HARRY THORNLEIGH was anything but content to be left alone at Tottenham’s. He proposed that he should accompany Edgar and Mr. Tottenham, but the latter personage, benevolent as he was, had the faculty of saying No, and declined his nephew’s company. Then he wandered all about the place, looked at the house, inspected the dogs, strolled about the plantations, everything a poor young man could do to abridge the time till luncheon. He took Phil with him, and Phil chattered eternally of Mr. Earnshaw.
“I wish you wouldn’t call him by that objectionable name,” said Harry.
“It’s a capital good name,” cried Phil. “I wish you could see their blazon, in Gwillim. Earnshaw says it ain’t his family; but everybody says he’s a great swell in disguise, and I feel sure he is.”
“Hallo!” said Harry, idly, “what put that into your head? It’s all the other way, my fine fellow.”
“I don’t know what you mean by the other way. His name wasn’t always Earnshaw,” said Phil, triumphantly. “They’ve got about half a hundred quarterings, real old gentry, not upstarts like us.”
“That’s admirable,” said Harry. “I suppose that’s what you study all the time you are shut up together, eh?”
“No, he don’t care for heraldry, more’s the pity,” said Phil. “I can’t get him to take any interest. It’s in other ways he’s so jolly. I say, I’ve made up a coat for us, out of my own head. Listen! First and fourth, an ellwand argent; second and third, three shawls proper—But you don’t understand, no more than Earnshaw does. I showed it to the mother, and she boxed my ears.”
“Serve you right, you little beggar. I say, Phil, what is there to do in this old place? I’m very fond of Tottenham’s in a general way, but I never was here in winter before. What are you up to, little ’un? There’s the hounds on Thursday, I know; but Thursday’s a long way off. What have you got for a fellow to do, to-day?”
“Come up to the gamekeeper’s and see the puppies,” said Phil; “it’s through the woods all the way. Earnshaw went with me the other day. They’re such jolly little mites; and if you don’t mind luncheon very much, we can take a long stretch on to the pond at Hampton, and see how it looks. It’s shallower than our pond here.”
“I don’t care for a muddy walk, thanks,” said Harry, contemplating his boots, “and I do mind luncheon. Come along, and I’ll teach you billiards, Phil. I suppose there’s a billiard table somewhere about.”
“Teach me!” cried Phil, with a great many notes of admiration; “why, I can beat Earnshaw all to sticks!”
“If you mention his name again for an hour, I’ll punch your head,” cried Harry, and strolled off dreamily to the billiard-room, Phil following with critical looks. The boy liked his cousin, but at the same time he liked to have his say, and did not choose to be snubbed.
“What a thing it is to have nothing to do!” he said, sententiously. “How often do you yawn of a morning, Harry? We’re not allowed to do that. Earnshaw—”
“You little beggar! didn’t I promise to punch your head?” cried Harry; and they had an amiable struggle at the door of the billiard-room, by which Phil’s satirical tendencies were checked for the moment.
“Ain’t you strong, just!” Phil said, after this trial, with additional respect.
But notwithstanding the attractions of the billiard-table, Harry, yawning, stalked into luncheon with an agreeable sense of variety. “When you have nothing else to do, eat,” he said, displaying his wisdom in turn, for the edification of Phil. “That’s a great idea; I learned it at Oxford where it’s very useful.”
“And not very much else, acknowledge, Harry,” said Lady Mary.
“Well, as much as I was wanted to learn. You are very hard upon a fellow, Aunt Mary. John, I allow, was intended to do some good; but me, no one expected anything from me—and why should a fellow bother his brains when he hasn’t got any, and doesn’t care, and nobody cares for him? That’s what I call unreasonable. I suppose you’ll keep poor Phil at high pressure, till something happens. It ain’t right to work the brain too much at his age.”
“What about John?” said Lady Mary, “he has gone back to Oxford and is working in earnest now, isn’t he? Your mother told me—”
“Poor dear old mother, she’s so easy taken in, it’s a shame. Yes, he’s up at old Christ Church, sure enough; but as for work! when a thing ain’t in a fellow, you can’t get it out of him,” said Harry oracularly. “I don’t say that that isn’t rather hard upon the old folks.”
“You are a saucy boy to talk about old folks.”
