 | CHAPTER IV. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
When Sir Edward Hale left the meadow
of the May-pole in the manner I have described,
he galloped forward at three
quarters' speed of his fine brown hunter,
Eversly having some difficulty in keeping
up with him, until he reached the foot of
the western slope of the valley, where he
slackened his pace, and rode on for a
while in a deep reverie. And was it indeed
Rose, on whom, as Hunter insinuated,
the young baronet cast that quick
glance, which had so nearly cost him a
heavy fall from his horse? Reader, it was
—for like most youths of hot impetuous dispositions,
he was a passionate admirer of
female beauty; and Rose's loveliness was,
in truth, of so high an order, that it might
well have attracted the eyes even of a
colder and less inflammable nature.
She was, indeed, in face and figure, a
paragon, more fitted for the sphere of
courts, than for the simple and somewhat
hard realities of a plain country life. Her
beauty was not the mere animal beauty,
consisting chiefly of fresh coloring and
vigorous health, which marks so freqently
the country maiden—it was of a
far higher and more delicate order.
Had she been robed in unison, she
might have moved, her birth and rank unquestioned,
among the most magnificent
array of England's aristocracy—for she
was very tall, and though her swelling
bust and ample shoulders, and all her
lower limbs were exquisitely modelled and
developed to the most voluptuous symmetry,
her waist was small and tapering, and
the whole contour of her person slender
and graceful. Her arms were like rounded
ivory—her hands, small, delicate, and
fair, as if they had been little used to any
hard or menial labor—her ankles trim and
shapely, and her feet singularly little for
so full and tall a figure.
Her face, however, was yet more strik
ing than her person—it was that of a clear
brunette, with but the palest flush of the
most delicate rose tinging the lustrous
darkness of her cheek—her features approached
nearly to the classic model, but
there was a trifling upward inclination in
the outlines of the well shaped thin nose,
which added a charm of archness, that regularity
too often will be found to lack—
her ponting lips were, if such a thing can
be, almost too deeply crimson; for to nothing
that exists, of warm and soft and
sentient, could the hue of that balmy
mouth be possibly compared.
It was the eyes, however, the large, deep
lustrous eyes, of the darkest hazel, that
caught most suddenly the observation of
all who looked upon her, if it were but for
a passing moment—there was an indescribable
fascination in those eyes, an inexplicable
mixture of wild out-flashing
light, and soft voluptuous languor, half
amorous, half melancholy, such as is rarely
indeed seen at all, and never but in orbs
of that clear translucent brown, that is so
far more beautiful than the dull bead-like
black, or the more shallow glitter of the
blue. Her hair, of a dark sunny brown,
shining with many an auburn gloss, where
the light fell strong upon its heavy masses,
was luxuriantly abundant; falling off on
each side of her high polished forehead in
a maze of thick clustering ringlets, and
flowing down her neck, and over her sloping
shoulders, in large and natural curls.
The dress of this fair girl was simple as
it could be; yet, perhaps, no magnificence
of garb would have so well displayed her
wondrous charms as that undecorated
garment. A low-necked frock of plain
white muslin, sitting quite close to her
bust and slender waist, with tight sleeves
reaching to the elbow, and terminating
there in ample plaited ruffles, and a long
flowing skirt—a little cottage bonnet of
home-made straw, with a pink ribbon to
match her silken neckerchief and sash, a
cluster of violets in the bosom of her
frock, and a nosegay in her hand, the gift
—much prized that morning—of the now
half-rejected lover.
Such was the choicest finery of the village
belle, and, as I have already said, it
would have been hard indeed to deck her
comely person in anything that could
have displayed her beauties with more advantage.
Those were the days, in courts,
of whalebone stomachers and hoops five
fathoms in circumference; of stiff brocaded
stuffs, and powdered head-dresses; of art,
and most ungraceful art, against any touch
of nature. Grace and simplicity were discarded,
and every native movement, so
and confined by every species of
ligature and bandage that the most depraved
and artificial taste could by any
means imagine or suggest.
