Читать книгу A Novel Without a Name - William Aubrey Burnage - Страница 16

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IT was a holiday at Fenwick Park; for it was the day Squire Wilton and his daughter were expected home. The servants, together with the tenant farmers and their laborers, had put off work till the morrow. So great was the muster for many "outsiders," as the steward called them, had also collected—some from curiosity, others from gratitude for some long-remembered act of kindness received from the Squire—that the resources of the larder were taxed to the utmost. The steward had provided sundry hogsheads of brown October ale, and bread and cheese by the hundred weight for the farm labourers and "casuals," and in a large tent upon the lawn he had spread refreshments for the farmers and more distinguished visitors. Flags and streamers were flying in all directions; and the avenue from the lodge to the house was as thronged with the crowd in its holiday dress, as the road to Putney or Epson on a great race day. Everybody of note in the little local world was there. The old, blind fiddler from the neighboring village was present in the hope of gaining possession of a few odd coppers, and was playing a lively air to the intense delight of an attentive and appreciative audience of clods and ragamuffins, whose thorough enjoyment was well expressed upon their pleased and grimy faces. Near him stood Myra, a pretty dark-eyed gipsy maiden, ready to read the future for any one prepared to cross her dainty palm with silver. An organ grinder, two men with dancing dogs, an Italian lad with ready-made saints, and even the Punch and Judy show from Dunmow was there. The village school-master had his little flock marshalled near the lodge, and tuned up ready to sing "God save the King," and to give three honest cheers for the squire and Miss Wilton. The steward had received a letter the previous day stating that his master expected to reach the Park on the morrow at noon; and half-an-hour before that time the school-master, self-appointed master of ceremonies, had the motley crowd ranged in two tolerably even lines fringing the carriage drive from the lodge towards the House; and his own more immediate charge stationed at the gate, with the first note of their only tune ready to burst forth on receiving the eagerly expected signal—the flourish of their intimate acquaintance, the cane. Precisely at two minutes to twelve the rumble of carriage wheels was heard upon the gravel; and one hapless youngster—an urchin of nine—mistaking it for the singers' cue stretched out his neck like a cockrel preparing for his first crow, and gave with,—"God save our gracious K-o-o-o-o!" the unintelligible variation of the last word of the line being occasioned by a sudden and unexpected collision of his head with the falling cane.

"I will K-o-o-o o you, you troublesome, young imp!" exclaimed the infuriated pedagogue. "Silence, this moment, or I will beat you into a jelly!"

The youngster contrived to stop crying aloud; but the grimaces he was compelled to make in struggling to smother his sobs so tickled the fancies of a couple of his little comrades, that the cane had to be called into requisition again to quell their ungenerous merriment. Order was, however, speedily restored; and in a few minutes the carriage appeared in sight. Directly it entered the lodge gate, the looked-for signal was given; and the little people, with, perhaps, more energy than musical taste, dashed into the beautiful and loyal air of the National Anthem. The coachman was ordered to drive slowly up the avenue, that the squire and his daughter might the more easily return the courtesies of the demonstrative and hatless crowd.

"Why, see, papa, there's old Mr. Tomkins, the village school-master, here yet! I can remember his venerable, good-natured face quite well," said the young lady as they passed the lodge gate. "How silly of him to have the children here to sing to us as we pass! I dare say, though, the dear little things are glad of any excuse for a holiday. I should like to give them a treat in the park, as soon as we get settled again."

"Very well, my dear! Do just as you like; only don't bother me about it," replied the squire. "Look, there's old blind Dick with his violin, standing under that leaning oak; see, next to the gipsy damsel in the red hood. Do you recollect him?"

"O, yes, I see him, poor fellow. No, I don't remember him; but I can see several faces I fancy I do know. Isn't that Rugby, the groom? Look, a few yards nearer the House."

"Yes, Mabel; and see, you surely remember that poor old woman with the crutch, she was one of your mamma's pensioners."

"Old Jane Wood; isn't it? I——"

Mr. Tompkin's pupils having galloped through the first verse of their stock tune, here drowned Mabel's words with their eager and vociferous cheers, which were heartily joined in by the whole of the miscellaneous assemblage; and further conversation was for the moment suspended. As soon as they could hear themselves speak again, Mr. Wilton observed impatiently, "I expected the servants and tenants would probably welcome us, Mabel; but I had no idea that this fuss would be made. It is positively absurd."

"Never mind, papa!" laughed Mabel. "In a few minutes the ordeal will be passed; and our brief popularity at an end."

