Mr. Hope left his powerful opera-glass with Mary Bartley. One day that Walter called she was looking through it at the landscape, and handed it to him. He admired its power. Mary told him it had saved her life once.
"Oh," said he, "how could that be?"
Then she told him how Hope had seen her drowning, a mile off, with it, and ridden a bare-backed steed to her rescue.
"God bless him!" cried Walter. "He is our best friend. Might I borrow this famous glass?"
"Oh," said Mary, "I am not going into any more streams; I am not so brave now as I used to be."
"Please lend it me, for all that."
"Of course I will, if you wish it."
Strange to say, after this, whether Mary walked out or rode out, she very often met Mr. Walter Clifford. He was always delighted and surprised. She was surprised three times, and said so, and after that she came to lower her lashes and blush, but not to start. Each meeting was a pure accident, no doubt, only she foresaw the inevitable occurrence.
They talked about everything in the world except what was most on their minds. Their soft tones and expressive eyes supplied that little deficiency.
One day he caught her riding on her little Arab. The groom fell behind directly. After they had ridden some distance in silence, Walter broke out:
"How beautifully you ride!"
"Me!" cried Mary. "Why, I never had a lesson in my life."
"That accounts for it. Let a lady alone, and she does everything more gracefully than a man; but let some cad undertake to teach her, she distrusts herself and imitates the snob. If you could only see the women in Hyde Park who have been taught to ride, and compare them with yourself!"
"I should learn humility."
"No; it would make you vain, if anything could."
"You seem inclined to do me that good turn. Come, pray, what do these poor ladies do to offend you so?"
"I'll tell you. They square their shoulders vulgarly; they hold the reins in their hands as if they were driving, and they draw the reins to their waists in a coarse, absurd way. They tighten both these reins equally, and saw the poor devil's mouth with the curb and the snaffle at one time. Now you know, Mary, the snaffle is a mild bit, and the curb is a sharp one; so where is the sense of pulling away at the snaffle when you are tugging at the curb? Why, it is like the fellow that made two holes at the bottom of the door—a big one for the cat to come through and a little one for the kitten. But the worst of all is they show the caddess so plainly."
"Caddess! What is that; goddess you mean, I suppose?"
"No; I mean a cad of the feminine gender. They seem bursting with affectation and elated consciousness that they are on horseback. That shows they have only just made the acquaintance of that animal, and in a London riding-school. Now you hold both reins lightly in the left hand, the curb loose, since it is seldom wanted, the snaffle just feeling the animal's mouth, and you look right and left at the people you are talking to, and don't seem to invite one to observe that you are on a horse: that is because you are a lady, and a horse is a matter of course to you, just as the ground is when you walk upon it."
The sensible girl blushed at his praise, but she said, dryly, "How meritorious! Cousin Walter, I have heard that flattery is poison. I won't stay here to be poisoned—so." She finished the sentence in action; and with a movement of her body she started her Arab steed, and turned her challenging eye back on Walter, and gave him a hand-gallop of a mile on the turf by the road-side. And when she drew bridle her cheeks glowed so and her eyes glistened, that Walter was dazzled by her bright beauty, and could do nothing but gaze at her for ever so long.
If Hope had been at home, Mary would have been looked after more sharply. But if she was punctual at meals, that went a long way with Robert Bartley.
However, the accidental and frequent meetings of Walter and Mary, and their delightful rides and walks, were interfered with just as they began to grow into a habit. There arrived at Clifford Hall a formidable person—in female eyes, especially—a beautiful heiress. Julia Clifford, great-niece and ward of Colonel Clifford; very tall, graceful, with dark gray eyes, and black eyebrows the size of a leech, that narrowed to a point and met in finer lines upon the bridge of a nose that was gently aquiline, but not too large, as such noses are apt to be. A large, expressive mouth, with wonderful rows of ivory, and the prettiest little black down, fine as a hair, on her upper lip, and a skin rather dark but clear, and glowing with the warm blood beneath it, completed this noble girl. She was nineteen years of age.
Colonel Clifford received her with warm affection and old-fashioned courtesy; but as he was disabled by a violent fit of gout, he deputed Walter to attend to her on foot and horseback.
Miss Clifford, accustomed to homage, laid Walter under contribution every day. She was very active, and he had to take her a walk in the morning, and a ride in the afternoon. He winced a little under this at first; it kept him so much from Mary. But there was some compensation. Julia Clifford was a lady-like rider, and also a bold and skillful one.
The first time he rode with her he asked her beforehand what sort of a horse she would like.
"Oh, anything," said she, "that is not vicious nor slow."
"A hack or a hunter?"
"Oh, a hunter, if Imay."
"Perhaps you will do me the honor to look at them and select."
"You are very kind, and I will."
He took her to the stables, and she selected a beautiful black mare, with a coat like satin.
"There," said Walter, despondingly. "I was afraid you would fix onher.She is impossible, I can't ride her myself."
"Vicious?"
"Not in the least."
"Well, then—"
Here an old groom touched his hat, and said, curtly, "Too hot and fidgety, miss. I'd as lieve ride of a boiling kettle."
Walter explained: "The poor thing is the victim of nervousness."
"Which I call them as rides her the victims," suggested the ancient groom.
"Be quiet, George. She would go sweetly in a steeple-chase, if she didn't break her heart with impatience before the start. But on the road she is impossible. If you make her walk, she is all over lather in five minutes, and she'd spoil that sweet habit with flecks of foam. My lady has a way of tossing her head, and covering you all over with white streaks."
"She wants soothing," suggested Miss Clifford.
"Nay, miss. She wants bleeding o' Sundays, and sweating over the fallows till she drops o' week-days. But if she was mine I'd put her to work a coal-cart for six months; that would larn her."
"I will ride her," said Miss Clifford, calmly; "her or none."
"Saddle her, George," said Walter, resignedly. "I'll ride Goliah. BlackBess sha'n't plead a bad example. Goliah is as meek as Moses, MissClifford. He is a gigantic mouse."
"I'd as lieve ride of a dead man," said the old groom.
"Mr. George," said the young lady, "you seem hard to please. May I ask what sort of animal you do like to ride?"