What wonder, then, that Edward Hale,
a passionate admirer, as he was, of female
beauty, accustomed so much to the stiff
airs and affected minanderies of starched
ladies, should have been momentarily
struck by the natural and simple loveliness
of that fair villager, whose every turn
and motion was full of poetry, and instinct
with easy life. What wonder, then, that
when he crossed the hill, and lost sight of
the gay concourse, he should have called
the keeper up to his side, and asked him
quite abruptly—
“Tell me, Mark Eversley, tell me,” he
said, not without a slight shade of embarrassment
appearing in his manner, “who
was that fine old silver-headed farmer who
stood close to me on the left-hand side,
when my horse reared so suddenly? There
was a tall young fellow at his elbow, with
a quarter staff—Frank Hunter, I believe, if
I have not forgotten more than I think I
have. I used to ferret rabbits with him,
if it be the same, many a year ago, in the
Monk's coppice. But who was the old farmer,
Mark? I can't remember him.”
“Oh, that was Master Castleton, I think,
Sir Edward,” answered the fellow, with a
cunning grin, clearly perceiving the drift
of his master's question, “there was a
very pretty lass upon his arm, wasn't
there, sir?”
The hot blood rushed to the brow—the
ingenuous brow—of the young gentleman;
and, vexed at the bare idea that his
thoughts should be read, his secret penetrated
by a menial, he answered hastily—
“Was there? I did not notice—I hardly
think there was, though; for I suppose I
should have observed her, if there had
been—seeing that I am a great admirer of
pretty faces.”
“I'm sure, then, you'd admire Rose's.”
answered the wily keeper, “for it's the
prettiest eye, and the handsomest face,
too, in all the village; and then her shape
is not behind her face, neither. But I'm
a-thinking it couldn't have been Master
Castleton, else, as you say, you must have
noticed Rose. It might have been old Andrew
Bell, or Simon Carter, or John Hall,
they were all gathered thereabout, and
they are all grey-headed men, too.”
“No, no!” replied the landlord, “it was
not any one of these; I recollect them all
right well. It must have been old Castleton;
what did you call him—Harry?”
“No. James, so please your honor;
but I don't think it could have been he,
anyhow, Sir Edward; least ways I don't
see how you could have missed observing
Rose. Why, bless you! she's the beauty
of the village; there's not a girl like her
for twenty miles around. I don't believe,
Sir Edward, you ever saw a handsomer in
London.”
“Well, now I think on it, I believe there
was a girl—a very tall girl—on his arm;
dressed all in white, was she? but Oliver
reared up, just then, and that prevented
me from taking notice, I suppose. What
is she? daughter to old Castleton?”
“Yes, sir; and troth-plighted, they say,
to that Frank Hunter, d—n him? but I
don't reckon much of that, for she's an
arrant jilt—is pretty Rose. Why she kept
company with me, Sir Edward, six months
and better, and then flew off as if she was
meet for a king, when I asked her to be
my wife. I warrant me she'd fly from
Frank, there, just as sudden, so be she
could 'light on a higher or a richer sweetheart.”
“Well, well!” said Hale, half angrily,
perhaps, at feeling that his servant was
tampering with thoughts that were even
then, though faintly and uncertainly, at
work in his own bosom, and not being yet
prepared to be hurried on his way—
“well, all that's nothing to me, Mark. But
why did you damn the young fellow,
Eversley? He used to be as fine a lad as
any in the country; and, if he did win
your sweetheart, I dare say that he won
her fairly. You should not bear a grudge,
man; all goes by luck in love and liking.”
“Oh! it's not that, Sir Edward, it is not
that at all! I would not now have the
girl if I could; I'm very glad he took her
off my hands, and very grateful to him for
it. I would not have her now, I'm sure,
unless it was for a mistress—and that she
is not like to be for a poor fellow, whatever
she might for a born gentleman. It is not
that, at all, that made me damn him; but,
bless you! he's the biggest poacher in the
country!”
“Ha! is he—is he? that's bad; we must
see to that. Have you got any proof
against him?”
“Not clear—not clear, Sir Edward; but
I keep a tight watch on him always, and
I'll be nabbing him, I warrant me, one of
these times.”