“Well, they ain’t young,” said Harry calmly. “Poor old souls, I’m often sorry for them. We haven’t turned out as they expected, neither me nor the rest. Ada an old maid, and Gussy a ‘Sister,’ which is another name for an old maid, and Jack ploughed, and me—well, I’m about the best if you look at it dispassionately. By the way, no, little Mary’s the best. There is one that has done her duty; but Granton has a devil of a temper though they don’t know it. On the whole, I think the people who have no children are the best off.”
“Upon what facts may that wise conclusion rest?” said Lady Mary.
“I have just given you a lot of facts; me, Jack, Ada, Gussy, and you may add, Helena. Five failures against one success; if that ain’t enough to make life miserable I don’t know what is. I am very sorry for the Governor; my mother takes it easier on the whole, though she makes a deal more fuss; but it’s deuced hard upon him, poor old man. The Thornleighs don’t make such a figure in the county now as they did in his days; for it stands to reason that eight children, with debts to pay, &c., takes a good deal out of the spending-money; and of course the old maids of the family must come upon the estate.”
“When you see the real state of the case so plainly,” said Lady Mary, “and express yourself so sensibly—don’t you think you might do something to mend matters, and make your poor father a little happier?”
“Ah, that’s different,” said Harry, “I’ve turned over so many new leaves I don’t believe in them now. Besides a fellow gets into a groove and what is he to do?”
“Phil, if you have finished your lunch, you and Molly may run away and amuse yourselves,” said Lady Mary, feeling that here was an opportunity for moral influence. The two children withdrew rather unwillingly, for like all other children they were fond of personal discussions, and liked to hear the end of everything. Harry laughed as they went away.
“You want to keep Phil out of hearing of my bad example,” he said, “and you are going to persuade me to be good, Aunt Mary; I know all you’re going to say. Don’t you know I’ve had it all said to me a hundred times? Don’t bother yourself to go over the old ground. May I have the honour of attending your ladyship anywhere this afternoon, or won’t you have me, any more than Mr. Tottenham?”
“Oh, Harry, you’re a sad boy,” said Lady Mary, shaking her head. She had thought, perhaps, that she might have put his duty more clearly before him than any previous monitor had been able to do, for we all have confidence in our own special powers in this way; but she gave up judiciously when she saw how her overture was received. “I am going to the village,” she said, “to call upon those new people, Mr. Earnshaw’s cousins.”
“Oh, the beauty!” cried Harry with animation, “come along! Sly fellow to bring her here, where he’ll be always on the spot.”
“Ah, that was my first idea; but he knew nothing of it. To tell the truth,” said Lady Mary, “I wish it were so; I should be a good deal easier in my mind, and so would your mother if I could believe he was thinking seriously of anyone—in his own rank of life.”
“Why, I thought you were a democrat, and cared nothing for rank; I thought you were of the opinion that all men are equal, not to speak of women—”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Harry; an abstract belief, one way or other, has nothing to do with one’s family arrangements. I like Mr. Earnshaw very much; he is more than my equal, for he is an educated man, and knows much more than I do, which is my standard of position; but still, at the same time, I should not like him—in his present circumstances—to enter my family—”
“Though a few years ago we should all have been very glad of him,” said Harry. “Oh, I agree with you entirely, Aunt Mary. If Gussy is such a fool she must be stopped, that’s all. I’d have no hesitation in locking her up upon bread and water rather than stand any nonsense. I’d have done the same by Helena if I’d had my way.”
“How odd,” said Lady Mary, veering round instantly, and somewhat abashed to find herself thus supported, “and yet you are young, and might be supposed to have some sort of sympathy—”
“Not a bit,” cried Harry, “I don’t mind nonsense; but as soon as it gets serious I’m serious too. If this fellow, whom you call Earnshaw, has any notions of that kind I’ll show him the difference. Oh, yes, I like him; but you may like a fellow well enough, and not give him your sister. Besides, what made him such a fool as to give up everything? He might have fought it out.”
“Harry, you are very worldly—you do not understand generous sentiments—”
“No, I don’t,” said Harry stoutly, “what’s the good of generous sentiments if all that they bring you to is tutorizing in a private family? I’d rather put my generous sentiments in my pocket and keep my independence. Hallo, here’s your pony carriage. Shall you drive, or shall I?”