"Well, miss, summat between them two. When I rides I likes to be at peace. If I wants work, there's plenty in the yard. If I wants fretting and fuming, I can go home: I'm a married man, ye know. But when I crosses a horse I looks for a smart trot and a short stepper, or an easy canter on a bit of turf, and not to be set to hard labor a-sticking my heels into Goliah, nor getting a bloody nose every now and then from Black Bess a-throwing back her uneasy head when I do but lean forward in the saddle. I be an old man, miss, and I looks for peace on horseback if I can't get it nowhere else."
All this was delivered whilst saddling Black Bess. When she was ready, Miss Clifford asked leave to hold the bridle, and walk her out of the premises. As she walked her she patted and caressed her, and talked to her all the time—told her they all misunderstood her because she was a female; but now she was not to be tormented and teased, but to have her own way.
Then she asked George to hold the mare's head as gently as he could, and Walter to put her up. She was in the saddle in a moment. The mare fidgeted and pranced, but did not rear. Julia slackened the reins, and patted and praised her, and let her go. She made a run, but was checked by degrees with the snaffle. She had a beautiful mouth, and it was in good hands at last.
When they had ridden a few miles they came to a very open country, and Julia asked, demurely, if she might be allowed to try her off the road. "All right," said Walter; and Miss Julia, with a smart decision that contrasted greatly with the meekness of her proposal, put her straight at the bank, and cleared it like a bird. They had a famous gallop, but this judicious rider neither urged the mare nor greatly checked her. She moderated her. Black Bess came home that day sweating properly, but with a marked diminution of lather and foam. Miss Clifford asked leave to ride her into the stable-yard, and after dismounting talked to her, and patted her, and praised her. An hour later the pertinacious beauty asked for a carrot from the garden, and fed Black Bess with it in the stable.
By these arts, a very light hand, and tact in riding, she soothed Black Bess's nerves, so that at last the very touch of her habit skirt, or her hand, or the sound of her voice, seemed to soothe the poor nervous creature; and at last one day in the stable Bess protruded her great lips and kissed her fair rider on the shoulder after her manner.
All this interested and amused Walter Clifford, but still he was beginning to chafe at being kept from Miss Bartley, when one morning her servant rode over with a note.
"DEAR COUSIN WALTER,—Will you kindly send me back my opera glass?I want to see what is going on at Clifford Hall.
"Yours affectionately,
Walter wrote back directly that he would bring it himself, and tell her what was going on at Clifford Hall.
So he rode over and told her of Julia Clifford's arrival, and how his father had deputed him to attend on her, and she took up all his time. It was beginning to be a bore.
"On the contrary," said Mary, "I dare say she is very handsome."
"That she is," said Walter.
"Please describe her."
"A very tall, dark girl, with wonderful eyebrows; and she has broken inBlack Bess, that some of us men could not ride in comfort."
Mary changed color. She murmured, "No wonder the Hall is more attractive than the farm!" and the tears shone in her eyes.
"Oh, Mary," said Walter, reproachfully, "how can you say that? What isJulia Clifford to me?"
"I can't tell," said Mary, dryly. "I never saw you togetherthrough my glasses, you know."
Walter laughed at this innuendo.
"You shall see us together to-morrow, if you will bless one of us with your company."
"I might be in the way."
"That is not very likely. Will you ride to Hammond Church to-morrow at about ten, and finish your sketch of the tower? I will bring Miss Clifford there, and introduce you to each other."
This was settled, and Mary was apparently quite intent on her sketch whenWalter and Julia rode up, and Walter said:
"That is my cousin, Mary Bartley. May I introduce her to you?"
"Of course. What a sweet face!"
So the ladies were introduced, and Julia praised Mary's sketch, and Mary asked leave to add her to it, hanging, with pensive figure, over a tombstone. Julia took an admirable pose, and Mary, with her quick and facile fingers, had her on the paper in no time. Walter asked her, in a whisper, what she thought of her model.
"I like her," said Mary. "She is rather pretty."
"Rather pretty! Why, she is an acknowledged beauty."
"A beauty? The idea! Long black thing!"
Then they rode all together to the farm. There Mary was all innocent hospitality, and the obnoxious Julia kissed her at parting, and begged her to come and see her at the Hall.
Mary did call, and found her with a young gentleman of short stature, who was devouring her with his eyes, but did not overflow in discourse, having a slight impediment in his speech. This was Mr. Percy Fitzroy. Julia introduced him.
"And where are you staying, Percy?" inquired she.
"At the D—D—Dun Cow."
"What is that?"
Walter explained that it was a small hostelry, but one that was occasionally honored by distinguished visitors. Miss Bartley staid there three days.
"I h—hope to st—ay more than that," said little Percy, with an amorous glance at Julia.
Miss Clifford took Mary to her room, and soon asked her what she thought of him; then, anticipating criticism, she said there was not much of him, but he was such a duck.
"He dresses beautifully," was Mary's guarded remark.
However, when Walter rode home with her, being now relieved of his attendance on Julia, she was more communicative. Said she: "I never knew before that a man could look like fresh cambric. Dear me! his head and his face and his little whiskers, his white scarf, his white waistcoat, and all his clothes, and himself, seem just washed and ironed and starched.I looked round for the bandbox."
"Never mind," said Walter. "He is a great addition. My duties devolve on him. And I shall be free to—How her eyes shone and her voice mellowed when she spoke to him! Confess, now, love is a beautiful thing."
"I can not say. Not experienced in beautiful things." And Mary looked mighty demure.
"Of course not. What am I thinking of? You are only a child."
"A little more than that,please."
"At all events, love beautifiedher."
"I saw no difference. She was always a lovely girl."
"Why, you said she was 'a long black thing.'"
"Oh, that was before—she looked engaged."
After this young Fitzroy was generally Miss Clifford's companion in her many walks, and Walter Clifford had a delightful time with Mary Bartley.
Her nurse discovered how matters were going. But she said nothing. From something Bartley let fall years ago she divined that Bartley was robbing Walter Clifford by substituting Hope's child for his own, and she thought the mischief could be repaired and the sin atoned for if he and Mary became man and wife. So she held her tongue and watched.
The servants at the Hall watched the whole game, and saw how the young people were pairing, and talked them over very freely.
The only person in the dark was Colonel Clifford. He was nearly always confined to his room. However, one day he came down, and found Julia and Percy together. She introduced Percy to him. The Colonel was curt, but grumpy, and Percy soon beat a retreat.
The Colonel sent for Walter to his room. He did not come for some time, because he was wooing Mary Bartley.