“Do so—do so!” returned the other,
forming, almost unconsciously, a secret
feeling of dislike to the young man, who
was known as the accepted suitor of Rose
Castleton. “Do so; and if we catch him
tripping badly, we can send him out of
the country, or, perhaps, get him pressed
the pretty Rose, you know.”
“Oh! I don't want her, sir—not I,” returned
the keeper, “I would not marry
her at all, unless I was to be well paid for
it, and then I'd marry the foul fiend if need
were.”
“Fie! fie! Mark!” answered Hale—
“don't talk in that profligate manner, I
beg of you. But, tell me, where does old
Castleton live now? Your father was saying
something to me about his lease, I
think, this morning. It has run out, I
fancy, and he wants it renewed.”
“Yes, yes, Sir Edward,” the other interrupted
eagerly, “it has run out; and he
does want it renewed; but then, Sir Edward,
it's the home-farm, like; between
Monk's coppice and Raywood; and the
spring-brook trout pond lies in the very
middle of it—all the best ground for game
in the whole manor—and the best water,
too, for fishing! Now I've been thinking
that it will make bad work, if Hunter
marries Rose, and Castleton gets a new
lease. Why, bless you, sir! Frank would
not leave a feather in the woods, or a fin
in the waters, after he'd lived in the home
farm a fortnight; besides, the kennel lies
so handy; it always seemed to me the
keeper should live there. I was going to
speak to you about that myself. I should
like well to rent it; and my two brothers
could look after it, so that I would not be
kept from my duties, neither.”
“I'm afraid, Mark, that can't well be;
for, you see, I promised not to remove
any tenant; and, besides, old Castleton
lived there, under my grandfather, if I remember
rightly; and has been a good
tenant, too. But I won't forget you,
Mark, never fear; for I won't forget you.
But now we must make haste, or we shall
be late at Barnsley;” and, with the words,
he again put spurs to his horse, and rode
on as fast as he could gallop, until he
reached the little post-town, where he
drew bridle at the door of the next country
inn, and called aloud to the hostler,
who came running across the court-yard
towards him—asking whether “Lord
Henry St. Maur and Captain Spencer had
arrived from London!”
But, before the man had time to answer,
a loud burst of laughter from within replied;
and then a gay voice cried—
“Here we are, Ned; here we are; and
here have we been these two hours.
Come in—come in hither; quick, man, or
that rogue Percy Harbottle will finish the
cool tankard before you get a taste of it.
Our horses will be ready in a minute;
come, make haste, you must be athirst
this hot day!”
Edward Hale leaped down at the jovial
summons, and flinging his rein to the
keeper, ran up the steps, and entered the
small clean parlor, to the left of the passage,
where he found his three friends
merrily employed in circulating a mighty
silver flagon, filled with the generous
compound of ale and sherry, sugar and
toast and spices.
Three very comely personages were
they, who occupied the solitary parlor of
the country inn; three such, indeed, as it
had probably never contained at one time
before, such that not the landlord and
landlady only, but Doll the chambermaid,
and Dick the tapster, and even fat old
drunken Deborah, the cook, had contrived
to find something or other to do in that
parlor, in order to get a glimpse of the
handsome gentlemen from London.
They were three in number, all of distinguished
family, and of appearance and
manners suitable to their rank, and none
of them above the middle age, though two
were scarcely beyond their boyhood.
The eldest of the three was the notorious
Captain Spencer, a peer's second son,
the commander of a gallant frigate now in
commission, and as Lady Beverley had
truly designated him, within an hour of
the time when he was sitting there so
calm and unruffled, although he knew it
not, the most celebrated pendable of the
metropolis. Of tried and distinguished
courage, a good seaman for those days, a
gentleman of the most courtly and finished
manners, the Honorable Edmund Spencer
was perhaps as thorough a debauchee
and reprobate as existed at that day in all
England. An admirable player at all
games, a perfect musician, a very graceful
dancer, his success among women had
been almost unparalleled; and, although
several of his adventures had been marked
by very thorough depravity, and had
terminated miserably for his fair victims,
still fair and virtuous and innocent and
noble women were found to smile upon
the cold-hearted seducer, while they had
not one tear to shed for the hapless beings
he had brought down to shame and
misery and untimely death.
