CHAPTERCVII.THE STRANGER IS COMMUNICATIVE—BREAKERS AHEAD.To the farmer’s surprise the stranger was up and stirring by early morn; he professed to be a lover of the country, who liked to see the sun rise.When Ashbrook and his wife had seated themselves at the breakfast table they were informed by their newly-formed acquaintance that his name was Mr. Eric Fortescue, and that he was spending his four weeks’ leave of absence from the red tape and parchment of a fashionable Government office to which he belonged.All this appeared to be natural enough; he had the appearance of a gentleman attached to some such establishment, and the farmer and his wife were duly impressed with the respectability of their guest.Mr. Fortescue was loquacious and confidential—he said he was fond of riding. Besides his two hours’ ride in Rotten-row, between five and seven in the morning, it was his custom to take a long journey on Sunday through the Middlesex meadows, sometimes as far as the hop-fields in Kent, and to spend his annual holiday upon the saddle, with no luggage but the carpet bag, which he strapped upon the pommel, and with no companions but the feathered choristers in the fields and the sweet odour of the wild flowers and the music of his horse’s hoofs.Ashbrook thought him a jolly sort of fellow enough, genial and companionable—indeed, he was charmed with his discourse.He abounded in anecdote, and revealed to their astonished mind much of the arcana and interior machineries of polite society, which are hidden from the uninitiated by a spangled but impenetrable veil.He knew, or affected to know, a number of notabilities whose names had reached Patty through the medium of her friends, Lady Aveline and Lady Marolyn, and she was therefore under the full impression that Mr. Fortescue was intimately acquainted with many of the leading personages who figured in the fashionable world.His manner was engaging, and he was scrupulously polite and respectful.He hastened to assure his host and hostess that he was ignorant upon many subjects in which they were well versed, by asking them about farming and housewifery, and listened attentively to their explanations. In an incredibly short time he became on excellent terms with the master and mistress of Stoke Ferry, and they would not hear of his leaving on that day or the next.Joe Doughty was sent round to the “Carved Lion” for the gentleman’s horse, and it was stalled at the farmhouse, carefully groomed, and got ready whenever its master needed it.Thus matters went on for some days until at length a tacit agreement became established between them that Mr. Erric Fortescue should spend his holidays at Stoke Ferry Farm.He appeared to be quite charmed with the establishment into which he had been by chance thrown. He went to bed with the linnet, rose with the lark, and breakfasted on fat bacon and home-made bread and butter at half-past seven. His life was one round of pleasure and happiness—so he averred.After breakfast the horses would be saddled and brought round to the door by Joe, and Mr. Fortescue and Ashbrook would ride over the farm together.Now ambling along the fallows and watching the progress of the plough—now cantering along the greensward by the road side—now taking a flight of hurdles or a five-barred gate—little matters which the Londoner achieved, to Ashbrook’s astonishment, with a seat as firm and a hand as light as his own.Fortescue was not much of a hand at a gun; he said he did not shoot, but that it always gave him pleasure to see the sport, and often he would take a big stick in his hand and do as tidy a day’s beating, so said Joe Doughty, “as e’er a man on the farm.”It certainly was most remarkable how he accommodated himself to the ways of Richard Ashbrook. On market days the latter was quite proud of him.He would take his seat about half way down the table, and before the first quarter of an hour had passed he would contrive to be on good terms with every farmer at the ordinary.In short, he was a general favourite.When dinner was over and glasses round was the war-cry of the knights of the plough, he told them stories till they clapped their hands to their aching sides, and spluttered in their glasses as they vainly strove to drink.“He was a right-down proper sort of gentleman,” the yeomen declared. “There warn’t no mistake about that.”He was popular with all classes.“He comes from another breed nor most Cockneys,” said one man. “He aint one of those starchy sort of customers. Dall their rich and stuck-up ways; they’s too proud to look at we poor folks, and when we touches our hats to ’em their heads seems as if they were made of ice. But there aint no pride in this gentleman, ne’er a crumb or morsel.”So Mr. Fortescue was looked upon as a right down good fellow on the farm and premises—with all but one.This was the maid servant, or household manager, Kitty, whom the reader may probably remember as the same serving wench who waited upon old Mr. Jamblin when he spoke his mind so freely to Richard Ashbrook in respect to his daughter Patty.Kitty had remained in the same establishment after the death of her old master, and she was now chief domestic to his daughter and her husband.She had watched the stranger from the very first time he entered the house. He read in her eyes that she hated him by instinct.These antipathies are common