That Stick

They tried to keep their host in the conversation, but without much success, though he listened as it drifted into immediate interests and affairs of the neighbourhood, and made response, as best he could, to the explanations which, like well-bred people, they from time to time directed to him.  He thus learnt that Lady Adela with her little Amice had been carried off ‘by main force,’ Bertha said, ‘by her brother.  But she will come back again,’ she added.  ‘She is devoted to the place and her graves—and the poor people.’

‘I do not know what they would do without her,’ said Mr. Hailes.

‘No.  She is lady-of-all-work and Pro-parsoness—with all her might’; then seeing, or thinking she saw, a puzzled look, she added, ‘I don’t know if you discovered, Northmoor, that our Vicar, Mr. Woodman, has no wife, and Adela has supplied the lack to the parish, having a soul for country poor, whereas they are too tame for me.  I care about my neighbours, of course, after a sort, but the jolly city sparrows of the slums for me!  I long to be away.’

What to say to this Lord Northmoor knew as little as did his nephew, and with some difficulty he managed to utter, ‘Are not they very uncivilised?’

‘That’s the beauty of it,’ said Bertha; ‘I’ve spotted my own special preserve of match-girls, newsboys, etc., and Mr. Hailes is going to help me to get a scrumptious little house, whence I can get to it by underground rail.  Oh, you may shake your head, Mr. Hailes, but if you will not help me, I shall set my unassisted genius to work, and you’ll only suffer agonies in thinking of the muddle I may be making.’

‘What does Lady Adela say?’ asked Mr. Hailes.

‘She thinks me old enough to take care of myself, whatever you do, Mr. Hailes; besides, she knows I can come up to breathe!  I long for it!’

The dinner ended by Bertha rising, and proposing to Herbert to come with her.  It was not too dark, she said, to look out into the Park and see the rabbits scudding about.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Hailes, shaking his head as they went, ‘the rabbits ought not to be so near, but there has been sad neglect since poor Mr. Morton’s death.’

It was much easier to get on in a tête-à-tête, and before long Mr. Hailes had heard some of the perplexities about Herbert, the foremost of which was how to make him presentable for ladies’ society in the evening.  If Miss Morton’s presence had been anticipated, either his uncle would not have brought him, or would have fitted him out beforehand, for though he looked fit for the fields and woods in male company, evening costume had not yet dawned on his imagination.  Mr. Hailes recommended sending him in the morning to the town at Colbeam, under charge of the butler, Prowse—who would rather enjoy the commission, and was quite capable of keeping up any needed authority.  For the future training, the more important matter on which he was next consulted, Mr. Hailes mentioned the name of a private tutor, who was likely to be able to deal with the boy better under present circumstances than a public school could do—since at Herbert’s age, his ignorance of the classics on the one hand, and of gentlemanly habits on the other, would tell too much against him.

‘But,’ said Mr. Hailes, ‘Miss Morton will be a very good adviser to you on that head.’

‘She is very good-natured to him,’ said Frank.

‘No one living has a better heart than Miss Morton,’ said Mr. Hailes heartily; ‘a little eccentric, owing to—to circumstances.  She has had her troubles, poor dear; but she has as good a heart as ever was, as you will find, my Lord, in all arrangements with her.’

Nevertheless, Lord Northmoor’s feelings towards her might be startled the next morning, when he descended to the dining-room.  A screen cut off the door, and as he was coming round it, followed by his nephew, Bertha’s clear voice was heard saying, ‘Yes, he is inoffensive, but he is a stick.  There’s no denying it, Mr. Hailes, he is a dreadful stick.’

Frank was too far advanced to retire, before the meaning dawned on him, partly through a little explosion of Herbert behind him, and partly from the guilty consternation and colour with which the other two turned round from the erection of plants among which they were standing.

Yet it was the shy man who spoke first in the predicament, like a timid creature driven to bay.

‘Yes, Miss Morton, I know it is too true; no one is more sensible of it than myself.  I can only hope to do my best, such as it is.’