Colonel Clifford's first word was, "Who was that little stuttering dandyI caught spooningyourJulia?"
"Only Percy Fitzroy."
"Only Percy Fitzroy! Never despise your rivals, sir. Always remember that young women are full of vanity, and expect to be courted all day long. I will thank you not to leave the field open a single day till you have secured the prize."
"What prize, sir?"
"What prize, you ninny? Why, the beautiful girl that can buy back Oddington and Drayton, peaches and fruit and all. They are both to be sold at this moment. What prize? Why, the wife I have secured for you, if you don't go and play the fool and neglect her."
Walter Clifford looked aghast.
"Julia Clifford!" said he. "Pray don't ask me to marryher."
"Not ask you?—but I do ask you; and what is more, I command you. Would you revolt again against your father, who has forgiven you, and break my heart, now I am enfeebled by disease? Julia Clifford is your wife, or you are my son no more."
The next time Walter Clifford met Mary Bartley he was gloomy at intervals. The observant girl saw he had something on his mind. She taxed him with it, and asked him tenderly what it was.
"Oh, nothing," said he.
"Don't tell me!" said she. "Mind, nothing escapes my eye. Come, tell me, or we are not friends."
"Oh, come, Mary. That is hard."
"Not in the least. I take an interest in you."
"Bless you for saying so!"
"And so, if you keep your troubles from me, we are not friends, nor cousins."
"Mary!"
"Nor anything else."
"Well, dear Mary, sooner than not be anything else to you I will tell you, and yet I don't like. Well, then, if I must, it is that dear old wrong-headed father of mine. He wants me to marry Julia Clifford."
Mary turned pale directly. "I guessed as much," said she. "Well, she is young and beautiful and rich, and it is your duty to obey your father."
"But I can't."
"Oh yes, you can, if you try."
"But I can't try."
"Why not?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
"Well, then, I love another girl. As opposite to her as light is to darkness."
Mary blushed and looked down. "Complimentary to Julia," she said. "I pity her opposite, for Julia is a fine, high-minded girl."
"Ah, Mary, you are too clever for me; of course I mean the opposite in appearance."
"As ugly as she is pretty?"
"No; but she is a dark girl, and I don't like dark girls. It was a dark girl that deceived me so heartlessly years ago."
"Ah!"
"And made me hate the whole sex."
"Or only the brunettes?"
"The whole lot."
"Cousin Walter, I thank you in the name of that small company."
"Until I saw you, and you converted me in one day."
"Only to the blondes?"
"Only to one of them. My sweet Mary, the situation is serious. You, whose eye nothing escapes—you must have seen long ago how I love you."
"Never mind what I have seen, Walter," said Mary, whose bosom was beginning to heave.
"Very well," said Walter; "then I will tell you as if you didn't know it. I admired you at first sight; every time I was with you I admired you, and loved you more and more. It is my heaven to see you and to hear you speak. Whether you are grave or gay, saucy or tender, it is all one charm, one witchcraft. I want you for my wife, and my child, and my friend. Mary, my love, my darling, how could I marry any woman but you? and you, could you marry any man but me, to break the heart that beats only for you?"
This and the voice of love, now ardent, now broken with emotion, were more than sweet, saucy Mary could trifle with; her head drooped slowly upon his shoulder, and her arm went round his neck, and the tremor of her yielding frame and the tears of tenderness that flowed slowly from her fair eyes told Walter Clifford without a word that she was won.
He had the sense not to ask her for words. What words could be so eloquent as this? He just held her to his manly bosom, and trembled with love and joy and triumph.
She knew, too, that she had replied, and treated her own attitude like a sentence in rather a droll way. "Butfor all that," said she, "I don't mean to be a wicked girl if I can help. This is an age of wicked young ladies. I soon found that out in the newspapers; that and science are the two features. And I have made a solemn vow not to be one of them"—(query, a science or a naughty girl)—"making mischief between father and son."
"No more you shall, dear," said Walter. "Leave it to me. We must be patient, and all will come right."
"Oh, I'll be true to you, dear, if that is all," said Mary.
"And if you would not mind just temporizing a little, for my sake, who love you?"
"Temporize!" said Mary, eagerly. "With all my heart. I'll temporize till we are all dead and buried."
"Oh, that will be too long for me," said Walter.
"Oh, never do things by halves," said the ready girl.
If his tongue had been as prompt as hers, he might have said that "temporizing" was doing things by halves; but he let her have the last word. And perhaps he lost nothing, for she would have had that whether or no.
So this day was another era in their love. Girls after a time are not content to see they are beloved; they must hear it too; and now Walter had spoken out like a man, and Mary had replied like a woman. They were happy, and walked hand in hand purring to one another, instead of sparring any more.
On his return home Walter found Julia marching swiftly and haughtily up and down upon the terrace of Clifford Hall, and he could not help admiring the haughty magnificence of her walk. The reason soon appeared. She was in a passion. She was always tall, but now she seemed lofty, and to combine the supple panther with the erect peacock in her ireful march. Such a fine woman as Julia really awes a man with her carriage at such a time. The poor soul thinks he sees before him the indignation of the just; when very likely it is only what in a man would be called Petulance.
"Anything the matter, Miss Clifford?" said he, obsequiously.
"No, sir" (very stiffly).
"Can I be of any service?"
"No, you can not." And then, swifter than any weather-cock ever turned: "You are a good creature: why should I be rude to you? I ought to be ashamed of myself. It is that little wretch."
"Not our friend Fitzroy?"
"Why, what other little wretch is there about? We are all Grenadiers and May-poles in this house except him. Well, let him go. I dare say somebody else—hum—and Uncle Clifford has told me more than once I ought to look higher. I couldn't well look lower than five feet nothing. Ha! ha! ha! I told him so."
"That was cruel."
"Don't scoldme. I won't be lectured by any of you. Of course it was,dear. Poor little Percy. Oh! oh! oh!"
And after all this thunder there was a little rain, by a law that governsAtmosphere and Woman impartially.
Seeing her softened, and having his own reasons for wishing to keep Fitzroy to his duty, Walter begged leave to mediate, if possible, and asked if she would do him the honor to confide the grievance to him.
"Of course I will," said Julia. "He is angry with Colonel Clifford for not wishing him to stay here, and he is angry with me for not making Uncle Clifford invite him. As if Icould! I should be ashamed to propose such a thing. The truth is, he is a luxurious little fellow, and my society out-of-doors does not compensate him for the cookery at the Dun Cow. There! let him go."