enough with women, and are very difficult to conquer.It touched his pique, and he resolved to wage war against her, for he knew that she was prejudiced against him, and that to remove any such prejudice in a woman of her class was next to an impossibility.He addressed her at first with those silly compliments which are omnipotent with most girls of the lower class, because they are mysterious. These she spurned with a contempt which appeared to be genuine; so he changed his tactics and treated her with diffidence and reserve.Soon, however, his aims were turned to another quarter.He had liked Patty Ashbrook during the first few days as a pretty and agreeable woman, but of the two his senses had been captivated by the tall, athletic servant girl, whose arms, full of strength and symmetry, resembled those of the Amazons of old, and whose eyes seemed to flash real fire when they encountered his.But one day he caught Patty looking at him, and in the languishing expression of these beautiful blue eyes, in that language which the eye alone speaks and is never false, he read that she admired him. This was enough, for he was vain, and, we might add, unscrupulous.It was this look which showed him that she was lovely, that she was a prize which kings might have knelt to obtain.He wondered how it was that he had not admired her before, as one wonders how one has passed the tuft of grass without detecting the nestling place of the sweet and hidden violet.This look was also a reminescence. He now remembered the dear little child who had so often tried to conceal his faults, and who had given him innocent kisses when he was a boy.All these things seemed to strengthen him in his admiration for the sweet and gentle farmer’s wife.Once this feeling took possession of him it grew with such strength and rapidity as to be almost overwhelming. His mind very shortly afterwards became filled with this woman.He would sit in long reveries, dreaming to himself that he held her hand in his, and that she was whispering to him and caressing him tenderly, and at night, when the house was hushed to rest, when all was silent within and without, when the cries of the night birds were heard no more, when the moon was shining brightly and covered him with her pale light, visions more voluptuous still would seize him in their grasp—visions so powerful and intense that they made him rise trembling, almost shrinking from his sleep. And when he awoke he would find that it was yet dark night, and that he was alone, and he would press his hands to his burning brow and sigh, as men sigh when evil spirits are wrestling at their hearts.Beneath the dark mantle of the night he conceived and plotted a most diabolical design. It was to destroy the happiness of two fond hearts, whom the roses of youth and love had twined lovingly together.But roses soon wither when touched by a poisoned hand. In this world thorns alone are those which do not die.And to gratify a whim this wretch would lead a poor woman, in the one weak moment of her life, from peace, from innocence, from happiness for ever! Oh why are men so wicked and women so weak? Why is it that the good are the victims of the bad, and that the foolish bear all the sufferings of the world upon their breasts?But Mr. Fortescue was under the surveillance of one who had from the very first looked upon him with eyes of suspicion and mistrust—this was the girl Kitty.From his fits of abstraction, from the clouds which constantly gathered on his forehead, and from her own indefinable misgivings, she learnt that there was something on his mind, and began to watch him with the eyes of a lynx.“He’s quite the gentleman, and has most charming manners, that everyone acknowledges,” said Mrs. Ashbrook, to her serving maid, “and is so greatly interested in farming matters.”“He knows a great deal more of farming and things of that sort than people suppose,” returned Kitty. “Don’t ’ee mek any mistake, missus—he aint the greenhorn you imagine.”“I never said he was a greenhorn, you foolish girl,” said Patty, a little petulantly.“Well, mum, it aint no business of mine; but I think——”She paused suddenly.“Well, what do you think?”“I shouldn’t like to say.”“And why not?”“Ye might be a bit offended. But I don’t think as how he’s the man you and master tek ’im to be—’scuse my plain speaking.”“Ah, you are prejudiced, and don’t understand people of his class. It is not at all likely you should be able to do so.”“I’ve got eyes, and plain common sense, I ’spose?”“You don’t like Mr. Fortescue—why or wherefore, I cannot imagine; he’s always behaved well enough to you.”“Perhaps he has; but I tell ’ee plainly, I don’t like him. I should be telling a lie if I said I did. We can’t help our likes and dislikes, none on us; and he isn’t one of my sort.”Mrs. Ashbrook broke out into a laugh.“You foolish girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Ashbrook. “You are both unjust and unfair.”“I don’t like his ways, mum, and I think sooner or later you’ll be of my opinion, but, as I said afore, it beant any business of mine, so I’ll say no more about your newly-made friend.”Patty Ashbrook was greatly annoyed and troubled by these observations, but she deemed it advisable not to press the question further, and so the matter dropped for some little time, but she afterwards remembered all that her maid had said.