They drove slowly on to the House, bowing at every step in response to the cheers, which in many cases were expressions of heart-felt welcome. When the carriage reached the hall steps, and they alighted, the squire briefly thanked the noisy crowd for their cordial and kindly greeting, and then led Mabel into the House, where a few minutes were spent in shaking hands with the more privileged of the visitors. Half an hour later the whole throng had departed, some, to return to their homes; but the principal part to make holiday in the park.

"At home again at last!" cried Mabel with girlish delight, as soon as the house was cleared. "This is my home, papa! Long as we lived at Oakville, I never forgot the dear old Park, and never thought any other place really home. I wonder whether Harry Fenton will call and see us, papa! He is back, too, on leave of absence."

Mr. Wilton's brow darkened at the mention of young Mr. Fenton's name; and he answered curtly, "Indeed, Mabel! Pray, how do you know?"

"I saw him at the Chelmsford station, papa; and Lucy Vaughan told me he was away from his regiment on leave of absence."

"Did you speak to him?" Mr. Wilton enquired.

"No, papa, I had not an opportunity. The train was just moving off when I caught sight of him," replied Mabel ingenuously. "He has grown so tall and handsome, papa; but I knew him again in a moment."

Mr. Wilton took a turn or two in the hall, without replying, his brows deeply knitted.

"Papa, when do you intend to call at Elmgrove Hall? I think I shall go and see Fanny Fenton to-morrow," said Mabel after a few seconds silence.

Mr. Wilton roused himself from his brief reverie, and, turning to his daughter said sternly, "Now that we are at home again, Mabel, I may as well tell you it is my wish that you keep aloof from the people at the Hall. I do not like the family; and I will not allow you to visit them. And I may tell you also I am not at all pleased that you still think of Harry. Friendship as children was all very well; but you are too old for such silly fancies now!"

Mabel stood for a few moments in speechless surprise gazing with enquiring eyes upon her father's clouded face. "Why papa," she at length exclaimed, "What has Harry done that I should not be permitted to see him? Or Fanny? We were always friends before you took me to Oakville."

"You had better go up to your room at once and change your traveling dress. The house-keeper will show you up," observed Mr. Wilton evasively. "Your maid will not arrive till to-morrow. If you feel fatigued, you had better have a cup of tea taken up, instead of coming down to dinner," and, without waiting for Mabel's reply, he passed on to the library, muttering to himself as he went, "I must nip this folly in the bud; for no upstart shall marry into the family of the Wiltons, of Fenwick Park. It is strange that their boy and girl attachment should have survived so long. Those gushing letters of his, which I sealed up again and returned, were full enough of sentimental nonsense to form the stock in trade of a maudlin poetaster. But I will put a stop to it now. I will not allow them to meet."

Mabel stood a few seconds silent and thoughtful, tears dimming the azure depths of her beautiful eyes. "And are all my hopes to be dashed to the ground like this!" she presently exclaimed. "I have been longing, O, so ardently, to come back to the dear old Park, that I might see him again; and is this to be the end of my dreams? I love him; and I know, I am certain, that he loves me, although he has not written to me for so long; and I will be true to him! I do not remember when he was not more than all the world to me; and I will never forget him!"

"Will you go up to your room, Miss Wilton, to change your things?" interrupted the house-keeper, entering the room.

"Yes Mrs. Chamberlain, at once, if you please," replied Mabel, striving to assume a composure she was far from feeling.

"I thought that you would like the green suite that opens to the south. It has a magnificent view; and the rooms are the most comfortable in the house," said the house-keeper. "They are not quite ready, for I only reached the Park the day before yesterday; and I haven't had much time to put things straight yet; but I think they will do till I can arrange them properly."

"We will see to-morrow, Mrs. Chamberlain," replied Mabel, scarcely able to refrain from bursting into tears of disappointment and vexation. "I am too tired to trouble about them now. I think I will lie down and rest for a little while."

The house-keeper led the way to Mabel's apartments; and after assisting her young mistress to change her traveling dress for an afternoon toilet, she hurried away for a cup of tea.

"What a great difference a few minutes sometimes makes in our feelings," thought poor Mabel, as she threw herself upon a couch in her boudoir to wait for the house-keeper's return. "I was so happy half an hour ago, when we were approaching the Park through the noisy crowd. All seemed so bright in the blissful anticipation of seeing him again, perhaps in a few short hours; and now I feel so very, very miserable; and my heart is as cold and heavy as lead!"

Mabel wisely thought it would be better to try to compose and calm her wearying thoughts that would crowd into her aching head. But it was to no purpose; and after five minutes fruitless effort she rose again, and began pacing the room—a habit she had acquired as a child. "And I am not to see him or Fanny again simply because papa does not like the family," she thought angrily, not able to understand her father's aristocratic class-prejudice. "I do not care; I will see him again! If papa had any real fault to find with Harry himself, I should quietly listen to it; and if papa could prove any just reason why I should give Harry up, I would do so, even if it broke my heart. It would be my duty. But to expect me to tear from my heart a love I cannot remember the commencement of, and only because he quarreled with Harry's father some years ago; it is too much. I will not submit to it. I will not give Harry up for such an unreasonable cause!"

