered; "as if I could care for any one as I do for you! And when I come back from Mrs. More's I shall have so much to tell you; and I may get some nice books there, which we will read together."

Piers turned suddenly and threw his arms round his sister's neck. He was not usually demonstrative, but he said, with passionate energy, "While I have you, Joy, I can bear anything. Good-night."

"Good-night, dear; and never take foolish fancies into your head. You may be sure I shall always love you and be all I can to you. Good-night."

There is no doubt that a protecting maternal element in the love of a sister for a brother makes the tie one of the most beautiful that exists. From the time of Piers' accident Joyce had constituted herself his helper and friend. Mrs. Falconer in her busy life could not devote herself to her crippled boy, as mothers of a less energetic and active nature might have done.

Joyce and she had it is true one aim in common: to hide from the father the sad consequences of that one rash act which had shut Piers out for ever from the free, joyous life of his young vigorous brothers. Mrs. Falconer did this by apparently making light of her boy's ailments, and inability to do what others did.

It was a good thing, she would say, that he could not climb trees and tear his clothes, or get into the stream by Wookey and ruin his boots and socks, or make her anxious by carrying a gun behind his father, in the time of rabbit and rook shooting.

Mrs. Falconer never betrayed what was indeed the truth, that the sound of Piers' crutches as they tapped across the old stone pavement of the hall, sent a thrill of sorrow through her breast, and that when Piers was laid up, as was not unfrequently the case, with an attack of pain in the hip which had been so severely injured, she avoided being much with him, and left him to Joyce, because the sight of his suffering brought back the memory of that morning when she saw him clinging with a frightened face to Rioter's back, and heard her husband say, "Don't make a coward of the boy: his brothers rode long before his age."

She knew too well how bitter had been her husband's self-reproaches, and she dreaded adding to them by any impulsive, unguarded word of her own.

Thus it was that Joyce was sister, mother, and friend to her lame brother. Their lives were bound up together, and the bond strengthened as time went on.

It was sufficient reward for Joyce to know that, however irritable when in pain, or depressed sometimes by a sudden reminder of his helplessness when contrasted with his brother's independence and vigour, she could always be sufficient to charm away the cloud by her own sunny brightness, and that by making his interests hers, she never let him think she did anything for him, which was not a real pleasure to herself.

The secret of heart service lies in this, that those who are served never know it to its full extent, and that any effort that may be made, or any trouble that may be taken, is so hidden under the mantle of all-pervading love that it is often wholly unsuspected. When the giver is as happy as the receiver, the gift, in whatever form, is sweetened and enhanced a hundred fold.

CHAPTER VI.

AMONGST THE HEATHER

Gilbert Arundel's visit to Fair Acres extended far beyond the limit of a week. He felt every day more absorbed by the simple, happy life, in which, as Joyce had said, Melville was the only cloud.

He was an universal favourite. A man who has been accustomed to yield respect and courtesy to his own mother, seldom fails in yielding it to the mothers of his friends.

If anyone in the household at Fair Acres was dissatisfied it was Melville himself, who found that his friend had been so entirely taken possession of by his brothers and sister, and was held in such high esteem by his father and mother, that his own light was effectually put out.

The twins, Harry and Bunny, came to him about fly-fishing, and Ralph consulted him as to a difficult passage in his Homer; while he spent a whole morning in helping Piers to re-arrange his moths and butterflies, and to look out their names with greater precision in a book he had actually borrowed from the Palace at Wells, for this purpose.

All the time Joyce went about her accustomed duties: darned Melville's socks, mended the schoolboys' clothes, and was every morning assisting her mother in her household duties.

It was an added charm in Gilbert's eyes that Joyce made no difference in her daily routine, and that what are familiarly called "company manners" were apparently unknown at Fair Acres.

But the last day came of Gilbert Arundel's visit, as the last must come to everything, and the squire proclaimed a holiday for every one and an excursion to Wookey, and a pic-nic to Ebbor. Then there was a great packing of hampers, and loading of one of the spring carts with the boys and the provisions, and the "four-wheel" with the more grown-up members of the party.

Even Mrs. Falconer allowed herself to be enlisted in the service, and to give herself for once a day's pleasure; while Melville put on a riding-coat of the most approved cut, and a pair of wellingtons, and was graciously pleased to lend himself for the occasion, with as much show of satisfaction as was consistent with his dignity.

