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Heriot's Choice

<h2>CHAPTER IX</h2> <h3>KIRKLEATHAM</h3> <div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> 'And on we went; but ere an hour had pass'd, We reach'd a meadow slanting to the North; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Through crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enter'd in the cool. The garden stretches southward.'—Tennyson. </div> </div> <hr style="width: 65%;" /> The next few days passed quietly enough. Mildred, who had now assumed the entire management of the household, soon discovered that Olive's four months of misrule and shiftlessness had entailed on her an overplus of work, and, though she was never idle, she soon found that even her willing hands could hardly perform all the tasks laid on them, and that scarcely an interval of leisure was available throughout the day. 'It will not be always so,' she remarked, cheerfully, when Richard took upon himself to remonstrate with her. 'When I have got things a little more into order, I mean to have plenty of time to myself. Polly and I have planned endless excursions to Podgill and the out-wood, to stock the new fernery Roy is making for us, and I hope to accompany your father sometimes when he goes to Nateley and Winton.' 'Nevertheless, I mean to drive you over to Brough to-day. You must come, Aunt Milly. You are looking pale, Dr. John says, and the air will do you good. Huddle all those things into the basket,' he continued, in a peremptory voice that amused Mildred, and, acting on his words, he swept the neat pile of dusters and tea-cloths that lay beside her into Olive's unlucky mending-basket, and then faced round on her with his most persuasive air. 'It is such a delicious day, and you have been working like a galley-slave ever since you got up this morning,' he said, apologetically. 'My father would be quite troubled if he knew how hard you work. Do you know Dr. John threatens to tell him?' 'Dr. John had better mind his own business,' returned Mildred, colouring. 'Very well, Richard, you shall have your way as usual; my head aches rather, and a drive will be refreshing. Perhaps you could drop me at Kirkleatham on our way home. I must return Miss Trelawny's visit.' Richard assented with alacrity, and then bidding Mildred be ready for him in ten minutes, he hastened from the room. Mildred had noticed a great change in Richard during the last week; he seemed brighter, and was less carping and disagreeable in his manners to Olive; and though he still snubbed her at times, there was an evident desire to preserve harmony in the family circle, which the others were not slow to appreciate. In many little ways he showed Mildred that he was grateful to her for the added comfort of her presence; any want of regularity and order was peculiarly trying to him; and now that he was no longer aggravated by Olive's carelessness and left-handed ways, he could afford even to be gracious to her, especially as Mildred had succeeded in effecting some sort of reformation in the offending hair and dress. 'There, now you look nice, and Cardie will say so,' she said, as she fastened up the long braids, which now looked bright and glossy, and then settled the collar, which was as usual somewhat awry, and tied the black ribbon into a natty bow. 'A little more time and care would not be wasted, Olive. We have no right to tease other people by our untidy ways, or to displease their eyes; it is as much an act of selfishness as of indolence, and may be encouraged until it becomes a positive sin.' 'Do you think so, Aunt Milly?' 'I am sure of it. Chrissy thinks me hard on her, but so much depends on the habits we form when quite young. I believe with many persons tidiness is an acquired virtue; it requires some sort of education, and certainly not a little discipline.' 'But, Aunt Milly, I thought some people were always tidy; from their childhood, I mean. Chriss and I never were,' she continued, sorrowfully. 'Some people are methodical by nature; Cardie, for example. They early see the fitness and beauty of order. But, Olive, for your comfort, I am sure it is to be acquired.' 'Not by me, Aunt Milly.' 'My dear—why not? It is only a question of patience and discipline. If you made the rule now of never going to a drawer in a hurry. When Chrissy wants anything, she jerks the contents of the whole drawer on the floor; I have found her doing it more than once.' 'She could not find her gloves, and Cardie was waiting,' returned Olive, always desirous of screening another's fault. 'Yes; but she left it to you to pick up all the things again. If Chriss's gloves were in their right place, no one need have been troubled. I could find my gloves blindfold.' 'I am always tidying my own and Chrissy's drawers, Aunt Milly; but in a few days they are as bad as ever,' returned Olive, helplessly. 'Because you never have time to search quietly for a thing. Did you look in the glass, Olive, while you were doing your hair this morning?' 'I don't know. I think so. I was learning my German verses, I believe.' 'So Cardie had a right to grumble over your crooked parting and unkempt appearance. You should keep your duties like the contents of your drawers, neatly piled on the top of each other. No lady can arrange her hair properly and do German at the same time. Tell me, Olive, you have not so many headaches since I got your father to forbid your sitting up so late at night.' 'No, Aunt Milly; but all the same I wish you and he had not made the rule; it used to be such a quiet time.' 'And you learn all the quicker since you have had regular walks with Polly and Chriss.' 'I am less tired after my lessons, certainly. I thought that was because you took away the mending-basket; the stooping made my back ache, and——' 'I see,' returned Mildred, with a satisfied smile. Olive's muddy complexion was certainly clearer, and there was less heaviness in her gait, since she had judiciously insisted that the hours of rest should be kept intact. It had cost Olive some tears, however, for that quiet time when the household were sleeping round her was very precious to the careworn girl. Richard gave vent to an audible expression of pleasure when he noticed his sister's altered appearance, and his look of approbation was most pleasant to Mildred. 'If you would only hold yourself up, and smile sometimes, you would really look as well as other people,' was the qualified praise he gave her. 'I am glad you are pleased,' returned Olive, simply. 'I never expect you to admire me, Cardie. I am plainer than any one else, I know.' 