Under the Mendips: A Tale

"I shall love her for your sake," his mother said, gently.

They had been all in all to each other for twenty-three years; and though Mrs. Arundel had told herself a hundred times that she desired nothing so much for Gilbert as the love of a true hearted woman, still she was conscious of a little thrill of pain; for she must, in the natural course of things, be second now.

"I could not describe her if I tried," he went on, with lover-like enthusiasm. "Then there is such strength in her as well as sweetness. Last night we were attacked by a ruffian whom her father, who is a magistrate, had offended, and her presence of mind and calmness were wonderful. The man knocked me down, and I returned the compliment, which is the cause of my stupidity to-day."

His mother scanned his face anxiously. "Have you told her of your love?"

"Not formally; but I feel she must know it."

"One word more, Gilbert, has she the real spring of all beauty and goodness within. Has she chosen the right path, following her Master?"

Gilbert was silent for a minute.

"It is not a religious household," he said. "They have no prayers, except on Sundays. It is a miserable church, with an old drone of a parson, who gallops through the service; but, I think, Joyce is ready to follow, if led in the right way."

"And you are strong enough to lead, Gilbert?"

"I hope so," he said earnestly; and then mother and son were silent for a few minutes. Afterwards they began to speak of Melville, and all the past, in which Gilbert had borne such a noble part.

"I have separated him from Maythorne, and at least that is a step in the right direction; but he is so weak. How he came to be her brother, I can't imagine; he is crazed on the subject of titles, and will roll off a list of intimate friends, when he thinks I am not listening, to whom he never spoke ten words in his life. I dined at the palace, and the bishop sent you his love, and so did his son, who lives with him – two courteous gentlemen, with well-turned compliments at their tongue's end. The bishop said I was like you, and that I had followed in the lines of one of the most beautiful women he ever met."

"What bare-faced flattery!" Mrs. Arundel said, laughing. "I never was a beauty. Your good looks come from the other side of the house."

"Who is flattering now?" Gilbert asked; "but seriously, mother, you shall accept an invitation to the Wells Palace, you must promise to do so. The bishop said something about November, if you did not mind the falling leaves."

"I shall wait till I am asked," Mrs. Arundel said. "If his lordship has buried me in the dust of years – out of sight and out of mind – I don't see why he should unearth me now."

"And yet you sent your son to call you to mind; now that is unfair, mother. You urged me to go to the Palace at Wells, and now you won't take advantage of what is growing out of it. But to go back to Falconer; a stout, middle-aged gentleman, of small means and weak chest, wants to travel for a year. The bishop suggested Mr. Falconer should give him his son to lead about, as he had previously washed several black sheep to a very fair whiteness, paying expenses, but no further remuneration. If Melville can be got off under such auspices, it will be a grand step in the right direction. Poor fellow! he has got into his head the absolute necessity of seeing the world, and I, who know him pretty well, think that there would be less danger of mischief if he were allowed to follow his bent, than if he were to be forced to follow the pursuits of a country life at Fair Acres, which he thinks it grand to despise. He talks with amazing coolness of all he shall do when he does come, and till he has learned a lesson, he would be a frightful nuisance to them all. The airs he gives himself to the poor old steward are preposterous; but the worst thing about him is the way he speaks to his mother."

"What is she like?"

"She is a very good woman, rather priding herself on setting aside all conventionality, and bustling about the house, and keeping everyone up to their duty but her son! Is it not extraordinary? She has ruined him with stupid indulgence, and yet she is strict enough with the rest – even with – "

"Joyce!" His mother supplied the word with a smile.

"Yes, even with Joyce," he rejoined; but starting up, with an exclamation of dismay:

"Did you know Maythorne was in Clifton, mother?"

Mrs. Arundel followed the direction of her son's eyes, and there on the broken, uneven slopes which lay before Sion Hill, came Gratian, chatting gaily to a man of some six-and-thirty or forty, who answered very well to the description a poet gave some years after of "the dandy despot, the jewelled mass of millinery, oiled and curled, and smelling of musk and insolence."

"I am very sorry he has come to Clifton," Mrs. Arundel said quickly. "I suppose he is at the hotel."

"Gratian looks satisfied. I hope I shan't get very savage with him, mother. When we last parted it was the night when I – but I need not talk about it – he got that weak, foolish boy into his hands, and I helped to get him out, so he bears me a grudge."