‘Oh, Northmoor, it was very horrid and unguarded in me, and I can only be sorry and beg your pardon,’ and while she laughed and held out her hand, there was a dew in her eyes.

‘Truths do not need pardon,’ he said, as he gave a cousinly grasp, ‘and I think you will try kindly to excuse my deficiencies and disadvantages.’

There was a certain dignity in his tone, and Bertha said heartily—

‘Thank you.  It is all right in essentials, and chatter is of very little consequence.  Now come and have some breakfast.’

They got on together far better after that, and began to feel like relations, before Herbert was sent off with Mr. Prowse to Colbeam.  Indeed, throughout the transactions that followed, Bertha showed herself far less devoted to her own interests than to what might be called the honour of the family.  Her father’s will had been made in haste, after the death of his little grandson, and was as concise as possible, her influence having told upon it.  Knowing that the new heir would have nothing to begin with, and aware that if he inherited merely the title, house, and land, he would be in great straits, the old Lord had bequeathed to him nearly what would have been left to the grandson, a fair proportion of the money in the funds and bank, and all the furniture and appurtenances of Northmoor House, excepting such articles as Bertha and Lady Adela might select, each up to a certain value.

Lady Adela’s had been few, and already chosen, and Bertha’s were manifestly only matters of personal belonging, and not up altogether to the amount named; so as to avoid stripping the place, which, at the best, was only splendid in utterly unaccustomed eyes.  Horses and carriages had to be bought of her, and it was she who told him what was absolutely necessary, and fixed the price as low as she could, so as not to make them a gift.  And he was not so ignorant in this matter as she had expected—for the old habits of his boyhood served him, he could ride well, and his scruples at Miss Morton’s estimate proved that he knew a horse when he saw it—as she said.  She would, perhaps, have liked him better if he had been a dissipated horsey man like his father.  He would have given her sensations—and on his side, considering the reputation of the family, he was surprised at her eager, almost passionate desire to be rid of the valuable horses and equipages as soon as possible.

When, in the afternoon, she went out of doors to refresh herself with a solitary ramble in the Park after her morning of business, she heard an altercation, and presently encountered a keeper, dragging after him a trespasser, in whom, to her amazement, she recognised Herbert Morton, at the same moment as he exclaimed: ‘Cousin Bertha!  Miss—  Look at this impudent fellow, though I told him I was Lord Northmoor’s own nephew.’

‘And I told him, ma’am,’ said the keeper, touching his hat, ‘that if he was ten nephews I wouldn’t have him throwing stones at my pheasants, nor his Lordship wouldn’t neither, and then he sauced me, and I said I would see what his Lordship said to that.’

‘You must excuse him this time, Best,’ said Miss Morton; ‘he is a town-bred boy, and knows no better, and you had better not worry his Lordship about it.’

‘Very well, Miss Morton, if it is your pleasure, but them pheasants are my province, and I must do my dooty.’

‘Of course, quite right, Best,’ she answered; ‘but my cousin here did not understand, and you must make allowance for him.’

Best touched his hat again, and went off with an undercurrent of growl.

‘Oh, Herbert, this is a pity!’ Miss Morton exclaimed.

‘Cheeky chap!’ said Herbert sulkily.  ‘What business had he to meddle with me?  A great big wild bird gets up with no end of a row, and I did nothing but shy a stone, and out comes this fellow at me in a regular wax, and didn’t care half a farthing when I told him who I was.  I fancy he did not believe me.’

‘I don’t wonder,’ said Bertha; ‘you have yet to learn that in the eyes of any gentleman, nothing is much more sacred than a pheasant.’

‘I never meant to hurt the thing, only one just chucks a stone,’ muttered Herbert, abashed, but still defensive and offended.  ‘I thought my uncle would teach the rascal how to speak to me.’