Lady Mary was crushed by her nephew’s straightforward worldliness. Had she been perfectly genuine in her own generosity, I have no doubt she would have metaphorically flown at his throat; but she was subdued by the consciousness that, much as she liked Edgar, any sort of man with a good position and secure income would appear to her a preferable husband for Gussy. This sense of weakness cowed her, for Harry, though he was stupid intellectually, was more than a match for his aunt in the calm certainty of his sentiments on this point. He was a man of the world, disposed to deal coolly with the hearts and engagements of his sisters, which did not affect him personally, and quite determined as to the necessary character of any stranger entering his family, which did affect him.
“I will have no snobs or cads calling me brother-in-law,” he said. “No, he ain’t a snob nor a cad; but he’s nobody, which is just the same. It’s awfully good of you to visit these other nobodies, his relations. Oh, yes, I’ll go in with you, and see if she’s as pretty as he said.”
The lodging in which Dr. Murray had established himself and his sister, so much against his will, was a succession of low-roofed rooms in a cottage of one story, picturesque with creepers and heavy masses of ivy, but damp, and somewhat dark. The sitting-room was very dim on this wintry afternoon. It was a dull day, with grey skies and mist; the two little windows were half-obscured with waving branches of ivy, and the glimmer of the fire flickered into the dark corners of the dim green room. You could scarcely pass from the door to the fireplace without dragging the red and blue tablecloth off the table, or without stumbling against the sofa on one side, or the little chiffonier on the other. When Lady Mary went in, like a queen to visit her subjects, two figures rose simultaneously to meet her. Margaret had been seated in the recess of the window to catch the last rays of the afternoon, and she let her work drop hurriedly out of her fingers, and rose up, undecipherable, except in outline, against the light. Dr. Charles rose too in the same way against the firelight. Neither of the four could make each other out, and the strangers were embarrassed and silent, not knowing who their visitor was. Lady Mary, however, fortunately was equal to the occasion. She introduced herself, and mentioned Edgar, and introduced her nephew, all in a breath. “I am so sorry you should have had so uncomfortable a reception,” she said, “but you must not be angry with poor Mrs. Franks, for it could not be helped.”
“Oh, no, it could not be helped,” they both said, in unison, with low Scotch voices, the accent of which puzzled Lady Mary; and then Margaret added, still more softly, “I am sorry for her, poor woman, stopped at such a moment.” The voice was very soft, shy, full of self-consciousness and embarrassment. Harry stood by the window, and looked out, and felt more bored than ever. He had come to see a beauty, and he saw nothing but the little grass-plot before the cottage-door, shut in by bushes of holly and rhododendron. And Lady Mary went on talking in a sort of professional lady-of-the-manor strain, telling Dr. Murray what he had to look forward to, and wherein Dr. Franks had been deficient.
“You will find it a very good house, when you can get in to it,” she said, “and a pleasant neighbourhood;” and then in the little pause that followed these gracious intimations, Edgar’s name was introduced, and the mutual surprise with which his cousins and he had met; while the brother and sister explained, both together, now one strange soft voice breaking in, now the other, how much and how little they knew of him, Harry still stood leaning on the window, waiting, with a little impatience, till his aunt should have got through her civilities. But just then the mistress of the cottage appeared, holding in both hands a homely paraffin lamp, by no means free of smell, which she placed on the table, suddenly illuminating the dim interior. Harry had to move from the window while she proceeded to draw down the blinds, and thus of a sudden, without warning or preparation, he received the electric shock which had been preparing for him. Margaret had seated herself on the end of the little sofa close to the table. She had raised her eyes to look at him, probably with something of the same curiosity which had brought him to the cottage—Lady Mary’s nephew, a person in the best society, could not be without interest to the new-comers. Margaret looked up at him with the unconscious look of appeal which never went out of her beautiful eyes. The young man was, to use his own language, struck “all of a heap.” He thought she was asking something of him. In his hurry and agitation, he made a step towards her.
“You were asking—” cried Harry, eagerly, affected as he had never been in his life before. What was it she wanted? He did not stop to say to himself how beautiful she was. He felt only that she had asked him for something, and that if it were the moon she wanted, he would try to get it for her. His sudden movement, and the sound of his voice, startled Lady Mary too, who could not make out what he meant.