"Never mind that, my dear son; and, Gilbert, remember an old watchword: 'He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'"

"I know I do flare out at Maythorne sometimes; but then was there not a cause?"

"Ah! Gilbert, there is never a cause or an excuse for wrath indulged; indignation against wrong is one thing, rage against the wrong-doer another."

And now steps were heard in the hall, and Gratian's laugh. She threw open the door and said in a half-mocking tone:

"My Lord Maythorne."

Mrs. Arundel advanced to meet her brother, and greeted him kindly, but with no profession of extreme delight.

"Well, my dear sister," Lord Maythorne said, "I have taken Clifton en route to Plymouth, and wandering aimlessly on the Downs I met your fair visitor, my kinswoman, Gratian. What a quaint little snuggery you have got, Annabella, upon my word; and Gratian tells me my hopeful nephew is here, looking after his future prospects, eh? A little Methodism mixed with law, eh?" And Lord Maythorne produced an elegant gold snuff-box, tapped the lid, and took a delicate pinch between his forefinger and thumb, in the most approved fashion of the time.

"Ha! Gilbert, how do? Where is your cub, that you were leading about with such good intentions. Have you brought him to introduce to your mother, eh?" Waiting for no answer, and just touching Gilbert's hand with his finger tips, he went on:

"Have you dined, Annabella?"

"Long ago; we keep early hours."

"Well then, I'll return to my hotel to dine, and Gilbert shall accompany me."

"No thank you," Gilbert said, "I shall sup with my mother, and go early to bed."

"You had better accept the invitation, Gilbert. Our supper will not be very recherché," Gratian said; "we do not sit down to a royal feast here, we live above such vanities."

"I dare say he will not be fastidious after his farmhouse life," said Lord Maythorne, scornfully. "How was your charge; is he walking without leading strings yet?"

Gilbert bit his lip and struggled for composure; but his mother watched him anxiously. Lord Maythorne's irony was hard for her to bear sometimes, and she never knew how Gilbert would take it.

"My dear boy, there is a wise proverb which in English sounds a little harsh, scarcely courteous; in French it is less abrupt: 'Chargez de vos affaires.' There are other renderings: 'Don't put your fingers into other people's pies.'"

Poor Gilbert sprang forward and raising his voice said:

"I will not submit to your impertinence. What right have you to treat me like this? I saw you, a man almost double my age – "

"Gently, gently my dear boy, not double; nay, nay – "

"I say, I saw you trying to ruin a poor, weak fellow, who, weak as he was, trusted you, and I tried to save him. I wonder you are not ashamed to speak thus; you are – "

The fierce torrent of angry words suddenly stopped. His mother laid her hand upon his arm, and with a great effort he regained his composure.

"I beg your pardon, mother, for brawling here, in your presence, and in yours, Gratian, also; it is very unseemly."

A mocking laugh from Lord Maythorne was his only response, and Gratian left the room saying:

"Adieu! I hope to find you in a better temper at supper, Gilbert," which was scarcely less irritating.

Gilbert followed her, and left his mother and her brother together.

Lord Maythorne was an utterly selfish man of the world; he was the son of his father's second marriage, and therefore much younger than Mrs. Arundel. He was of the type very common in those days, of an openly avowed scoffer at all that was good. Handsome, and with gentleman-like manners when it suited him, he was unscrupulous as to truth, and could send the shafts of his satire, dipped in gall, with a smiling face of indifference. He took a strange pleasure in entrapping the weak and the foolish, and as we know, poor Melville Falconer had not escaped. Gilbert had been roused to indignation against his uncle, and pity for his victim, and he had done his best to open Melville's eyes, and had not altogether failed.

The straightforward manliness of Gilbert had an attraction for many besides Melville, and without any pretension or assumption of superiority, or many words about religion, he showed the Power that was in him was sufficient for him. His hot temper was governed, and a torrent of angry words was often checked; while he did his best to trample out the dislike it was impossible not to feel for his uncle.

When Mrs. Arundel was left alone with her brother, he threw himself carelessly on a sofa, and again drew out his snuff-box.

"So you have quite decided on the law for that boy," he said.

