twenty-girl power! That’s an immense compliment. I’ve the greatest respect for nonsense, I owe it so much; and I really think if nonsense were banished, the earth would grow insupportable.”
“Thank you, Lord Ilbury,” said Milly, who had grown quite easy in his company during our long visit at Elverston; “and I tell you, Miss Maud, if you grow saucy, I’ll accept your present, and what will you say then?”
“I really don’t know; but just now I want to ask Lord Ilbury how he thinks my uncle looks; neither I nor Milly have seen him since his illness.”
“Very much weaker, I think; but he may be gaining strength. Still, as my business was not quite pleasant, I thought it better to postpone it, and if you think it would be right, I’ll write to Doctor Bryerly to ask him to postpone the discussion for a little time.”
I at once assented, and thanked him; indeed, if I had had my way, the subject should never have been mentioned. I felt so hardhearted and rapacious; but Lord Ilbury explained that the trustees were constrained by the provisions of the will, and that I really had no power to release them; and I hoped that Uncle Silas also understood all this.
“And now,” said he, “we’ve returned to Grange, my sister and I, and it is nearer than Elverston, so that we are really neighbours; and Mary wants Lady Knollys to fix a time she owes us a visit, you know — and you really must come at the same time; it will be so very pleasant, the same party exactly meeting in a new scene; and we have not half explored our neighbourhood; and I’ve got down all those Spanish engravings I told you of, and the Venetian missals, and all the rest. I think I remember very accurately the things you were most interested by, and they’re all there; and really you must promise, you and Miss Millicent Ruthyn. And I forgot to mention — you know you complained that you were ill supplied with books, so Mary thought you would allow her to share her supply — they are the new books, you know — and when you have read yours, you and she can exchange.”
What girl was ever quite frank about her likings? I don’t think I was more of a cheat than others; but I never could tell of myself. It is quite true that this duplicity and reserve seldom deceives. Our hypocrisies are forced upon some of our sex by the acuteness and vigilance of all in this field of enquiry; but if we are sly, we are also lynx-eyed, capital detectives, most ingenious in fitting together the bits and dovetails of a cumulative case; and in those affairs of love and liking, have a terrible exploratory instinct, and so, for the most part, when detected we are found out not only to be in love, but to be rogues moreover.
Lady Mary was very kind; but had Lady Mary of her own mere motion taken all this trouble? Was there no more energetic influence at the bottom of that welcome chest of books, which arrived only half an hour later? The circulating library of those days was not the epidemic and ubiquitous influence to which it has grown; and there were many places where it could not find you out.
Altogether that evening Bartram had acquired a peculiar beauty — a bright and mellow glow, in which even its gate-posts and wheelbarrow were interesting, and next day came a little cloud — Dudley appeared.
“You may be sure he wants money,” said Milly. “He and father had words this morning.”
He took a chair at our luncheon, found fault with everything in his own laconic dialect, ate a good deal notwithstanding, and was sulky, and with Milly snappish. To me, on the contrary, when Milly went into the hall, he was mild and whimpering, and disposed to be confidential.
“There’s the Governor says he hasn’t a bob! Danged if I know how an old fellah in his bed-room muddles away money at that rate. I don’t supposed he thinks I can git along without tin, and he knows them trustees won’t gi’e me a tizzy till they get what they calls an opinion — dang ’em! Bryerly says he doubts it must all go under settlement. They’ll settle me nicely if they do; and Governor knows all about it, and won’t gi’e me a danged brass farthin’, an’ me wi’ bills to pay, an’ lawyers — dang ’em — writing letters. He knows summat o’ that hisself, does Governor; and he might ha’ consideration a bit for his own flesh and blood, I say. But he never does nout for none but hisself. I’ll sell his books and his jewels next fit he takes — that’s how I’ll fit him.”
This amiable young man, glowering, with his elbows on the table and his fingers in his great whiskers, followed his homily, where clergymen append the blessing, with a muttered variety of very different matter.
“Now, Maud,” said he, pathetically, leaning back suddenly in his chair, with all his conscious beauty and misfortunes in his face, “is not it hard lines?”
I thought the appeal was going to shape itself into an application for money; but it did not.
“I never know’d a reel beauty — first-chop, of course, I mean — that wasn’t kind along of it, and I’m a fellah as can’t git along without sympathy — that’s why I say it — an’ isn’t it hard lines? Now, say it’s hard lines — haint it, Maud?”
I did not know exactly what hard lines meant, but I said —
“I suppose it is very disagreeable.”
And with this concession, not caring to hear any more in the same vein, I rose, intending to take my departure.
“No, that’s jest it. I knew ye’d say it, Maud. Ye’re a kind lass — ye be —’tis in yer pretty face. I like ye awful, I do — there’s not a handsomer lass in Liverpool nor Lunnon itself — no where.”
He had seized my hand, and trying to place his arm about my waist, essayed that salute which I had so narrowly escaped on my first introduction.
“Don’t, sir,” I exclaimed in high indignation, escaping at the same moment from his grasp.
“No offence, lass; no harm, Maud; you must not be so shy — we’re cousins, you know — an’ I wouldn’t hurt ye, Maud, no more nor I’d knock my head off. I wouldn’t.”
I did not wait to hear the rest of his tender protestations, but, without showing how nervous I was, I glided out of the room quietly, making an orderly retreat, the more meritorious as I heard him call after me persuasively —
“Come back, Maud. What are ye afeard on, lass? Come back, I say — do now; there’s a good wench.”
As Milly and I were taking our walk that day, in the direction of the Windmill Wood, to which, in consequence perhaps of some secret order, we had now free access, we say Beauty for the first time since her illness, in the litter yard, throwing grain to the poultry.
“How do you find yourself to-day, Meg? I am very glad to see you able to be about again; but I hope it is not too soon.”
We were standing at the barred gate of the little enclosure, and quite close to Meg, who, however, did not choose to raise her head, but, continuing to shower her grain and potato-skins among her hens and chickens, said in a low tone —
“Father baint in sight? Look jist round a bit and say if ye see him.”
But Dickon’s dusky red costume was nowhere visible.
So Meg looked up, pale and thin, and with her old grave, observant eyes, and she said quietly —
“‘Tisn’t that I’m not glad to see ye; but if father was to spy me talking friendly wi’ ye, now that I’m hearty, and you havin’ no more call to me, he’d be all’ays a watching and thinkin’ I was tellin’ o’ tales, and ‘appen he’d want me to worrit ye for money, Miss Maud; an’ ‘tisn’t here he’d spend it, but in the Feltram pottusses, he would, and we want for nothin’ that’s good for us. But that’s how ‘twould be, an’ he’d all’ays be a jawing and a lickin’ of I; so don’t mind me, Miss Maud, and ‘appen I might do ye a good turn some day.”
A few days after this little interview with Meg, as Milly and I were walking briskly — for it was a clear frosty day — along the pleasant slopes of the sheep-walk, we were overtaken by Dudley Ruthyn. It was not a pleasant surprise. There was this mitigation, however; we were on foot, and he driving in