“I did not say anything,” said Margaret, in the slightly plaintive voice which was peculiar to her, with a smile, which seemed to the young man like thanks for the effort he had made. He took a chair, and drew it to the table, not knowing what he did. A sudden maze and confusion of mind came over him, in which he felt as if some quite private intercourse had gone on between this stranger and himself. She had asked him, he could not tell for what—and he had thrown his whole soul into the attempt to get it for her; and she had thanked him. Had this happened really, or was it only a look, a smile that had done it? The poor boy could not tell. He drew his chair close to the table to be near her. She was not a stranger to him; he felt at once that he could say anything to her, accept anything from her. He was dazed and stunned, yet excited and exhilarated by her mere look, he could not tell why.
And the talk went on again. Harry said nothing; he sat casting a glance at her from time to time, eager, hoping she would ask that service from him once more. Perhaps Margaret was accustomed to produce this effect on strangers. She went on in her plaintive voice, telling how little she knew of Edgar, and what he had done for his family, in an even flow of soft speech, answering all Lady Mary’s questions, not looking at the new worshipper—while Dr. Murray, in his embarrassed way, anxious to make a good impression, supplemented all his sister said. Margaret was not embarrassed; she was shy, yet frank; her eyes were cast down generally as she talked, over the work she held in her hands, but now and then she raised them to give emphasis to a sentence, looking suddenly full in the face of the person she was addressing. It was her way. She renewed her spell thus from moment to moment. Even Lady Mary, though she had all her wits about her, was impressed and attracted; and as for poor Harry, he sat drawing his chair closer and closer, trying to put himself so near as to intercept one of those glances which she raised to Lady Mary’s face.
“Our old mother brought us up,” she said. “I cannot tell how good she was to Charles and me, and what it cost us not to be rich enough to help her.”
“Margaret,” said Dr. Charles, “Lady Mary cannot care to hear all this about you and me.”
“Oh, pray go on, I am so much interested,” said Lady Mary.
“For we have never been rich, never anything but poor,” said Margaret, suddenly lifting her beautiful eyes, and thus giving double effect to the acknowledgment; while her brother fretted a little, and moved on his chair with impatience of her frankness.
“We have been able to make our way,” he said, in an under-tone.
“You see, I have always been a drag on him, I and my little girl,” she went on, with a soft sigh, “so that he was not able to help when he wanted to help. And then Mr. Earnshaw came in, and did all, and more than all, that Charles could have hoped to do. For this we can never think too highly of him, never be grateful enough.”
“It was what any fellow would have done,” interrupted Harry, putting his head forward. He did not know what he was saying. And Lady Mary, suddenly looking at him, took fright.
“Thank you so much for telling me this,” she said, rising. “I am so glad to hear another good thing of Mr. Earnshaw who is one of my first favourites. For his sake you must let me know if there is anything I can do to make you comfortable. Harry, it is time for us to go; it will be quite dark in the avenue. Pardon me, Dr. Murray, but I don’t know your sister’s name; foolishly, I never thought to ask?”
“Mrs. Smith,” said Dr. Charles, as they both got up, filling the little dark room with their tall figures. Harry did not know how he made his exit. One moment, it seemed to him he was surrounded with an atmosphere of light and sadness from those wonderful blue eyes, and the next he was driving along the darkling road, with the sound of the wheels and the ponies’ hoofs ringing all about him, and unsympathetic laughter breaking from under Lady Mary’s veil by his side.
“Mrs. Smith!” she cried; “what a prodigious anti-climax! It was all I could do to keep my gravity till I got outside. That wonderful creature with such eyes, and her pretty plaintive voice. It is too absurd. Mrs. Smith!”
“You seem to enjoy the joke!” said Harry, stiffly, feeling offended.
“Enjoy the joke! don’t you? But it was rather a shock than a joke. What a pretty woman! what a pretty voice! It reminds me of blue-bells and birch trees, and all kinds of pleasant things in Burns and Scott. But Mrs. Smith! And how that lamp smelt! My dear Harry, I wish you would be a little more cautious, or else give me the reins. I don’t want to be upset in the mud. Mrs. Smith!”
“You seem to be mightily amused,” said Harry, more gruff than ever.
“Yes, considerably; but I see you don’t share my amusement,” said Lady Mary, still more amused at this sudden outburst of temper, or propriety, or whatever it might be.
“I always thought you were very sympathetic, Aunt Mary,” said the young man, with a tone of dignified reproof. “It is one of the words you ladies use to express nothing particular, I suppose? The girls are always dinning it into my ears.”
“And you think I don’t come up to my character, Harry?”
“I don’t understand your joke, I confess,” said Harry, with the loftiest superiority, drawing up at the great hall door.