"Yes; this seems a good beginning here, and I have been able to article him to a most respectable firm of solicitors."

"They are a dirty lot generally; however, I am glad that young fellow is really going to earn his living, and make his own way in the world. It would be a pity if he trusted to us."

"It is very unlikely he would trust to you," Mrs. Arundel said.

"It would be leaning on a broken reed, you think; well, I will not contradict you, Annabella. In fact, I am a little short of cash, ready cash, just now. I suppose you do not happen to have a hundred pounds you don't know what to do with?"

"Certainly not; I cannot imagine, Maythorne, how you can think of such a thing."

"Well, I know you send a lot to convert the niggers and Hindoos, and that you subscribe to a society for the flinging about of Bibles, which no one reads."

"Stop, please, Maythorne; I could not listen to any more conversation like this; I will not take part in it. I can lend you no money; but once more, for our father's sake, I cannot help begging, entreating you to turn from the ways of sin."

"No cant, please, Annabella; it makes me savage, and I don't want to affront you."

"I do not care whether you are affronted or not," Mrs. Arundel said, earnestly. "I cannot help feeling that we are of the same blood, and that if you were a worthy successor of my father you might be a joy and support to me. Instead of this, I have to try to keep my son from your influence, and dread that even by hearing your irreverent way of treating sacred things, he may grow accustomed to what is wrong. Oh! it is not too late; you are still a young man, still in your prime; let me entreat you to break off the chains which bind you, or rather, turn to God to free you from the bondage of sin – the slavery of sin – for it is slavery, Maythorne."

"I am very much obliged to you, Annabella, for your kindly interest, but I rather prefer deeds to words. Maythornes is pretty well stripped of trees now, and I have all but exhausted the possibility of raising money on it; but laisser aller is my motto, and I am not the one to mourn over a dark, old-fashioned house, and lands which yield no produce; if possible, I shall cut the whole concern. Well, ta-ta, till to-morrow. I have promised to hire horses and trot out Gratian over the Downs."

Mrs. Arundel felt that to say anything more would be worse than useless, and yet, as she watched her brother lounge across the road and stand on the slope looking over the river, her eyes filled with tears.

"To think what he might have been. May God guard my boy from men like him."

Gilbert had gone quickly away from Sion Hill, and found himself on the lower Downs – then not skirted by handsome houses, but with glades and grassy slopes covered with hawthorn bushes, whitened in May-time with blossoms like snow, and covered in autumn with feathery masses of the wild clematis, or traveller's joy.

Gilbert found the place suited his mood, and he gave himself up to thoughts of Joyce, and forgot the late encounter with his uncle.

How delightful it was to build castles for the future – to think of a home near all this loveliness, where Joyce would reign in all her sweet beauty as his wife. The time had been when Gilbert had admired his cousin Gratian Anson, who was the daughter of his mother's aunt, and therefore his cousin only in the second degree. Now her free, bold bearing, her ringing voice, her fashionable dress and banter, jarred on him. Her laugh was like the rattle of a noisy brook over innumerable stones, when compared to Joyce's musical ripple, which was so real, and so entirely the outcome of her own happiness. Then how charming was her unconsciousness, and how her beauty was enhanced by the absence of all affectation; how pretty was her affection for her father and Piers, and how gracefully and simply she did all the little household duties which her mother expected from her! Some words of a favourite poet of his mother's recurred to him, as he pictured Joyce in her little, short, lilac frock, with an apron, as he had seen her one morning, and her round white arms bare, as she came out of the dairy, and said she had made up twenty pats of butter while he had been asleep. Surely George Herbert's words were verified.

The action was made fine by the spirit, which was done as a loving token of obedience to the will of another.

"Mother wished me to do it, so I got up an hour earlier," she had said, as she cut a slice from one of the rolls made for breakfast and offered it to him, spread with the butter she had made, with a cup of milk, before it had been skimmed.

Dreams of first love are very sweet; and Gilbert wondered if he had been wise to leave Fair Acres without getting a definite answer from Joyce herself.

Honourable and straightforward, he determined not to return to Fair Acres unless prepared to ask her father's permission to lay all he had at her feet. He was conscious that at present that all did not imply much, and besides, he had his mother to think of, and he must not marry till he was really in a position to support a wife in that station of life to which he had been called. He could wait for seven years, like Jacob of old – waiting for Joyce was worth any sacrifice. But what if, when she emerged from her retirement and went to Barley Wood, some one else might set his heart on the prize and win it. Then he recalled her words, spoken in answer to his question as he carried her towards home the evening before:

"No; I will not forget you."