"But I want him to stay."
"Then that is very kind of you."
"Isn't it?" said Walter, slyly. "And I must make him stay somehow. Now tell me, isn't he a little jealous?"
"A little jealous! Why, he is eaten up with it; he ispétrie de jalousie."
"Then," said Walter, timidly, and hesitating at every word, "you can't be angry if I work on him a little. Would there be any great harm if I were to say that nobody can see you without admiring you; that I have always respected his rights, but that if he abandons them—"
Julia caught it in a moment. She blushed, and laughed heartily. "Oh, you good, sly Thing!" said she; "and it is the truth, for I am as proud as he is vain; and if he leaves me I will turn round that moment and make you in love with me."
Walter looked queer. This was a turn he had not counted on.
"Do you think I couldn't, sir?" said she, sharply.
"It is not for me to limit the power of beauty," said Walter, meekly.
"Say the power of flattery. I could cajole any man in the world—ifI chose."
"Then you are a dangerous creature, and I will make Fitzroy my shield.I'm off to the Dun Cow."
"You are a duck," said this impetuous beauty. "So there!" She took him round the neck with both hands, and gave him a most delicious kiss.
"Why, he must be mad," replied the recipient, bluntly. She laughed at that, and he went straight to the Dun Cow. He found young Fitzroy sitting rather disconsolate, and opened his errand at once by asking him if it was true that they were to lose him.
Percy replied stiffly that it was true.
"What a pity!" said Walter.
"I d—don't think I shall be m—much m—missed," said Percy, rather sullenly.
"I know two people who will miss you."
"I d—don't know one."
"Two, I assure you—Miss Clifford and myself. Come, Mr. Fitzroy, I will not beat about the bush. I am afraid you are mortified, and I must say, justly mortified, at the coolness my father has shown to you. But I assure you that it is not from any disrespect to you personally."
"Oh, indeed!" said Percy, ironically.
"No; quite the reverse—he is afraid of you."
"That is a g—g—good joke."
"No; let me explain. Fathers are curious people. If they are ever so disinterested in their general conduct, they are sure to be a little mercenary for their children. Now you know Miss Clifford is a beauty who would adorn Clifford Hall, and an heiress whose money would purchase certain properties that join ours. You understand?"
"Yes," said the little man, starting up in great wrath. "I understand, and it's a—bom—inable. I th—thought you were my friend, and a m—man of h—honor."
"So I am, and that is why I warn you in time. If you quarrel with Miss Clifford, and leave this place in a pet, just see what risks we both run, you and I. My father will be always at me, and I shall not be able to insist on your prior claim; he will say you have abandoned it. Julia will take the huff, and you know beautiful women will do strange things—mad things—when once pique enters their hearts. She might turn round and marry me."
"You forget, sir, you are a man of honor."
"But not a man of stone. Now, my dear Fitzroy, be reasonable. Suppose that peerless creature went in for female revenge; why, the first thing she would do would be tomakeme love her, whether I chose or no. She wouldn't givemea voice in the matter. She would flatter me; she would cajole me; she would transfix my too susceptible heart with glances of fire and bewitching languor from those glorious eyes."
"D—d——! Ahem!" cried Percy, turning green.
Walter had no mercy. "I heard her say once she could make any man love her if she chose."
"So she could," said Percy, ruefully. "She made me. I had an awful p—p—prejudice against her, but there was no resisting."
"Then don't subjectmeto such a trial. Stick to her like a man."
"So I will; b—but it is a m—m—mortifying position. I'm a man of family. We came in with the C—Conquest, and are respected in our c—county; and here I have to meet her on the sly, and live at the D—Dun Cow."
"Where thecuisineis wretched."
"A—b—b—bominable!"
Having thus impregnated his mind with that soothing sentiment, jealousy, Walter told him he had a house to let on the estate—quite a gentleman's house, only a little dilapidated, with a fine lawn and garden, only neglected into a wilderness. "But all the better for you," said he. "You have plenty of money, and no occupation. Perhaps that is what leads to these little quarrels. It will amuse you to repair the crib and restore the lawn. Why, there is a brook runs through it—it isn't every lawn has that—and there used to be water-lilies floating, and peonies nodding down at them from the bank: a paradise. She adores flowers, you know. Why not rent that house from me? You will have constant occupation and amusement. You will become a rival potentate to my governor. You will take the shine out of him directly; you have only to give a ball, and then all the girls will worship you, Julia Clifford especially, for she could dance the devil to a stand-still."
Percy's eyes flashed. "When can I have the place?" said he, eagerly.
"In half an hour. I'll draw you a three months' agreement. Got any paper? Of course not. Julia is so near. What are those? Playing-cards. What do you play? 'Patience,' all by yourself. No wonder you are quarrelsome! Nothing else to bestow your energy on."
Percy denied this imputation. The cards were for pistol practice. He shot daily at the pips in the yard.
"It is the fiendEnnuithat loads your pistols, and your temper too.Didn't I tell you so?"
Walter then demanded the ace of diamonds, and on its face let him the house and premises on a repairing lease for three years, rent £5 a year: which was a good bargain for both parties, since Percy was sure to lay out a thousand pounds or two on the property, and to bind Julia more closely to him, who was worth her weight in gold ten times over.
Walter had brought the keys with him, so he drove Percy over at once and gave him possession, and, to do the little fellow justice, the moisture of gratitude stood in his eyes when they parted.
Walter told Julia about it the same night, and her eyes were eloquent too.
The next day he had a walk with Mary Bartley, and told her all about it. She hung upon him, and gazed admiringly into his eyes all the time, and they parted happy lovers.
Mr. Bartley met her at the gate, "Mary," said he, gravely, "who was thatI saw with you just now?"
"Cousin Walter."
"I feared so. You are too much with him."
Mary turned red and white by turns, but said nothing.
Bartley went on: "You are a good child, and I have always trusted you. I am sure you mean no harm. But you must be more discreet. I have just heard that you and that young man are looked upon as engaged lovers. They say it is all over the village. Of course a father is the last to hear these things. Does Mrs. Easton know of this?"
"Oh yes, papa, and approves it."
"Stupid old woman! She ought to be ashamed of herself."
"Oh, papa!" said Mary, in deep distress; "why, what objection can there be to Cousin Walter?"