With men, his ready wit, his liberality,
his frankness, and his courage, made him
even more generally a favorite than he
was with the softer sex. The very boldness
of his vice was to him a protection;
and, as it seemed, a fresh claim on the
world's admiration. No subterfuge had
ever sullied his character for truth—whatever
it openly, and gave honorable satisfaction.
He had shot one husband dead, and
desperately wounded two brothers, fighting
to avenge wife's and sister's reputation.
An honorable man par excellence was the
Honorable Edmund Spencer. Yet many
a better man had expiated his crimes on
the gallows.
Spencer was at this time about forty-three
years old, although no person would
have suspected him of being nearly that
age; he was extremely handsome, though
of a dark and somewhat saturnine complexion,
with a full bright black eye, an
aquiline nose, and one of the most fascinating
smiles that ever wreathed a lip in
blandishment. His hair, black as the raven's
wing, and without one speck or line
of grey, was exquisitely soft and glossy,
and almost as redundant in its fall of natural
tresses as the huge wigs of the day.
His voice was silvery music, and by long
habit he had learned to modulate his accents
like the tones of a delicate instrument.
For the young of both sexes never was
created an enemy more dangerous than
Edmund Spencer. In the slightest glance
of his eye there lurked wily fascination—
in the most trivial word he uttered there
was a covert meaning—a concealed
power! But his smile, his caress, his
friendship, or his love, were ruin—utter,
inevitable ruin!
His dress, although in some degree professional,
was rich and magnificent; for
at that period a gentleman could be recognised
by his distinctive garb alone, from
his valet. He wore a coat, cut in the
naval form, with the open sleeves of the
period, showing from the elbow to the
wrist the shirt sleeves of plaited lawn
fringed with ruffles of superb Valenciennes
lace. It was of dark blue cloth, long
waisted and broad skirted, lined throughout
with white sarcenet. His breeches
were of blue velvet, and his vest of the
same color, both slashed with white silk,
and adorned with many buttons of solid
gold, embossed with the crown and anchor.
He wore high boots and spurs,
having travelled thither on horseback,
being, rather an uncommon thing for a
sailor, a perfect and graceful cavalier—his
hat, with a band of feathers, and a short
crooked hanger lay on the table near
him.
Lord Henry St. Maur, who was standing
up with his back to the fire-place, now
filled with green and May-flowers, instead
of its winter decoration of sea coal,
was a tall, slight, fair young man, with
nothing particular in his appearance, unless
it were a mixed expression of licentiousness
and audacity, which ill became
his beardless lip, and smooth, effeminate
features. He was dressed far more splendidly
than the sea captain, in a full suit of
maroon colored velvet, lined and slashed
with philomot satin, and decorated with
large ribbon shoulder knots of the same
color. He had much costly lace at his
bosom and wrists; the buttons of his coat
and his knee buckles and sword hilt glittered
with brilliantly cut steel; and to
complete the picture, a huge fleece of
curls, the natural hue of which was disguised
by a profusion of reddish marechal
powder, fell down over his shoulders, and
impregnated the whole atmosphere of the
inn-parlor with musk and ambergris, and
Heaven knows what besides.
Percy Harbottle, the third of the company,
was the youngest likewise, and the
least worthy of notice, though perhaps
the most worthy to be esteemed a gentleman.
He was good-looking, and good-humored;
and, though by no means a fool,
certainly neither a genius nor a wit—in a
word, he was a frank, lively, generous-hearted,
rash, impetuous young man, likely
enough to be hurried by evil association
into the contracting of bad habits, and of
committing follies, or becoming subject
to the more venial vices—but kindly at
the same time, and honorable if unthinking.
In fact, he was a type of that large class
of youths at all times floating like the froth
on the top of that great syllabub—the social
world!—whom every one pronounces
an “excellent good fellow,” without being
able in the least degree to specify wherein
their excellence consists—whose greatest
merits are good looks and animal good-humor,
and whose greatest demerit is a want
of ballast, of stability of character, and singleness
of purpose, without which a man
may be agreeable, but cannot possibly be
great.