‘I’ll tell you what, Herbert, if you take that line with good old servants, who are only doing their duty, you won’t have a happy time of it here.  I suppose you wish to take your place as a gentleman.  Well, the greatest sign of a gentleman is to be courteous and well-behaved to all about him.’

‘He wasn’t courteous or well-behaved to me.’

‘No, because you did not show yourself such a gentleman as he has been used to.  If you acted like a tramp or a poacher, no wonder he thought you one’; then, after a pause, ‘You will find that much of your pleasure in sport depends on the keepers, and that it would be a great disadvantage to be on bad terms with them, so I strongly advise you, on every account, to treat them with civility, and put out of your head that there is any dignity in being rude.’

Herbert liked Miss Morton, and had been impressed as well as kindly treated by her, and though he sulked now, there was an after-effect.

CHAPTER X

COMING HONOURS

With great trepidation did Mary Marshall set forth on her visit to Coles Kenton.  She had made up her mind—and a determined mind it could be on occasion—that on it should turn her final acceptance of her twenty years’ lover.

Utterly inexperienced as she was, even in domestic, not to say high life, she had perhaps an exaggerated idea, alike of its requirements and of her own deficiencies; and she was resolved to use her own judgment, according to her personal experience, whether she should be hindrance or help to him whom she loved too truly and unselfishly to allow herself to be made the former.

She was glad that for the first few days she should not see him, and should thus be less distracted and biased, but it was with a sinking heart that she heard that Lady Kenton had called to take her up in the carriage.  Grateful as she was for the kindness, which saved her the dreariness of a solitary arrival, she was a strange mixture of resolution and self-distrust, of moral courage and timidity, as had been shown by her withstanding all Miss Lang’s endeavours to make her improve her dress beyond what was absolutely necessary for the visit, lest it should be presuming on the future.

Lady Kenton had a manner such as to smooth away shyness, and, with tact that perceived with what kind of nature she had to deal, managed to make the tea-table serve only as a renewal of acquaintance with Frederica, and an introduction to Sir Edward, after which Mary was taken to the schoolroom and made known to the governess, a kindly, sensible woman, who, according to previous arrangement, made the visitor free of her domains as a refuge.

The prettiness and luxury of the guest-chamber was quite a shock, and Mary would rather have faced a dozen naughty girls than have taken Sir Edward’s arm to go in to dinner.  However, her hostess had decided on a quiet course of treatment such as not to frighten this pupil, and it had been agreed only to take enough notice of her to prevent her from feeling herself neglected, until she should begin to be more at ease.  Nor was it long before a certain sparkle in the brown eyes showed that she was amused by, and appreciative of, the family talk.

It was true, as Lady Kenton had told her, that she had nothing to unlearn, all she wanted was confidence, experience, and ease, and in so humble, gentle, and refined a nature as hers, the acquisition of these could not lead to the disclosure of anything undesirable.  So, after the first day of novelty, when she had learnt the hours, could distinguish between the young people, knew her way about the house so as to be secure of not opening the wrong doors, and when she had learnt where and when she would be welcome and even helpful, she began to enjoy herself and the life, the beauty, and the leisure.

She made friends heartily with the governess, fraternised with Freda, taught the younger girls new games, could hold a sort of conversation with Sir Edward, became less afraid of George, and daily had more of filial devotion to Lady Kenton.  The books on the tables were a real delight and pleasure to her, when she found that it was not ill-mannered to sit down and read in the forenoon, and the discussion of them was a great help in what Freda called teaching her to talk.  Visitors were very gradually brought upon her, a gentleman or two at first, who knew nothing about her, perhaps thought her the governess and merely bowed to her.  There was only one real contretemps, when some guests, who lived rather beyond the neighbourhood, arrived for afternoon tea, and, moreover, full of curiosity about Lord Northmoor.  Was it true that he was an attorney’s clerk, and was not he going to marry a very inferior person?

‘Certainly not,’ said Lady Kenton.  ‘He is engaged to my friend, Miss Marshall.’