To the farmer’s surprise the stranger was up and stirring by early morn; he professed to be a lover of the country, who liked to see the sun rise.
When Ashbrook and his wife had seated themselves at the breakfast table they were informed by their newly-formed acquaintance that his name was Mr. Eric Fortescue, and that he was spending his four weeks’ leave of absence from the red tape and parchment of a fashionable Government office to which he belonged.
All this appeared to be natural enough; he had the appearance of a gentleman attached to some such establishment, and the farmer and his wife were duly impressed with the respectability of their guest.
Mr. Fortescue was loquacious and confidential—he said he was fond of riding. Besides his two hours’ ride in Rotten-row, between five and seven in the morning, it was his custom to take a long journey on Sunday through the Middlesex meadows, sometimes as far as the hop-fields in Kent, and to spend his annual holiday upon the saddle, with no luggage but the carpet bag, which he strapped upon the pommel, and with no companions but the feathered choristers in the fields and the sweet odour of the wild flowers and the music of his horse’s hoofs.
Ashbrook thought him a jolly sort of fellow enough, genial and companionable—indeed, he was charmed with his discourse.
He abounded in anecdote, and revealed to their astonished mind much of the arcana and interior machineries of polite society, which are hidden from the uninitiated by a spangled but impenetrable veil.
He knew, or affected to know, a number of notabilities whose names had reached Patty through the medium of her friends, Lady Aveline and Lady Marolyn, and she was therefore under the full impression that Mr. Fortescue was intimately acquainted with many of the leading personages who figured in the fashionable world.
His manner was engaging, and he was scrupulously polite and respectful.
He hastened to assure his host and hostess that he was ignorant upon many subjects in which they were well versed, by asking them about farming and housewifery, and listened attentively to their explanations. In an incredibly short time he became on excellent terms with the master and mistress of Stoke Ferry, and they would not hear of his leaving on that day or the next.
Joe Doughty was sent round to the “Carved Lion” for the gentleman’s horse, and it was stalled at the farmhouse, carefully groomed, and got ready whenever its master needed it.
Thus matters went on for some days until at length a tacit agreement became established between them that Mr. Erric Fortescue should spend his holidays at Stoke Ferry Farm.
He appeared to be quite charmed with the establishment into which he had been by chance thrown. He went to bed with the linnet, rose with the lark, and breakfasted on fat bacon and home-made bread and butter at half-past seven. His life was one round of pleasure and happiness—so he averred.
After breakfast the horses would be saddled and brought round to the door by Joe, and Mr. Fortescue and Ashbrook would ride over the farm together.
Now ambling along the fallows and watching the progress of the plough—now cantering along the greensward by the road side—now taking a flight of hurdles or a five-barred gate—little matters which the Londoner achieved, to Ashbrook’s astonishment, with a seat as firm and a hand as light as his own.
Fortescue was not much of a hand at a gun; he said he did not shoot, but that it always gave him pleasure to see the sport, and often he would take a big stick in his hand and do as tidy a day’s beating, so said Joe Doughty, “as e’er a man on the farm.”
It certainly was most remarkable how he accommodated himself to the ways of Richard Ashbrook. On market days the latter was quite proud of him.
He would take his seat about half way down the table, and before the first quarter of an hour had passed he would contrive to be on good terms with every farmer at the ordinary.
In short, he was a general favourite.
When dinner was over and glasses round was the war-cry of the knights of the plough, he told them stories till they clapped their hands to their aching sides, and spluttered in their glasses as they vainly strove to drink.
“He was a right-down proper sort of gentleman,” the yeomen declared. “There warn’t no mistake about that.”
He was popular with all classes.
“He comes from another breed nor most Cockneys,” said one man. “He aint one of those starchy sort of customers. Dall their rich and stuck-up ways; they’s too proud to look at we poor folks, and when we touches our hats to ’em their heads seems as if they were made of ice. But there aint no pride in this gentleman, ne’er a crumb or morsel.”
So Mr. Fortescue was looked upon as a right down good fellow on the farm and premises—with all but one.
This was the maid servant, or household manager, Kitty, whom the reader may probably remember as the same serving wench who waited upon old Mr. Jamblin when he spoke his mind so freely to Richard Ashbrook in respect to his daughter Patty.
Kitty had remained in the same establishment after the death of her old master, and she was now chief domestic to his daughter and her husband.
She had watched the stranger from the very first time he entered the house. He read in her eyes that she hated him by instinct.
These antipathies are common enough with women, and are very difficult to conquer.