The entrance of the house-keeper with the tea disturbed Mabel's bitter reflections. "Why, Miss Wilton, I thought you were going to lie down and rest after your journey," the good lady said with kindly concern. "You would feel much better after an hour or two's sleep."

"My head aches too much, Mrs. Chamberlain, for me to sleep," replied Mabel sadly, "I think I will take a walk in the park instead. The fresh air may do it good."

"But, Miss, the park is full of people this morning. All the farm laborers and idlers for miles round are making a holiday there in honor of your return."

"Yes, but they are on the level ground by the oak avenue near the lodge, and I can go over to the bridge without fear of meeting anyone. I can't rest with a headache like mine. I must be moving about. It is so long too, since I was here last, that I am anxious to see everything again."

"Do you recollect much of the place then, Miss?"

"Yes, Mrs. Chamberlain, everything seems familiar to me. I will go down to the lake, and see how my Australian Swans are."

"Would you like me or one of the maids to go with you for company?" the house-keeper inquired.

"No, thank you! I do not feel in the humor for company just now, my head aches so. Get me a hat and shawl, I will just take an hour's run," returned Mabel.

While the hat and shawl were being procured, Mabel drank her tea and then, hurriedly arraying herself in them, she started for her walk in the park. The house-keeper and a fellow servant—one who had been left in charge under the steward, during the squire's long absence—watched her from an upper window, as she slowly walked on towards the lake, "She's the bonniest lassie I've seen for this many a day," observed Jepson in admiration. "She was always a pretty child, I remember, and promised from her cradle to grow up beautiful, but she has fairly beaten my expectations."

"She is the very picture of her mother," replied the house-keeper, "and Emilie Hastings (I knew her before she was married to the squire) was the loveliest girl in Essex."

"What beautiful blue eyes she has! But, la! the words haven't been invented, that can describe such loveliness!" exclaimed Jepson with enthusiasm, as she and Mrs. Chamberlain turned from the window to attend to their various duties.

Mr. Wilton felt vexed at the turn his conversation with Mabel had taken; and he was grieved that their first day at home should be clouded by a disagreement. He loved his daughter very dearly in his quiet, undemonstrative way; and he felt angry with himself for not having chosen a more fitting time for telling her his decision with reference to her attachment to Harry Fenton; and to drive away unpleasant thoughts, he ordered the steward to take the tenants account book to the library to go into the matter with him of a re-adjustment of rents of the farms, whose leases were about to expire.

Mabel walked slowly on through the Park towards the lake, pondering sadly upon her father's, to her, unaccountable, aversion to her friends at Elmgrove Hall. But for this great trouble, which had so recently fallen upon her, she would have hurried gaily along, keenly observant of each well-remembered feature of the bright scene—the old trees she had so often played under as a child; the shattered remains of the beech she so well remembered seeing blasted by lightning during a thunderstorm, that she was once caught in; the light, iron bridge she could recollect seeing built—many, many things around her, invited her to look upon them as old friends; but her heart was too full of trouble to spare thought for anything else. "What a long time has passed since he bade me good-bye when I was going away to Oakville! Five whole years ago now; and it seems as though it was only yesterday!" she murmured, as she walked slowly on. "Five years! we were only children then; and yet we loved each other as fondly as ever grown people do. But, perhaps he may, call," and the sunshine crept into her face again at the thought. "He cannot know that papa dislikes him—unless, unless," and the shadow returned as the unwelcome idea flashed through the mind, "unless papa has written to tell him not to come!" Overpowered by the distressing anticipation of her father's opposition to her meeting Harry, she sat down upon a rustic seat under an elm, and surrendered herself to a most unhappy train of thought; but in a few minutes she was disturbed by the clatter of horse's hoofs; and glancing round she beheld the object of her meditations riding along the path from Dunmow at full trot. For a moment she felt she must fall, the surprise was so sudden; but rousing herself by a great effort, she with the inconsistency of her sex hurried on towards the lake for the purpose of avoiding him. After a few minutes rapid walking she looked back; and saw that he had not observed her; but had turned off the path, and was walking his horse towards the lodge gate. Although Mabel had turned her back to Harry directly she noticed him, and hurried away to avoid meeting him, yet, with a feminine perverseness, she felt half-angry and jealous that he had not seen her, and galloped to her side. "I wonder whether he is going up to the House!" she speculated, eagerly watching him as he rode slowly on, "But no; he is riding directly for the lodge gate. I will go back to the House at once; for he might, perhaps, ride back this way; and I wouldn't have him meet me here for the world!"