The said Miss Marshall was handing the sugar, while Freda was pouring out the tea.  She had been named on the ladies’ entrance, and the colour rose to her eyes but she said nothing, while there was a confusion of, ‘I beg pardon.  I understand.’

‘Report makes a good many mistakes,’ said Lady Kenton coolly.  ‘Mary, my dear, you have given me no sugar.’

It was the first time of calling her by her Christian name, and done for the sake of making the equal intimacy apparent.  In fact, Mary was behaving herself better than the visitors, as Lady Kenton absolutely told her when a sort of titter was heard in the hall, where they were expressing to Freda their horror at the scrape, and extorting that Miss Marshall was really a governess.

‘But quite a lady,’ said Freda stoutly, ‘and we are all as fond of her as possible.’

It showed how much progress she had made that even this shock did not set her to express any more faint-hearted doubts, and, when Lord Northmoor arrived the next day, the involuntary radiance on both their faces was token enough that they were all the world to each other.  Mary allowed herself to venture on getting Lady Kenton’s counsel on the duties of household headship that would fall on her; and instead of being terrified at the great garden-party and dinner-party to be held at Coles Kenton, eagerly availed herself of instruction in the details of their management.  She had accepted her fate, and when the two were seen moving about among the people of the party they neither of them looked incongruous with the county aristocracy.  Quiet, retiring, and insignificant they might be, but there was nothing to remark by the most curious eyes of those who knew they were to see the new peer and his destined bride; in fact, as George and Freda privately remarked, they were just the people that nobody ever would see at all, unless they were set up upon a pedestal.

Mary still feebly suggested, when the marriage was spoken of, that it might be wiser for Frank to wait a year, get over his first expenses and feel his way; but he would not hear of her going back to her work, and pleaded his solitude so piteously that she could not but consent to let it take place as soon as possible.  They would fain have kept it as private as possible, but their good friends were of opinion that it was necessary to give them a start with some éclat, and insisted that it should take place with all due honours at Coles Kenton, where Mary was treated like a favoured niece, and assisted with counsel on her trousseau.  The savings she had made during the long years of her engagement were enough to fit her out sufficiently to feel that she was bringing her own wardrobe, and Lady Kenton actually went to London with her to superintend the outlay.

‘Whom would they like to have asked to the wedding?’ the lady inquired, herself naming the Langs and Burfords.  ‘Of course,’ she added, smiling, ‘Freda and Alice will be only too happy to be bridesmaids.  Have you any one whom you would wish to ask?  Your old scholars perhaps.’

‘I think,’ said Mary, hesitating, ‘that one reason why we think we ought to decline your kindness was—about his relations.’

Lady Kenton had given full license to the propriety of calling him Frank with intimate friends, but Mary always had a shyness about it.

‘Indeed, I should make no question about asking them, if I had not doubted whether, after what passed—’

‘That is all forgotten,’ said Mary gently.  ‘I have had quite a nice letter since, and—’

‘Of course they must be asked,’ said Lady Kenton; ‘I should have proposed it before, but for that scene.’

‘That is nothing,’ said Mary; ‘the doubt is whether, considering the style of people, it would not be better for us to manage it otherwise, and not let you be troubled.’

‘Oh, that’s nothing!  On such an occasion there’s no fear of their not behaving like the rest of the world.  There are girls, I think; they should be bridesmaids.’

This very real kindness overcame all scruples, and indeed a great deal might be forgiven to Miss Marshall in consideration of the glory of telling all Westhaven of the invitation to be present ‘at my brother Lord Northmoor’s wedding, at Sir Edward Kenton’s, Baronet.’  He gave the dresses, not only the bridesmaids’ white and cerise (Freda’s choice), but the chocolate moiré which for a minute Mrs. Morton fancied ‘the little spiteful cat’ had chosen on purpose to suppress her, till assured by all qualified beholders, especially Mrs. Rollstone and a dressmaker friend, that in nothing else would she have looked so entirely quite the lady.