After depositing the party at Wookey, the squire kindly drove into Wells in the "four-wheel" to fetch Charlotte from the Vicar's Close, and before the dinner had been laid in the Ebbor Valley he was back again, bearing Charlotte in triumph, in spite of his sister's entreaties that Charlotte would be careful of adders which swarmed at Ebbor amongst the loose stones; and that she was to be sure to sit upon a cloak with four capes, made of large plaid, which Miss Falconer insisted should be put into the carriage.

But nothing spoiled Charlotte's pleasure when fairly off, and she was delighted to be helped down from the carriage by her Cousin Melville, with whose fine ways, and what she would have called "elegant dress," she had keen sympathy. Indeed, the hero of the "drooping rose" was in danger of falling from his pedestal; and the fact of a cousin, who said a great many flattering things to her was, after all, more interesting than a minor Canon, who was to be worshipped from afar, and who when actually introduced to her the day before by her aunt, when he called in virtue of his office in the cathedral, had not seemed to desire to cultivate her acquaintance; certainly had made her no pretty speeches. Melville, on the contrary, made her a great many, and she listened with unquestioning faith, and profound interest to his stories of high life, and the men with titles with whom he was on familiar terms, and the large wine parties at Oxford to which Maythorne came.

Gilbert caught the sound of that name, and turning quickly, his deep blue eyes shot a warning glance, which could not be mistaken, as he said in a voice audible to those nearest him:

"The less said about him the better."

The day passed quickly, and it was proposed that the younger portion of the party should walk up the uneven road between the rocks, and, taking the rough paths over the flat country, into which the gorge opens, reach Fair Acres by crossing it, a distance of some six miles.

Charlotte was to remain at Fair Acres for the night, but both she and Melville preferred to drive with the squire and Mrs. Falconer and Piers. Charlotte's shoes were too thin for scrambling, and a country walk was not at all to Melville's taste.

"Off with you, then," said the squire, "and mind you keep the road to the left, or you will find yourselves on Mendip, and if it gets dark that may not be so pleasant."

"I know the way, father," Ralph said; "and so do Harry and Bunny. We shall not lose ourselves."

"Perhaps Joyce had better drive," her father said, just as the five were starting. "Sunshine, what do you think?"

"I think that we are more likely to lose our way, sir," Gilbert said, "if you take the sun from us."

The squire laughed.

"Well, that may be true. Take care of your sister, boys."

The ascent through the Ebbor cliffs is difficult; there is a vast quantity of thin sharp stones, worn by the action of the water from the face of the rocks. Although not nearly so grand as Cheddar, Ebbor has many points of beauty. The rocks are fantastic in form, and as the path winds between them they assume various shapes, like miniature towers and bastions, clothed with ivy, and coloured with dark brown and yellow lichen.

The air, when they were fairly in the open country, was fresh and crisp; the lark sang his sweet song high above their heads, and the sweet, clear notes of distant thrushes and blackbirds came from the low lying copses, which fringe the head of the Ebbor valley.

Harry and Bunny chased moths for Piers: Ralph meditated and repeated to himself some lines of a Greek poet which he wanted to get by heart.

Thus, as was only to be expected, Joyce and Mr Arundel were left to themselves, and in Gilbert's heart at least was the weight of coming separation, and the uncertainty as to whether he should ever be able to renew the sweet, free intercourse of the past fortnight. He dreaded to change the present happy relations between him and Joyce by telling her what he felt. She confided so entirely in him; she told him so much of her little joys, and home happiness, of Ralph's cleverness, of Harry and Bunny's frantic desires to be sailors, of her father's goodness to Melville, and infinite patience with him. On this last night especially, he felt that he could not bring himself to break the spell, and disturb the serenity of that sweet, pure life, by letting friendship go, to replace it by the more tumultuous and passionate love, which he knew if once this barrier were broken down, he should pour forth on her in a torrent which might distress and almost frighten, one so simple and so unversed in the world's ways.

Whilst Charlotte was always on the look-out for some preux chevalier, who was to be at her feet and vow eternal devotion, Joyce had as yet no such airy castles. Her education had been widely different from her cousin's, and home and home interests had so filled her seventeen years with their joys and pleasures, that she had no time to dream over "keepsakes," and read Miss Burney's romances, or steep herself in the unreality of sentimental verses, which Wordsworth was beginning to break down and send into the shadows, by bringing out the beauties of creation into the strong light, which his genius threw around them.

Joyce had not wasted her youth in foolish dreams of impossible perfection, but when the real story of her life was ready to unfold itself, she would find a zest and fulness in it, that the sentimental visionary could never know.