"None whatever as a cousin, but every objection to intimacy. Does he court you?"
"I don't know, papa. I suppose he does."
"Does he seek your love?"
"He does not say so exactly."
"Come, Mary, you have never deceived me. Does he love you?"
"I am afraid he does; and if you reject him he will be very unhappy. And so shall I."
"I am truly sorry to hear it, Mary, for there are reasons why I can not consent to an engagement between him and you."
"What reasons, papa?"
"It would not be proper to disclose my reasons; but I hope, Mary, that it will be enough to say that Colonel Clifford has other views for his son, and I have other views for my daughter. Do you think a blessing will attend you or him if you defy both fathers?"
"No, no," said poor Mary. "We have been hasty and very foolish. But, oh, papa, have you not seen from the first? Oh, why did you not warn me in time? Then I could have obeyed you easily. Now it will cost me the happiness of my life. We are very unfortunate. Poor Walter! He left me so full of hope. What shall I do? what shall I do?"
It was Mary Bartley's first grief. She thought all chance of happiness was gone forever, and she wept bitterly for Walter and herself.
Bartley was not unmoved, but he could not change his nature. The sum he had obtained by a crime was dearer to him than all his more honest gains. He was kind on the surface, but hard as marble.
"Go to your room, my child," said he, "and try and compose yourself. I am not angry with you. I ought to have watched you. But you are so young, and I trusted to that woman."
Mary retired, sobbing, and he sent for Mrs. Easton.
"Mrs. Easton," said he, "for the first time in all these years I have a fault to find with you."
"What is that, sir, if you please?"
"Young Clifford has been courting that child, and you have encouraged it."
"Nay, sir," said the woman, "I have not done that. She never spoke to me, nor I to her."
"Well, then, you never interfered."
"No, sir; no more than you did."
"Because I never observed it till to-day."
"How could I know that, sir? Everybody else observed it. Mr. Hope would have been the first to see it, if he had been in your place." This sudden thrust made Bartley wince, and showed him he had a tougher customer to deal with than poor Mary.
"You can't bear to be found fault with, Easton," said he, craftily, "andI don't wonder at it, after fourteen years' fidelity to me."
"I take no credit for that," said the woman, doggedly. "I have been paid for it."
"No doubt. But I don't always get the thing I pay for. Then let by-gones be by-gones; but just assist me now to cure the girl of this folly."
"Sir," said the woman, firmly, "it is not folly; it is wisest and best for all; and I can't make up my mind to lift a finger against it."
"Do you mean to defy me, then?"
"No, sir. I don't want to go against you, nor yet against my own conscience, what's left on't. I have seen a pretty while it must come to this, and I have written to my sister Sally. She keeps a small hotel at the lakes. She is ready to have me, and I'm not too old to be useful to her. I'm worth my board. I'll go there this very day, if you please. I'm as true to you as I can be, sir. For I see by Miss Mary crying so you have spoken to her, and so now she is safe to come to me for comfort; and if she does, I shall take her part, you may be sure, for I love her like my own child." Here the dogged voice began to tremble; but she recovered herself, and told him she would go at once to her sister Gilbert, that lived only ten miles off, and next day she would go to the little hotel at the lakes, and leave him to part two true lovers if he could and break both their hearts; she should wash her hands of it.
Bartley asked a moment to consider.
"Shall we be friends still if you leave me like that? Surely, after all these years, you will not tell your sister? You will not betray me?"
"Never, sir," said she. "What for? To bring those two together? Why, it would part them forever. I wonder at you, a gentleman, and in business all your life, yet you don't seem to see through the muddy water as I do that is only a plain woman."
She then told him her clothes were nearly all packed, and she could start in an hour.
"You shall have the break and the horses," said he, with great alacrity.
Everything transpires quickly in a small house, and just as she had finished packing, in came Mary in violent distress. "What, is it true? Are you going to leave me, now my heart is broken? Oh, nurse! nurse!"
This was too much even for stout-hearted Nancy Easton.
"Oh, my child! my child!" she cried, and sat down on her box sobbing violently, Mary infolded in her arms, and then they sat crying and rocking together.
"Papa does not love me as I do him," sobbed Mary, turning bitter for the first time. "He breaks my heart, and sends you away the same day, for fear you should comfort me."
"No, my dear," said Mrs. Easton; "you are wrong. He does not send me away; I go by my own wish."
"Oh, nurse, you desert me! then you don't know what has happened."
"Oh yes, I do; I know all about it; and I'm leaving because I can't do what he wishes. You see it is this way, Miss Mary—your father has been very good to me, and I am his debtor. I must not stay here and help you to thwart him—that would be ungrateful—and yet I can't take his side against you. Master has got reasons why you should not marry Walter Clifford, and—"
"He told me so himself," said Mary.
"Ah, but he didn't tell you his reasons."
"No."
"No more must I. But, Miss Mary, I'll tell you this. I know his reasons well; his reasons why you should not marry Walter Clifford are my reasons why you should marry no other man."
"Oh, nurse! oh, you dear, good angel!"
"So when friends differ like black and white, 'tis best to part. I'm going to my sister Gilbert this afternoon, and to-morrow to my sister Sally, at her hotel."
"Oh, nurse, must you? must you? I shall have not a friend to advise or console me till Mr. Hope comes back. Oh, I hope that won't be long now."
Mrs. Easton dropped her hands upon her knees and looked at Mary Bartley.
"What, Miss Mary, would you go to Mr. Hope in such a matter as this?Surely you would not have the face?"
"Not take my breaking heart to Mr. Hope!" cried Mary, with a sudden flood of tears. "You might as well tell me not to lay my trouble before my God. Dear, dear Mr. Hope, who saved my life in those deep waters, and then cried over me, darling dear! I think more of that than of his courage. Do you think I am blind? He loves me better than my own father does; and it is not a young man's love; it is an angel's. Not cry tohimwhen I am in the deep waters of affliction? I could not write of such a thing to him for blushing, but the moment he returns I shall find some way to let him know how happy I have been, how broken-hearted I am, and that papa has reasons againsthim, and they are your reasons for him, and that you are both afraid to letmeknow thesecuriousreasons—me, the poor girl whose heart is being made a foot-ball of in this house. Oh! oh! oh!"
"Don't cry, Miss Mary," said Nurse Easton, tenderly; "and pray don't excite yourself so. Why, I never saw you like this before."