And Lady Kenton’s augury was fulfilled.  The whole family were subdued enough by their surroundings to comport themselves quite well enough to pass muster.

CHAPTER XI

POSSESSION

So Francis Morton, Baron Northmoor of Northmoor, and Mary Marshall, daughter of the late Reverend John Marshall, were man and wife at last.  Their honeymoon was ideally happy.  It fulfilled a dream of their life, when Frank used, in the holidays spent by Mary with his mother, to read aloud the Waverley novels, and they had calculated, almost as an impossible castle in the air, the possibility of visiting the localities.  And now they went, as assuredly they had never thought of going, and not much impeded by the greatness that had been thrust on them.  The good-natured Kentons had dispensed his Lordship from the encumbrance of a valet, and though my Lady could not well be allowed to go maidless, Lady Kenton had found a sensible, friendly person for her, of whom she soon ceased to be afraid, and thus felt the advantage of being able to attend to her husband instead of her luggage.

Tourists might look and laugh at their simple delight as at that of a pair of unsophisticated cockneys.  This did not trouble them, as they trod what was to them classic ground, tried in vain the impossible feat of ‘seeing Melrose aright,’ but revelled in what they did see, stood with bated breath at Dryburgh by the Minstrel’s tomb, and tracked his magic spells from the Tweed even to Staffa, feeling the full delight for the first time of mountain, sea, and loch.  Their enjoyment was perhaps even greater than that of boy and girl, for it was the reaction of chastened lives and hearts ‘at leisure from themselves,’ nor were spirit and vigour too much spent for enterprise.

They tasted to the full every innocent charm that came in their way, and, above all, the bliss of being together in the perfect sympathy that had been the growth of so many years.  Their maid, Harte, might well confide to her congeners that though my lord and my lady were the oldest couple she had known, they were the most attached, in a quiet way.

They were loth to end this state of felicity before taking their new cares upon them, and were glad that the arrangements of the executors made it desirable that they should not take possession till October, when they left behind them the gorgeous autumn beauty of the western coast and journeyed southwards.

The bells were rung, the gates thrown wide open, and lights flashed in the windows as Lord and Lady Northmoor drove up to their home, but it was in the dark, and there was no demonstrative welcome, the indoor servants were all new, the cook-housekeeper hired by Lady Kenton’s assistance, and the rest of the maids chosen by her, the butler and his subordinate acquired in like manner.

It was a little dreary.  The rooms looked large and empty.  Miss Morton’s belongings had been just what gave a homelike air to the place, and when these were gone, even the big fires could not greatly cheer the huge spaces.  However, these two months had accustomed the new arrivals to their titles, and likewise to being waited upon, and they were less at a loss than they would have been previously, though to Mary especially it was hard to realise that it was her own house, and that she need ask no one’s leave.  Also that it was not a duty to sit with a fire.  She could not well have done so, considering how many were doing their best to enliven the house, and finally she spent the evening in the library, not a very inviting room in itself, but which the late lord had inhabited, and where the present one had already held business interviews.  It was, of course, lined with the standard books of the last generation, and Mary, who had heard of many, but never had access to them, flitted over them while her husband opened the letters he had found awaiting him.  To her, what some one has called the ‘tea, tobacco, and snuff’ of an old library where the books are chiefly viewed as appropriate furniture, were all delightful discoveries.  Even to ‘Hume’s History of England—nine volumes!  I did not know it was so long!  Our first class had the Student’s Hume.  Is there much difference?’

‘Rather to the Student’s advantage, I believe.  Half these letters, at least, are mere solicitations for custom!  And advertisements!’

‘How the books stick together!  I wonder when they were opened last!’

‘Never, I suspect,’ said he.  ‘I do not imagine the Mortons were much disposed to read.’

‘Well, they have left us a delightful store!  What’s this?  Smollett’s Don Quixote.  I always wanted to know about that.  Is it not something about giants and windmills?  Have you read it?’

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