They seemed to possess a double meaning as he repeated them again and again, as he retraced his steps over the observatory towards Sion Hill. They were heard in the late voices of the thrushes in the woods across the river – those dark, mysterious Leigh woods which, in the dim and fading light, clothed the opposite heights with dim and motionless masses; they were heard in the call of the sailor boys from the full river below St. Vincent's Rock, on whose summit he stood; they seemed to wrap him round with a certainty that the giant rock, from which he looked over the fading landscape lying to his left, encircled by a line of hills, on which the fine tower of Dundry stood like a black sentinel against the clear sky, was not more steadfast than would Joyce's heart be, were it once given to him.

There were then no railings to protect passers-by from approaching too near the edge of the precipice which falls sheer down from this point a distance of three hundred feet, and Gilbert was startled from his dream by a voice near:

"You are perilously near the edge, unless you wish to go over!"

He turned with a sudden gesture, and, to his surprise, saw Gratian.

"I saw you wander over here from my window," she said. "Look! there are our houses, and I came to look after you."

"That was very obliging," Gilbert said, a little satirically.

"Now, don't be so high and mighty. I wish to be your friend, as I have always been, Gilbert. I was very sorry for you when you were so shamefully teazed by your young uncle; he does not like to be called old. I hope you noticed that."

"Oh! it is over now. I had no right to get into a rage."

"I think you had every right," Gratian said. "He is too provoking; worse, since he has been so much in London, and welcomed, so we hear, by some boon companions of His Majesty. But do not let us talk of him; let us talk of you. No; I don't choose to walk so near the edge of the rocks, if you do. Tell me about the people where you have been; – tell me about the place. Is it a fine house, or a nice big farm? Fair Acres is a pretty name, and are there no fair maidens as well as acres? Come, Gilbert, you were not always so cross to me." This was said with a gentle pressure on his arm.

"I don't mean to be cross; but there is nothing at Fair Acres that would interest you. You know about poor Melville already."

"I have heard of him," she said, "and of your taking upon yourself to reform him. Well, who are the others?"

"There are two fine boys, who want to be sailors, but they are too old, I am afraid, for the navy; they are thirteen."

"They – both thirteen!"

"Yes, they are twins. Then there is a lame boy, Piers, a year younger. And oh, I forgot! a quiet, silent fellow, Ralph, he is sixteen."

"And does the great Melville, come next to him?"

"Two little girls died. But there is a daughter of seventeen."

"Ah!" exclaimed Gratian; "I knew there was a daughter. Did I not tell you I knew you were in love? Tell me her name. Come! We are such old friends. Surely you might tell me."

"Really, Gratian, I will tell you Miss Falconer's name if you so particularly wish to hear it. I – "

"I will guess it. Let me see. I love my love with an A, because she is amiable, and I took her to the sign of the Archer, and fed her with apples, and her name is Angela. Not right? Well, I will go through the alphabet, and I must surely be right at last. I love my love with a B – ."

"Pray stop," Gilbert said. "I don't feel in a jesting mood, somehow."

"Not ready to wear a cap and bells? Poor Gilbert. You feel more like sitting under a willow tree and singing 'Poor Mary Anne.'"

"Which is our house?" Gilbert asked.

"Not that one; not up the steps. But you shall not go in till you tell me her name."

"She is called Joyce," Gilbert said, in despair.

"Ah! then you allow there is only one she for you in all the world, and she is called Joyce."

"Now, I do hope you are satisfied," Gilbert said.

She laughed that loud, ringing laugh, as she ran upstairs before him. "Oh! of course I am satisfied," she said.

CHAPTER VIII.

BARLEY WOOD

Great preparations were made in the Vicar's Close at Wells for Charlotte's visit to Barley Wood. Her aunt gave her orders as to what she was to wear every day; how she was to be sure to make a proper curtsey at the door of the drawing-room when she entered Mrs. More's presence; that she was to play on the piano, and exhibit the screens she had just painted; and if Mrs. More admired them, she was to beg her to do her the favour to accept them.

