University of Virginia Library

I. PART I.

Scene, Clifton Park. Time, Evening. Speaker, Maurice. Hearer, Dick, his Friend.
Hi! hi! come along, Dick, and see the West Gate;
I'm going there now, and I don't mean to wait.
My uncle, is that? If it is, I shall bolt.
It's not. Well, then, look to your right. That's the Holt.
Her aunt took the place about two months ago—
In June. It belongs to my uncle, you know.
You see it? those chimneys behind the Scotch firs;
And one little window—I fancy that hers.
O, Dick, I've no words to describe her! And she
Mewed up there, and snubbed, and tormented for me!
Break off our engagement we certainly shan't;
My uncle's mistaken, and likewise her aunt.
Why should we break off our engagement? Look here:
I've got rather over four hundred a-year,
Which most younger brothers would think pretty well;
Besides my profession, which doesn't much tell
At present, I own; but it may by and bye.
The law's not my passion; but never say die!
And Helen has something, though not very much;
Enough for a lady to live on as such.
Together we surely might manage with ease.
Oh, no. Not at all. She must wait, if you please,
For somebody else with a proper estate,
And get a grand house, and a service of plate,
And make herself wretched thereby, and me too.
Yes. That they consider a fine thing to do.
Oh, young people's fancies, of course, are absurd!
But, I say, Dick, how about keeping your word?
My uncle's tyrannical—horribly so;
He's upright, and downright, and generous, though;
But as for her aunt, she's so sneaking and spiteful,
Poor Helen's position must be something frightful!
That aunt—well, I won't call her names. Take the facts,
And guess what she is, when you hear how she acts.
She had an old butler, who's just gone away,
A real honest, capital fellow, named Gray;
A servant, now, such as you don't often find;
A worse may be more to her ladyship's mind!
I told you of yesterday's row. After that,
By way of reaction, I put on my hat
And trudged round the country some ten miles or more;
It's fine for the temper: I've tried it before.
And on my way homeward, out there by the Holt,
I fall in with Gray, in a state of revolt,
And gratified highly at lighting on me.
“It's you, Mr. Maurice, I wanted to see!
A nice piece of work, sir, we've had with your letter!
And I'm to be off; and the sooner the better!
To-morrow per eight o'clock train I'm to start!
I've now been across there to speak for the cart.”
Poor Gray! in the midst of his fuming and fuss
I really believe that he cared more for us—
For Helen, that is—than he did for himself;
Although it's no joke to be laid on the shelf,
At his time of life. Why, he cried like a child
In speaking of Helen. It made me so wild,
I wanted to thrust myself in then and there,
And carry her off once for all. Only, where?
And so we two walked up and down in the lane:
I can't give the whole of it over again,
But here's just the substance of what Gray told me.
That morning, as Helen was pouring out tea,
He took in the postbag, and saw, well enough,
There were but two letters, and one was a puff,
With printing outside, and the other my own
To Helen. My writing was very well known
To Gray, I may tell you; my sentiments, too,
For that matter. Well, he had no more to do
Just then in the room, and he therefore came out
And spent some few moments in looking about
For one of her ladyship's gloves, which she thought
She'd left in the hall, when a message was brought
Which made him go back to the breakfast-room. Dick,
That woman—
(I thought so. I've broken my stick.
No matter!)
Well, there she sat up in her place,
A sort of detestable smirk on her face,
Perusing my letter! Yes. That! And what's more,
Gray says from the time he was gone he feels sure
That Helen could never have read it half through,
If even she opened it! What could she do,
Shut up with that—ruffianly woman? But wait;
Oh, that isn't all. It appears that of late
The aunt has adopted a notable plan
For stuffing her cushions without any—bran,
Or wool, or whatever they use. This is all:
You tear up old papers uncommonly small,
And stuff in instead. And her ladyship keeps
A basket in which she accumulates heaps
Of this sort of stuffing. Well, what does she do,
But first read my letter composedly through,
Then pick up her basket, and coolly begin
To mince the said letter, and stir the bits in!
Poor Helen stood up, and turned round towards the door,
And fainted away—Yes! fell down on the floor!
Then Gray's indignation burst out on the spot;
And rather plain language her ladyship got;
And very superbly her ladyship stared,
For that demonstration she was not prepared,
Apparently. Still, she was pretty collected,
And straightway gave warning to Gray, as expected.
Well, Gray rang the bell, and had down Helen's maid,
And did what was wanted, without the least aid
From Helen's own aunt, who got bonnet and shawl,
And called for her ponies, and drove to the Hall,
And rated my uncle, who then rated me.
I told you this morning. And then—let me see:
I went, as I say, for a jolly long walk,
And stumbled on Gray, and came in for this talk.
The gist of the talk, though, you haven't heard yet.
Of course the main question was, how could I get
More letters to Helen? I heard with disgust
That Gray knew of nobody there he could trust.
“Keep clear of the lot, sir,” said he, looking glum;
“They're all of 'em under her ladyship's thumb.”
At last, though, I hit on a capital dodge,
I've set up a post-office here at the lodge.
The aunt of the woman who opens the gate,
Was Tom's and my nurse, and she sits there in state
And knits in the little front parlour; and so
I rushed off and found her: a word and a blow.
Said I, “Mrs. Chapman, perhaps you've not heard,
They're wishing to make me go back from my word,
And treat a young lady exceedingly ill.”
Said she, “Mr. Maurice, I don't think you will.”
“I don't think I shall, Mrs. Chapman,” said I;
“But now will you help me?” Said she, “Sir, I'll try.”
Of course I sent Helen a message by Gray,
To ask her to call for a letter to-day
(The fun was to fancy how neatly she could,
Because the Holt shrubbery joins this West wood).
Of course, too, I wrote it and took it last night,
And hope to hear now that she got it all right.
Look out by that haystack, beyond the two carts:
You just get a glimpse of the paling which parts
The Holt from the lane where we met, Gray and I;
And where I had rather a fright, by the bye.
Within that same paling I certainly heard
A something which rustled; and not like a bird,
Nor yet like a beast, as it sounded to me;
And close at my elbow. Now, what might that be?
Gray said it was nothing. To me, I confess,
It sounded remarkably like a silk dress.
One could not see over at all from the ground;
And, when I took hold of the paling, I found
The wood in so shaky and rotten a state,
The question arose, would it carry my weight?
Which question Gray answered with, “Well, if you do,
And bring it all down, sir, I wouldn't be you.”
—I wish though I'd cleared up the point while I might.
H'm. Gray called it nonsense. Let's hope he was right.—
I say, here we are, so we part, I suppose.
Now just cut across to that footpath. It goes
Right through the old chestnuts you wanted to see,
And into the avenue. Don't wait for me.