"Had I ever the same reason? You have only known the happy, thoughtless child. They have made a woman of me now, and my peace is gone. Imustnot defy my father, and Iwillnot break poor Walter's heart—the truest heart that ever beat. Not tell dear Mr. Hope? I'll tell him everything, if I'm cut in pieces for it." And her beautiful eyes flashed lightning through her tears.
"Hum!" said Mrs. Easton, under her breath, and looking down at her own feet.
"And pray what does 'hum' mean?" asked Mary, fixing her eyes with prodigious keenness on the woman's face.
"Well, I don't suppose 'hum' means anything," said Mrs. Easton, still looking down.
"Doesn't it?" said Mary. "With such a face asthatit means a volume.And I'll make it my business to read that volume."
"Hum!"
"And Mr. Hope shall help me."
Walter, little dreaming the blow his own love had received, made Percy write Julia an apology, and an invitation to visit his new house if he was forgiven. Julia said she could not forgive him, and would not go. Walter said, "Put on your bonnet, and take a little drive with me."
"Oh, with pleasure," said Julia, slyly.
So then Walter drove her to the new house, without a word of remonstrance on her part, and Fitzroy met her radiant, and Walter slipped away round a corner, and when he came back the quarrel had dissolved. He had brought a hamper with all the necessaries of life—table-cloth, napkins, knives, forks, spoons, cold pie, salad, and champagne. They lunched beside the brook on the lawn. The lovers drank his health, and Julia appointed him solemnly to the post of "peace-maker," "for," said she, "you have shown great talent that way, and I foresee we shall want one, for we shall be always quarrelling; sha'n't we, Percy?"
"N—o; n—never again."
"Then you mustn't be jealous."
"I'm not. I d—despise j—jealousy. I'm above it."
"Oh, indeed," said Julia, dryly.
"Come, don't begin again, you two," said Walter, "or—no champagne."
"Now what a horrid threat!" said Julia. "I'll be good, for one."
In short they had a merry time, and Walter drove Julia home. Both were in high spirits.
In the hall Walter found a short note from Mary Bartley:
"DEAR, DEAR WALTER,—I write with a bleeding heart to tell you that papa has only just discovered our attachment, and I am grieved to say he disapproves of it, and has forbidden me to encourage your love, that is dearer to me than all the world. It is very hard. It seems so cruel. But I must obey. Do not make obedience too difficult, dear Walter. And pray, pray do not be as unhappy as I am. He says he has reasons, but he has not told me what they are, except that your father has other views for you; but, indeed, with both parents against us what can we do? Forgive me the pain this will give you. Ask yourself whether it gives me any less. You were all the world to me. Now everything is dull and distasteful. What a change in one little day! We are very unfortunate. But it can not be forever. And if you will be constant to me, you know I shall to you. Icould notchange. Ah, Walter, I little thought when I said I would temporize, how soon I should be called on to do it. I can't write any more for crying. I do nothing but cry ever since papa was so cruel; but I must obey. Your loving, sorrowful
This letter was a chilling blow to poor Walter. He took it into his own room and read it again and again. It brought the tears into his own eyes, and discouraged him deeply for a time. But, of course, he was not so disposed to succumb to authority as the weaker vessel was. He wrote back:
"My own Love,—Don't grieve for me. I don't care for anything so long as you love me. I shall resist, of course. As for my father, I am going to marry Julia to Percy Fitzroy, and so end my governor's nonsense. As for your father, I do not despair of softening him. It is only a check; it is not a defeat. Who on earth can part us if we are true to each other? God bless you, dearest! I did not think you loved me so much. Your letter gives me comfort forever, and only disappointment for a time. Don't fret, sweet love. It will be all right in the end.
"Your grateful, hopeful love, till death, WALTER."
Mary opened this letter with a beating heart. She read it with tears and smiles and utter amazement. She knew so little about the male character that this way of receiving a knockdown blow astonished and charmed her. She thought to herself, no wonder women look up to men. Theywillhave their own way; they resist,of course. How sensible! We give in, right or wrong. What a comfort I have got a man to back me, and not a poor sorrowing, despairing, obeying thing like myself!
So she was comforted for the minute, and settled in her own mind that she would be good and obedient, and Walter should do all the fighting. But letters soon cease to satisfy the yearning hearts of lovers unnaturally separated. Walter and Mary lived so near each other, yet now they never met. Bartley took care of that. He told Mary she must not walk out without a maid or ride without a servant; and he gave them both special orders. He even obliged her with his own company, though that rather bored him.
Under this severe restraint Mary's health and spirits suffered, and she lost some of her beautiful color.
Walter's spirits were kept up only by anger. Julia Clifford saw he was in trouble, and asked him what was the matter.
"Oh, nothing that would interest you," said he, rather sullenly.
"Excuse me," said she. "I am always interested in the troubles of my friends, and you have been a good friend to me."
"It is very good of you to think so. Well, then, yes, I am unhappy. I am crossed in love."
"Is it that fair girl you introduced me to when out riding?"
"Yes."
"She is lovely."
"Miss Clifford, she is an angel."
"Ha! ha! We are all angels till we are found out. Who is the man?"
"What man?"
"That she prefers to my good Walter. She deserves a good whipping, your angel."
"Much obliged to you, Miss Clifford; but she prefers no man to your good Walter, though I am not worthy to tie her shoes. Why, we are devoted to each other."
"Well, you needn't fly out atme. I am your friend, as you will see. Make me your confidante. Explain, please. How can you be crossed in love if there's no other man?"
"It's her father. He has discovered our love, and forbids her to speak to me."
"Her father!" said Julia, contemptuously. "Is that all?Thatfor her father! You shall have her in spite of fifty fathers. If it had been a lover, now."
"I should have talked to him, not to you," said Walter, with his eyes flashing.
"Be quiet, Walter; as it is not a lover, nor even a mother, you shall have the girl; and a very sweet girl she is. Will you accept me for your ally? Women are wiser than men in these things, and understand one another."
"Oh, Miss Clifford," said Walter, "this is good of you! Of course it will be a great blessing to us both to have your sympathy and assistance."
"Well, then," said Julia, "begin by telling me—have you spoken to her father?"
"No."
"Then that is the very first thing to be done. Come, order our horses. We will ride over directly. I will call onMissBartley, and you onMister. Now mind, you must ignore all that has passed, and just ask his permission to court his daughter. Whilst you are closeted with him, the young lady and I will learn each other's minds with a celerity you poor slow things have no idea of."