"Do not let Joyce commit herself by any rustic manners; you who have been carefully educated, my dear Charlotte, must try to do me credit, and give Joyce a hint – "

"Joyce is so lovely!" Charlotte exclaimed, "it scarcely matters what she says, or wears."

"My dear, Joyce has no style, and is given to express herself too freely; and, I think, her voice is sometimes pitched in too high a key. Yours is gentle and well modulated; now do me credit at Barley Wood, Charlotte; I have taken so much pains to form you on the model of a true gentlewoman; and you must remember how many girls would think it a great honour to pay a visit to Mrs. Hannah More."

Charlotte promised to do her best; and when her uncle called to take her to the "Swan," where the four-wheel was waiting, she was in a flutter of excitement.

Mr. Falconer greeted his sister in his usual frank kindly manner; and while Charlotte ran upstairs to get ready, Miss Falconer said:

"I am glad to hear Melville is gone."

The squire sighed.

"Yes, he is gone, and his mother finds it hard to part from him."

"Hard to part from him! Really, Arthur, when one considers how much anxiety he has caused, I wonder you should say that."

"Ah! Letitia, that is all very well; but mothers' hearts are the same, whether their sons are good or bad. It seems to me that mothers generally love the children best, that give them the most trouble. However, the poor fellow is gone, bag and baggage. I went to Bath with him, and delivered him over to Mr. Crawford, a steady-going man he seems, and Melville will not have a chance of getting into mischief under his care, I hope. But it is an expensive matter. I had to put a hundred pounds into Crawford's keeping as a start; besides twenty I gave Melville."

"You ought not to have given him more than five pounds," Miss Falconer said. "The whole management of Melville has been a mistake."

"So you have told me before," said the squire. "My dear Letitia, single women always think they know a great deal about the affairs of married people, and, as experience is wanting, they commonly know nothing."

"I have long since given up arguing the point with you, Arthur; however, let us say no more. I only hope that Melville may return a changed character, and then you will not regret this outlay for him. I only wish Joyce had some of the money spent on her."

"Joyce!" the squire exclaimed – a smile breaking over his fine face; "Joyce! all the money in the world could not improve her. She is my joy and comfort. I half grudge letting her go to Barley Wood, even for a short visit."

"You ought to be glad that she has had such an invitation; and, really, you have to thank me for it, Arthur. I take such a deep interest in Joyce. I have often tried to put before you what she needs, and now I have great hope that Mrs. More may suggest some plan for her."

The squire began to feel very impatient; his sister's interest in his children was undoubted, but he did not want to have it perpetually brought before him. Miss Falconer had an unfortunate habit of sounding her own excellencies, especially with regard to her nieces and nephews. Then there were often little side hits at his wife; and it is always hard for a man like the squire, to be reminded that his sisters do not consider his wife their equal in the social scale, and the nearer the truth the less palatable is the assertion of it.

"Is not Charlotte ready?" he exclaimed. "Joyce will be waiting at Draycot, where we are to pick her up. Thomas was to drive her there with her box, as he had an errand at Farmer Scott's."

"In what did Joyce drive?"

"In the gig; and Joyce likes to pay Mrs. Scott, who is a sad cripple, a visit sometimes, so it all fitted in very well. Come Charlotte, my dear," he said, turning to his niece. "We shall find the four-wheel at the 'Swan,' and I've the ostler at the Close gate waiting to take your luggage. Two boxes! Joyce only took one."

"Charlotte was obliged to have a bonnet-box," her aunt said. "Her Tuscan bonnet would have been ruined with the dust if she had worn it."

The squire was already in the little lobby, and, cutting short good-byes, he strode down the Close, while Charlotte ran back twice, to kiss her aunt and say in a tearful voice:

"I cannot endure to leave you, sweet auntie."

"Good-bye, my treasure, good-bye," Miss Falconer repeated again and again, and very genuine tears were on her own cheeks. They were a very demonstrative pair, and, as we should say in these days, "gushed" over each other, but real love did underlie the fanciful expression of it; and Miss Falconer looked on Charlotte with the pride that a modeller in plastic clay, looks upon the work of his hands, and remembers how carefully every detail has been wrought out, and how, in spite of a little flaw here and there, the result is satisfactory.