It touched his pique, and he resolved to wage war against her, for he knew that she was prejudiced against him, and that to remove any such prejudice in a woman of her class was next to an impossibility.
He addressed her at first with those silly compliments which are omnipotent with most girls of the lower class, because they are mysterious. These she spurned with a contempt which appeared to be genuine; so he changed his tactics and treated her with diffidence and reserve.
Soon, however, his aims were turned to another quarter.
He had liked Patty Ashbrook during the first few days as a pretty and agreeable woman, but of the two his senses had been captivated by the tall, athletic servant girl, whose arms, full of strength and symmetry, resembled those of the Amazons of old, and whose eyes seemed to flash real fire when they encountered his.
But one day he caught Patty looking at him, and in the languishing expression of these beautiful blue eyes, in that language which the eye alone speaks and is never false, he read that she admired him. This was enough, for he was vain, and, we might add, unscrupulous.
It was this look which showed him that she was lovely, that she was a prize which kings might have knelt to obtain.
He wondered how it was that he had not admired her before, as one wonders how one has passed the tuft of grass without detecting the nestling place of the sweet and hidden violet.
This look was also a reminescence. He now remembered the dear little child who had so often tried to conceal his faults, and who had given him innocent kisses when he was a boy.
All these things seemed to strengthen him in his admiration for the sweet and gentle farmer’s wife.
Once this feeling took possession of him it grew with such strength and rapidity as to be almost overwhelming. His mind very shortly afterwards became filled with this woman.
He would sit in long reveries, dreaming to himself that he held her hand in his, and that she was whispering to him and caressing him tenderly, and at night, when the house was hushed to rest, when all was silent within and without, when the cries of the night birds were heard no more, when the moon was shining brightly and covered him with her pale light, visions more voluptuous still would seize him in their grasp—visions so powerful and intense that they made him rise trembling, almost shrinking from his sleep. And when he awoke he would find that it was yet dark night, and that he was alone, and he would press his hands to his burning brow and sigh, as men sigh when evil spirits are wrestling at their hearts.
Beneath the dark mantle of the night he conceived and plotted a most diabolical design. It was to destroy the happiness of two fond hearts, whom the roses of youth and love had twined lovingly together.
But roses soon wither when touched by a poisoned hand. In this world thorns alone are those which do not die.
And to gratify a whim this wretch would lead a poor woman, in the one weak moment of her life, from peace, from innocence, from happiness for ever! Oh why are men so wicked and women so weak? Why is it that the good are the victims of the bad, and that the foolish bear all the sufferings of the world upon their breasts?
But Mr. Fortescue was under the surveillance of one who had from the very first looked upon him with eyes of suspicion and mistrust—this was the girl Kitty.
From his fits of abstraction, from the clouds which constantly gathered on his forehead, and from her own indefinable misgivings, she learnt that there was something on his mind, and began to watch him with the eyes of a lynx.
“He’s quite the gentleman, and has most charming manners, that everyone acknowledges,” said Mrs. Ashbrook, to her serving maid, “and is so greatly interested in farming matters.”
“He knows a great deal more of farming and things of that sort than people suppose,” returned Kitty. “Don’t ’ee mek any mistake, missus—he aint the greenhorn you imagine.”
“I never said he was a greenhorn, you foolish girl,” said Patty, a little petulantly.
“Well, mum, it aint no business of mine; but I think——”
She paused suddenly.
“Well, what do you think?”
“I shouldn’t like to say.”
“And why not?”
“Ye might be a bit offended. But I don’t think as how he’s the man you and master tek ’im to be—’scuse my plain speaking.”
“Ah, you are prejudiced, and don’t understand people of his class. It is not at all likely you should be able to do so.”
“I’ve got eyes, and plain common sense, I ’spose?”
“You don’t like Mr. Fortescue—why or wherefore, I cannot imagine; he’s always behaved well enough to you.”
“Perhaps he has; but I tell ’ee plainly, I don’t like him. I should be telling a lie if I said I did. We can’t help our likes and dislikes, none on us; and he isn’t one of my sort.”
Mrs. Ashbrook broke out into a laugh.
“You foolish girl!” exclaimed Mrs. Ashbrook. “You are both unjust and unfair.”
“I don’t like his ways, mum, and I think sooner or later you’ll be of my opinion, but, as I said afore, it beant any business of mine, so I’ll say no more about your newly-made friend.”
Patty Ashbrook was greatly annoyed and troubled by these observations, but she deemed it advisable not to press the question further, and so the matter dropped for some little time, but she afterwards remembered all that her maid had said.