"I see one thing," said Walter, "that I am a child in such matters compared with you. What decision! what promptitude!"
"Then imitate it, young man. Order the horses directly;" and she stamped her foot impatiently.
Walter turned to the stables without another word, and Julia flew upstairs to put on her riding-habit.
* * * * *
Bartley was in his study with a map of the farm before him, and two respectable but rather rough men in close conference over it. These were practical men from the county of Durham, whom he had ferreted out by means of an agent, men who knew a great deal about coal. They had already surveyed the farm, and confirmed Hope's opinion that coal lay below the surface of certain barren fields, and the question now was as to the exact spot where it would be advisable to sink the first shaft.
Bartley was heart and soul in this, and elevated by love of gain far above such puny considerations as the happiness of Mary Bartley and her lover. She, poor girl, sat forlorn in her little drawing-room, and tried to draw a bit, and tried to read a bit, and tried to reconcile a new German symphony to her ear as well as to her judgment, which told her it was too learned not to be harmonious, though it sounded very discordant. But all these efforts ended in a sigh of despondency, and in brooding on innocent delights forbidden, and a prospect which, to her youth and inexperience, seemed a wilderness robbed of the sun.
Whilst she sat thus pensive and sad there came a sudden rush and clatter of hoofs, and Miss Clifford and Walter Clifford reined up their horses under the very window.
Mary started up delighted at the bare sight of Walter, but amazed and puzzled. The next moment her quick intelligence told her this was some daring manoeuvre or other, and her heart beat high.
Walter opened the door and stood beside it, affecting a cold ceremony.
"Miss Bartley, I have brought Miss Clifford to call on you at her request. My own visit is to your father. Where shall I find him?"
"In his study," murmured Miss Bartley.
Walter returned, and the two ladies looked at each other steadily for one moment, and took stock of one another's dress, looks, character, and souls with supernatural rapidity. Then Mary smiled, and motioned her visitor to a seat, and waited.
Miss Clifford made her approaches obliquely at first.
"I ought to apologize to you for not returning your call before this. At any rate, here I am at last."
"You are most welcome, Miss Clifford," said Mary, warmly.
"Now the ice is broken, I want you to call me Julia."
"May I?"
"You may, and you must, if I call you Mary. Why, you know we are cousins; at least I suppose so. We are both cousins of Walter Clifford, so we must be cousins to each other."
And she fixed her eyes on her fair hostess in a very peculiar way.
Mary returned this fixed look with such keen intelligence that her gray eyes actually scintillated.
"Mary, I seldom waste much time before I come to the point. Walter Clifford is a good fellow; he has behaved well to me. I had a quarrel with mine, and Walter played the peace-maker, and brought us together again without wounding my pride. By-and-by I found out Walter himself was in grief about you. It was my turn, wasn't it? I made him tell me all. He wasn't very willing, but I would know. I see his love is making him miserable, and so is yours, dear."
"Oh yes."
"So I took it on me to advise him. I have made him call on your father. Fathers sometimes pooh-pooh their daughters' affections; but when the son of Colonel Clifford comes with a formal proposal of marriage, Mr. Bartley can not pooh-poohhim."
Mary clasped her hands, but said nothing.
Julia flowed on:
"And the next thing is to comfort you. You seem to want a good cry, dear."
"Yes, I d—do."
"Then come here and take it."
No sooner said than done. Mary's head on Julia's shoulder, and Julia's arm round Mary's waist.
"Are you better, dear?"
"Oh, so much."
"It is a comfort, isn't it? Well, now, listen to me. Fathers sometimes delay a girl's happiness; but they don't often destroy it; they don't go and break her heart as some mothers do. A mother that is resolved to have her own way brings another man forward; fathers are too simple to see that is the only way. And then a designing mother cajoles the poor girl and deceives her, and does a number of things a man would call villainies. Don't you fret your heart out for so small a thing as a father's opposition. You are sure to tire him out if he loves you, and if he doesn't love you, or loves money better, why, then, he is not a worthy rival to my cousin Walter, for that man really loves you, and would marry you if you had not a penny. So would Percy Fitzroy marry me. And that is why I prefer him to the grenadiers and plungers with silky mustaches, and half an eye on me and an eye and a half on my money."
Many other things passed between these two, but what we have endeavored to repeat was the cream of Julia's discourse, and both her advice and her sympathy were for the time a wonderful comfort to the love-sick, solitary girl.
But our business is with Walter Clifford. As soon as he was announced, Mr. Bartley dismissed his rugged visitors, and received Walter affably, though a little stiffly.
Walter opened his business at once, and told him he had come to ask his permission to court his daughter. He said he had admired her from the first moment, and now his happiness depended on her, and he felt sure he could make her happy; not, of course, by his money, but by his devotion. Then as to making a proper provision for her—
Here Bartley stopped him.
"My young friend," said he, "there can be no objection either to your person or your position. But there are difficulties, and at present they are serious ones. Your father has other views."
"But, Mr. Bartley," said Walter, eagerly, "he must abandon them. The lady is engaged."
"Well, then," said Bartley, "it will be time to come to me when he has abandoned those views, and also overcome his prejudices against me and mine. But there is another difficulty. My daughter is not old enough to marry, and I object to long engagements. Everything, therefore, points to delay, and on this I must insist."
Bartley having taken this moderate ground, remained immovable. He promised to encourage no other suitor; but in return he said he had a right to demand that Walter would not disturb his daughter's peace of mind until the prospect was clearer. In short, instead of being taken by surprise, the result showed Bartley quite prepared for this interview, and he baffled the young man without offending him. He was cautious not to do that, because he was going to mine for coal, and feared remonstrances, and wanted Walter to take his part, or at least to be neutral, knowing his love for Mary. So they parted good friends; but when he retailed the result to Julia Clifford she shook her head, and said the old fox had outwitted him. Soon after, knitting her brows in thought for some time, she said, "She is very young, much younger than she looks. I am afraid you will have to wait a little, and watch."
"But," said Walter, in dismay, "am I not to see her or speak to her all the time I am waiting?"
"I'd see both fathers hanged first, if I was a man," said Julia.