That was a memorable walk over the sweet country side, with the west all aglow, and the sky above serenely blue. In after years both looked back on it through that mist of tender sadness, which gathers round the happy past of youth, even though the present is full of the fruition of joy to which that very past led.

"This is our last evening," Gilbert said; "I hope, if I can be of any use, you will write to me."

"Yes," Joyce said, "and I feel as if the worst were over now. If Melville has a year abroad with the gentleman the bishop recommends, he may settle afterwards. Of course it is a great pull upon father's purse; but if Harry and Bunny can get into the navy we shall be able to manage."

"When we are settled in Clifton I hope you will come and see my mother."

"Oh! I should like that very much; but I have a visit to Barley Wood to come first, and then in the winter I must do all I can to cheer father. He feels the want of out-door exercise now he has given up his hunters. He used to ride to the meet very often."

"I am sorry he has had to give that up, all through Melville's extravagance."

"Yes, and then farming has been so bad the last year or two. I hope it may be a better crop this year; but the wheat in this district is very poor at all times. We must not get too much to the right," she said, "or we shall get near the miners, who are a rough set of people. Mrs. More has had a school in these parts for many years; but there are a great many discontented folks, who seem to think the gentry are their natural enemies. That man we saw the day you came to Wells was from these parts."

Joyce raised her voice in a clear, ringing tone, and called her brothers by name.

"They have gone on so far in front," she said; "but I feel sure this is the right track." She called again, but there was no reply.

"We had better walk faster," she said, "or we shall be left behind;" then she stopped.

"I see a man lying in that dip under the gorse-bushes. I hope he will not beg."

She had scarcely spoken the words when a huge form rose before them, and stood in the narrow track between the heather and gorse, filling up the path.

"You are Squire Falconer's lass, ain't you?" he said, defiantly.

"Yes," Gilbert answered, "yes; this is Miss Falconer, of Fair Acres. How long are you going to stand there and prevent us from passing you?"

"Till I've settled my score. Your gov'nor was hard on me t'other day; he tried to get me sent to gaol. I'll smash his head for 'im next time I come across 'im, sure as my name is Bob Priday!"

The broad, Somersetshire lingo made the man all but unintelligible to Gilbert; but Joyce understood him well enough.

"Ye hand me out a guinea, now, or a trinket, and I'll let bygones be bygones, specially" – with a horrid leer – "if you'll give me a kiss with 'em; eh?"

In a moment Gilbert had sprung over the bushes which hedged in the track on either side, and had his hand on the man's throat.

"Let this young lady pass, you villain!" he said, shaking the huge form, who, taken unawares, had very little power of resistance. "Let her pass."

There is always something in a brave, strong, young spirit which is too much for the brute force of an untutored giant like Bob Priday. He staggered and fell back, Gilbert's hand being still at his throat.

Joyce, pale and trembling, did not lose her self-control. "Please let me pass," she said; "I have no money to give you, and if I had it would not be right to bribe you. My father only did his duty on the bench that day. You were guilty, and you know it; you got off unpunished, and you should be thankful, and try to lead a better life."

There was something wonderfully grand in the way Joyce spoke, though her face was white with girlish fear, and her lips quivered, her voice did not falter as she appealed to the huge man who might, she knew, shake off Gilbert's restraining hand, and spring on her at any moment.

"Let me pass," she said, "and this gentleman will – "

At this moment a woman's voice was heard, and a girl with a red handkerchief on her head, with an effort at respectable attire in her short, blue cotton frock, and large, thick boots, came over the tangled mass of heath and ling, and cried:

"Father! What are you about now, father?"

"You mind your own business, you hussy, and leave me alone."

"Oh, father!" the girl said, passionately, "I wish you would be good. Think how mother used to pray for you! Oh, dear lady," the girl said, bursting into tears, "I am heart-broken about father. Please, sir, let him go."

"Let me go!" said the giant, with a loud, discordant laugh; "I'll see about that." Then, with a mighty effort, he hurled Gilbert from him, and before he could recover his feet, he had seized Joyce's arm. "Give me the money, or I'll be even with your father; curse him!"

But the girl threw herself on her father and held him back, while Gilbert, stunned and bewildered by the force with which he had been hurled over the heather, staggered to his feet again, and, with a well-aimed blow at the back of the man's head, laid him sprawling on the path.

"Oh! I hope he is not hurt!" Joyce exclaimed involuntarily, as the huge form lay motionless; the girl leaning over him.