Such was Percy Harbottle—and there
be many Percy Harbottles around us everywhere—who,
exquisitely, and rather
coxcombically attired in light blue silk,
laced with gold, and bewigged and bepowdered
to the very acme of the mode,
was, at the moment of Sir Edward's entrance,
apparently justifying the apprehensions
of the others concerning the contents
of the tankard, by the prodigious
draught which he was making on its racy
mixture. He sent it down, however, and
drawing a long breath, as Hale came in,
jumped up with a good deal of eagerness,
and with his hand extended, to meet him.
Spencer arose also, and put out his
hand; but though there was much elegance
and grace in every motion, though his
tones were perfect harmony, and his
words not well chosen only, but courteous
and even friendly, there was something
that gave the young baroneta strong impression
of the sea-captain's heartlessness;
for he had known him before but
slightly, and was now receiving him
rather as a friend of his school-fellow St.
Maur, than as an intimate of his own
choosing.
The truth was, that although the captain's
manner was exquisite, it was too
evident that it was manner only—there
was a total want of cordiality, or warmth,
or in fact of any feeling. And, sooth to
say, it would have been very strange had
there not been that want—for it was on
his total freedom from all touch of genuine
nature, his complete mastery over his
strongest feelings, his absolute impassibility
of temper, and immobility of feature,
on which Edmund Spencer prided himself
the most. He had been all his life acquiring
it—and though he had given much
pains to many fine accomplishments, to
none had he devoted half the study this
had cost him. No wonder he was perfect
in it!
St. Maur nodded, and smiled, and
thrust out a single finger, with a delicious
attempt at nonchalance. He was really
glad to see Edward Hale, whom he liked
as well as he liked anything, except himself;
that is to say, so far as he amused
him, and gave him no trouble—and he said
he was glad—but he said it as if he was
rather sorry than otherwise. He wanted
to be easy and careless; he had heard
Spencer ridicule enthusiasm as boyish and
ladylike—and he had the greatest horror
in the world of being thought a boy; and
in endeavoring to be un-enthusiastic, one
of the nil admirari school, he became as
stiff as the poker, and as unnatural and unlike
his model, whom he flattered himself
he was very closely imitating, as it is
possible to conceive.
In a few minutes, however—for St.
Maur's character was far too impulsive
and ill-regulated to be true to anything—
even to itself, for above half an hour—he
became boisterous and noisy, and displayed
spirits so exuberant as to justify in
some measure Perey Harbottle's assertion,
that he had only drained the tankard,
which it appeared on inspection he had
done to the very dregs, for the purpose of
preserving him from the commission of
such a solecism as to be drunk before
dinner.
“Upon my life!” said Spencer, “I do
not feel so perfectly assured that you
were in time enough to save him, Percy!
Who will bet odds that he does not tumble
off his horse before we reach Arrington?”
“I will, by heaven!” cried St. Maur
himself; “I will, in rouleaux! is it
done!”
“No, not exactly,” answered Spencer,
laughing, “not with you, my dear fellow;
for if I did, you would not drink any more
in the first place; and in the second, you
would keep yourself quiet; and, in short,
I should not be sure of winning.”
“And do you never bet, Captain Spencer,”
asked Hale, half jesting and half serious,
“but when you are sure to win?”
“Never, my dear sir, never,” replied
Spencer, in his blandest tones, “do you?”
“Generally, I am afraid,” said Sir Edward,
laughing merrily.
“Ah! so does Harbottle; except that
for `generally' you may read `always.'
Harbottle always bets when he is not sure
to win; or, in other words, when he is
sure to lose. He pays too, which is something
in these days. Harbottle is an undeniable
man to bet with. I bet with him
myself a good deal.”