Acting at once upon this determination, Mabel turned back to retrace her steps homeward; but, fearful that he might look round and recognise her, she turned in among the trees by the river, and then took a long way round to screen herself from observation by a gentle rise in the middle of the park. In a quarter of an hour she was back again; and feeling that she must do something to try to divert her thoughts from their distressing channel, she determined to go to the library to look for a volume of Waller, one of her favorite poets. At the threshold she abruptly paused, her hand upon the door.

"Well, Mr. Fenton, the simple fact is that I have other views for Miss Wilton!"

The words shot through her heart like a bolt of ice. "Other views." The words sounded ominous of much future misery.

"Other views! And he is here! O, Harry, Harry, I never knew how I loved you till now!" she murmured passionately, as she stood rooted to the spot.

"Other views, sir! Why Mabel and I have loved each other ever since we were mere children!" exclaimed Harry in a troubled voice. "Five years ago when you took her away to Oakville she promised to be true to me; and I know she will!"

"Bah! A mere boy and girl attachment, that has probably died out long ago as far as she is concerned," said Mr. Wilton in a contemptuous tone, "I wonder you possess so little knowledge of human nature as to expect a mere child to recollect you so long!"

"But, surely sir——"

"You must pardon me, Mr. Fenton," interrupted the old gentleman with chilling politeness, "for expressing my great surprise at your calling upon me, and I barely an hour at home yet. Surely you must perceive your visit to be most ill-timed!"

"I did not think of that Mr. Wilton. Perhaps my visit is rather inopportune, but the fact is that my leave of absence is so short——"

"That you wanted to make the most of it. Yes, yes! I see! Well, Mr. Fenton, I am sorry to be obliged to inflict pain, especially upon so estimable a young man as yourself; but I have a parent's duty to perform. I have other view for Miss Wilton; and I cannot permit you to pay her any attention. You must allow that it is better for us to clearly understand each other; and I think that this, your first visit here, had better be your last."

Harry Fenton made no answer for some seconds, the unexpected reception having completely disconcerted him. As he was about to stammer something Mr. Wilton interrupted him: "As you thoroughly understand me, I will leave it to your honor not to attempt to see Miss Wilton again. As my decision is irrevocable, you had better for her sake see her no more."

"For her sake!" repeated Harry softly. "For her sake. Yes," he continued raising his eyes and looking Mr. Wilton full in the face, "You would leave it to my honor, for her sake, to make us both wretched for life!"

"Both? You surely do not flatter yourself, my dear young sir, that even your existence is a matter of any consequence to Miss Wilton!" sneered the old gentleman.

"True, sir, that Mabel was only thirteen when last I saw her, and that is five years ago," replied Harry earnestly. "But she promised me then to be true to me for life; and she will too! I understand her better than you appear to do, sir, although you are her father!"

Mr. Wilton laughed scornfully, and deigned no reply.

"You leave it to my honor sir; and I will be open with you!" continued Harry with more candour than discretion. "I will never relinquish my hope of winning your daughter! I would rather forfeit my life, than lose that hope! If she tells me herself, uninfluenced by you, that she cares nothing for me, neither she nor you shall see me again; but till she, of her own free will, tells me she has changed, I will remain true to her in the teeth of opposition."

"You will be wiser to endeavour to conquer this boyish romance; for you shall never have her with my consent. She shall never make a mésalliance while I live."

Harry's brow flushed at the cross insult; but, passing it unanswered, he said firmly, "It is too late, now, sir to think of conquering my 'boyish romance,' as you term my affection for Mabel. I have loved her too long and too well, for it to be possible for me to cease doing so now at your bidding. But good-bye sir! As you object to my coming here I shall not do so again; I will trust to meeting her occasionally elsewhere."

"Well, of all the self-sufficient, presumptuous youngsters I ever met Mr. Fenton, you are the most obtrusive," exclaimed the squire angrily, at Harry's evident determination to be checked by no obstacle. Without replying, Harry turned to leave the old gentleman's presence but on drawing back the door, which had been ajar, he encountered Mabel upon the threshold. Snatching her hands in his, to her father's perceptible chagrin, he exclaimed in an agitated voice, "Tell me, Mabel, tell me truly? Do you love me still? I have loved you dearer than my life all these years since I saw you last! I can never change. Tell me, my darling, do you love me still?"

Overpowered by the excitement of the moment Mabel faltered, "I do love you, Harry? And I will always love you better than life, till I die?"