In short, under the courageous advice of Julia Clifford, Walter began to throw himself in Mary's way, and look disconsolate; that set Mary pining directly, and Julia found her pale, and grieving for Walter, and persuaded her to write him two or three lines of comfort; she did, and that drew pages from him. Unfortunately he did not restrain himself, but flung his whole heart upon paper, and raised a tumult in the innocent heart of her who read his passionate longings.
She was so worked upon that at last one day she confided to Julia that her old nurse was going to visit her sister, Mrs. Gilbert, who lived only ten miles off, and she thought she should ride and see her.
"When?" asked Julia, carelessly.
"Oh, any day next week," said Mary, carelessly. "Wednesday, if it is fine. She will not be there till Monday."
"Does she know?" asked Julia.
"Oh yes; and left because she could not agree with papa about it; and, dear, she said a strange thing—a very strange thing: she knew papa's reasons against him, and they were her reasons for him."
"Fancy that!" said Julia. "Your father told you what the reasons were?"
"No; he wouldn't. They both treat me like a child."
"You mean they pretend to," she added.
"I see one thing; there is some mystery behind this. I wonder what it is?"
"Ten to one, it is money. I am only twenty, but already I have found out that money governs the world. Let me see—your mother was a Clifford. She must have had money. Did she settle any on you?"
"I am sure I don't know."
"Ten to one she did, and your father is your trustee; and when you marry, he must show his accounts and cash up. There, that is where the shoe pinches."
Mary was distressed.
"Oh, don't say so, dear. I can't bear to think that of papa. You make me very unhappy."
"Forgive me, dear," said Julia. "I am too bitter and suspicious. Some day I will tell you things in my own life that have soured me. Money—I hate the very word," she said, clinching her teeth.
She urged her view no more, but in her own heart she felt sure that she had read Mr. Bartley aright. Why, he was a trader, into the bargain.
As for Mary, when she came to think over this conversation, her own subtle instinct told her that stronger pressure than ever would now be brought on her. Her timidity, her maiden modesty, and her desire to do right set her on her defense. She determined to have loving but impartial advice, and so she overcame her shyness, and wrote to Mr. Hope. Even then she was in no hurry to enter on such a subject by letter, so she must commence by telling him that her father had set a great many people, most of them strangers, to dig for coal. That cross old thing, Colonel Clifford, had been heard to sneer at her dear father, and say unkind and disrespectful things—that the love of money led to loss of money, and that papa might just as well dig a well and throw his money into that. She herself was sorry he had not waited for Mr. Hope's return before undertaking so serious a speculation. Warmed by this preliminary, she ventured into the delicate subject, and told him the substance of what we have told the reader, only in a far more timid and suggestive way, and implored him to advise her by return of post if possible—or why not come home? Papa had said only yesterday, "I wish Hope was here." She got an answer by return of post. It disappointed her, on the whole. Mr. Hope realized the whole situation, though she had sketched it faintly instead of painting it boldly. He was all sympathy, and he saw at once that he could not himself imagine a better match for her than Walter Clifford. But then he observed that Mr. Bartley himself offered no personal objection, but wished the matter to be in abeyance until she was older, and Colonel Clifford's objection to the connection should be removed or softened. That might really be hoped for should Miss Clifford marry Mr. Fitzroy; and really in the mean time he (Hope) could hardly take on him to encourage her in impatience and disobedience. He should prefer to talk to Bartley first. With him he should take a less hesitating line, and set her happiness above everything. In short, he wrote cautiously. He inwardly resolved to be on the spot very soon, whether Bartley wanted him or not; but he did not tell Mary this.
Mary was disappointed. "How kind and wise he is!" she said toJulia—"too wise."
Next Wednesday morning Mary Bartley rode to Mrs. Gilbert, and was received by her with courtesy, but with a warm embrace by Mrs. Easton. After a while the latter invited her into the parlor, saying there is somebody there; but no one knows. This, however, though hardly unexpected, set Mary's heart beating, and when the parlor door was opened, Mrs. Easton stepped back, and Mary was alone with Walter Clifford.
Then might those who oppose an honest and tender affection have learned a lesson. It was no longer affection only. It was passion. Walter was pale, agitated, eager; he kissed her hands impetuously, and drew her to his bosom. She sobbed there; he poured inarticulate words over her, and still held her, panting, to his beating heart. Even when the first gush of love subsided a little he could not be so reasonable as he used to be. He was wild against his own father, hers, and every obstacle, and implored her to marry him at once by special license, and leave the old people to untie the knot if they could.
Then Mary was astonished and hurt.
"A clandestine marriage, Mr. Clifford!" said she. "I thought you had more respect for me than to mention such a thing."
Then he had to beg her pardon, and say the separation had driven him mad.
Then she forgave him.
Then he took advantage of her clemency, and proceeded calmly to show her it was their only chance.
Then Mary forgot how severely she had checked him, and merely said that was the last thing she would consent to, and bound him on his honor never to mention to Julia Clifford that he had proposed such a thing. Walter promised that readily enough, but stuck to his point; and as Mary's pride was wounded, and she was a girl of great spirit though love-sick, she froze to him, and soon after said she was very sorry, but she must not stay too long or papa would be angry. She then begged him not to come out of the parlor, or the servant would see him.
"That is a trifle," said Walter. "I am going to obey you in greater things than that. Ah! Mary, Mary, you don't love me as I love you!"
"No, Walter," said Mary, "I do not love you as you love me, for I respect you." Then her lip trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.
Walter fell on his knees, and kissed her skirt several times; then ended with her hand. "Oh, don't harbor such a thought as that!" said he.
She sobbed, but made no reply.
They parted good friends, but chilled.
That made them both unhappy to think of.
It was only two, or at the most three, days after this that, as Mary was walking in the garden, a nosegay fell at her feet. She picked it up, and immediately found a note half secreted in it. The next moment it was entirely secreted in her bosom. She sauntered in-doors, and scudded upstairs to her room to read it.
The writer told her in a few agitated words that their fathers had met, and he must speak to her directly. Would she meet him for a moment at the garden gate at nine o'clock that evening?
"No, no, no!" cried Mary, as if he was there. She was frightened. Suppose they should be caught. The shame—the disgrace. But oh, the temptation! Well, then, how wrong of him to tempt her! She must not go. There was no time to write and refuse; but she must not go. She would not go. And in this resolution she persisted. Nine o'clock struck, and she never moved. Then she began to picture Walter's face of disappointment and his unhappiness. At ten minutes past nine she tied a handkerchief round her head and went.