Nothing could, indeed, be more strictly
true than this last assertion of the gallant
captain, to whose gentlemanlike necessities
Percy Harbottle's betting-book annually
ministered, to the tune of a cool thousand,
at the least reckoning. A more cunning
and less artful man than he would
have shunned the topic and been detected
by his silence. Spencer knew better, and
talking of it openly, those who knew it to
be true scarcely believed it, and those
who were not certain utterly scouted the
idea.
For a few minutes after this, the young
men conversed merrily and gaily of fifty
trivial incidents which had occurred since
their last meeting; and light jokes called
forth lighter laughter; as for the most part
is the case when the gay-hearted and the
cheerful, over whose head time has not
shed a single sorrow, meet after passing
absence. But by-and-by the replenished
tankard was once again exhausted, and
the young comrades soon began to lack
some newer and more keen excitement.
“Come, come,” cried Edward Hale,
“let us get, all of us, to horse, and ride,
as quickly as we may, back to the manor.
There is a kind of merry-making of the
villagers—a May-day frolic on the green;
and, as it is my birth-day too, I was obliged
to promise the good people there that
I would join their sports; and, what is
noon, under a tent. I am afraid it will be
but a tedious sort of merriment to you, my
boys, after the gaieties of London; but we
must make the best of it; and, to compensate
for it, we'll sup at eight, when all is
over, and try my father's choice old Burgundy.”
“Ods-life!” cried St. Maur, “there will
be nothing tedious in it so far as I'm concerned;
for, I doubt not, you have store of
pretty lasses here among your tenantry?
and if we are to pass the summer here
with you, you know, we must look out
for something in the shape of bona robas
to while away the time before the shooting
season.”
“Well, well, Lord Harry, you shall see
all of them, I promise,” answered the baronet,
with a quick meaning smile; “but
then it must be honor bright. You shall
have every help from me in your amours,
but then you must not interfere with mine
—hey, St. Maur?”
“Hark to him—hark to him, Spencer;
hark to him, Harbottle!” cried the young
lord, laughing; “did you, in all your lives,
did you ever hear such a Turk? Why,
he only came down hither last night, for
the first time these sixteen years, and the
dog has cut out an intrigue already!”
“Oh, I don't wonder at it, not I, in the
least,” Harbottle answered; “the fellow
always had the eye of a hawk for a pretty
wench, and the devil's own luck in winning
them, too. Don't you remember, St.
Maur, how he tricked Neville, at Christ
Church, out of his black-browed Julia,
after two days' acquaintance, when Neville
had been better than six months in
bringing her to reason?”
“And Neville such a lady-killer, too!”
lisped St. Maur; “but I suppose we had
better promise him.”
“To be sure, to be sure we had!” answered
the other in a breath, “for if he
has got the least start in the world with
the girl, we have no more chance of her
than the merest bumpkin in the country”
“So it's a bargain, Hale,” continued St.
Maur; “you will give each of us the best
of your countenance and assistance, provided
we keep all due distance from your
own dulcinea.”
“A bargain!” answered the young baronet;
and “a bargain! a bargain!”
chimed in his gay, licentious comrades.
“And now, Sir Edward,” inquired
Spencer, gravely, after they had mounted,
and galloped a few hundred yards from
the inn door, “what is your wench's
name, that we may have no mistake
here? and what does she look like?”
“Her name is Rose Castleton,” answered
Sir Edward Hale, the hot blood
rushing hurriedly to his brow and cheek,
as he named her, against whose peace
and honor the wild words of his reckless
and unprincipled companions had almost
instantaneously matured his vague
thoughts into violent designs.
“Her name is Rose Castleton; and she
is like—simply the most beautiful woman
it ever was my luck to gaze upon. The
finest and most voluptuous figure—the
brightest and most sparkling face—the
most luxuriant hair—the softest and most
passionate eye! By heaven! the loveliest
girl I ever yet have looked upon
were but a foil to her transcendant beauties!—but
let us hurry on our way, or we
shall be too late!”
And, at the word, they gave the rein to
their good steeds, and touched their sleek
sides with the spur, and no one could
have found fault with the pace thereafter,
till they came to the hill which overlooked
the vale of Arrington.
| CHAPTER IV. Ingleborough Hall, and Lord of the manor | |