'Yes; but you have nice eyes, and what a quantity of hair,' passing his hand over the thick coils in which Mildred had arranged it. 'She looks a different girl, does she not, Aunt Milly?' 'It is very odd, but I believe Cardie does not dislike me so much to-day,' Olive said, when she wished her aunt good-night. She and Polly took turns every night in coming into Mildred's room with little offers of service, but in reality to indulge in a cosy chat. It was characteristic of the girls that they never came together. Olive was silent and reserved before Polly, and Polly was at times a little caustic in her wit. 'We mix as badly as oil and water,' she said once. 'I shall always think Olive the most tiresome creature in the world. Chriss is far more amusing.' 'Why do you think so?' asked Mildred, gently. She was always gentle with Olive; these sort of weary natures need much patience and delicacy of handling, she thought. 'He speaks more kindly, and he has looked at me several times, not in his critical way, but as if he were not so much displeased at my appearance; but, Aunt Milly, it is so odd, his caring, I mean.' 'Why so, my dear?' 'If I loved a person very much, I should not care how they looked; they might be ugly or deformed, but it would make no difference. Cardie's love seems to vary somehow.' 'Anything unsightly is very grievous to him, but not in the way you mean, Olive. He is peculiarly tender over any physical infirmity. I liked his manner so to little Cathy Villers to-day.' 'But all the same he attaches too much importance to merely outward things,' returned Olive, who sometimes showed tenacity in her opinions; 'not that I blame him,' she continued, as though she feared she had been uncharitable, 'only that it is so odd.' Mildred was in a somewhat gladsome mood as she prepared for her drive. Richard's thoughtfulness pleased her; on the whole things were going well with her. Under her judicious management, the household had fallen into more equable and tranquil ways. There were fewer jars, and more opportunity for Roy's lurking spirit of fun to develop itself. She had had two or three stormy scenes with Chriss; but the little girl had already learned to respect the gentle firmness that would not abate one iota of lawful authority. 'We are learning our verbs from morning to night,' grumbled Chriss, in a confidential aside to Roy; 'that horrid one, "to tidy," you know. Aunt Milly is always in the imperative mood. I declare I am getting sick of it. Hannah or Rachel used to mend my gloves and things, and now she insists on my doing it myself. I broke a dozen needles one afternoon to spite her, but she gave me the thirteenth with the same sweet smile. It is so tiresome not to be able to provoke people.' But even Chrissy was secretly learning to value the kind forbearance that bore with her wayward fancies, and the skilfulness that helped her out of many a scrape. Mildred had made the rule that after six o'clock no lesson-books were to be opened. In the evening they either walked or drove, or sat on the lawn working, while Richard or Roy read aloud, Mildred taking the opportunity to overlook her nieces' work, and to remonstrate over the giant strides that Chriss's needle was accustomed to take. Even Olive owned these quiet times were very nice, while Mr. Lambert had once or twice been drawn into the charmed circle, and had paced the terrace in lieu of the churchyard, irresistibly attracted by the pleasant spectacle. Mildred was doing wonders in her quiet way; she had already gained some insight into parish matters; she had accompanied her brother in his house-to-house visitation, and had been much struck by the absence of anything like distress. Poverty was there, but not hard-griping want. As a general rule the people were well-to-do, independent, and fairly respectable. One village had a forlorn and somewhat neglected appearance; but the generality of Mr. Lambert's parishioners struck Mildred as far superior to the London poor whom she had visited. As yet she had not seen the darker side of the picture; she was shocked to hear Mr. Lambert speak on future occasions of the tendency to schism, and the very loose notions of morality that prevailed even among the better sort of people. The clergy had uphill work, he said. The new railway had brought a large influx of navvies, and the public-houses were always full. 'The commandments are broken just as easily in sight of God's hills as they are in the crowded and fetid alleys of our metropolis,' he said once. 'Human nature is the same everywhere, even though it be glossed over by outward respectability. Mildred had already come in contact with the Ortolans more than once, and had on many occasions seen the green and yellow shawls flitting in and out of the cottages. 'They do a great deal of good, and are really very worthy creatures, in spite of their oddities,' observed Mr. Lambert once. 'They live over at Hartley. There is a third one, an invalid, Miss Bathsheba, who is very different from the others, and is, I think, quite a superior person. When I think of the gallant struggle they have carried on against trouble and poverty, one is inclined to forgive their little whims: it takes all sorts of people to make up a world, Mildred.' Mildred thoroughly enjoyed her drive. Richard was in one of his brightest moods, and talked with more animation than usual, and seeing that his aunt was really interested in learning all about their surroundings, he insisted on putting up the pony-carriage, and took Mildred to see the church and the castle. The vicarage and churchyard were so pleasantly situated, and the latter looked so green and shady, that she was disappointed to find the inside of the church very bare and neglected-looking, while the damp earthy atmosphere spoke of infrequent services. There were urgent need of repairs, and a general shabbiness of detail that was pitiable: the high wooden pews looked comfortless, ordinary candles evidently furnished a dim and insufficient light. Mildred felt quite oppressed as she left the building. 'There can be no true Church-spirit here, Richard. Fancy worshipping in that damp, mouldy place; are there no zealous workers here, who care to beautify their church?' Richard shook his head. 'We cannot complain of our want of privileges after that. I have been speaking to my father, and I really fancy we shall acquire a regular choir next year, and if so we shall turn out the Morrisons and Gunnings. My father is over-lenient to people's prejudices; it grieves him to disturb long-rooted customs.' 'Where are we going now, Richard?' 'To Brough Castle; the ruin stands on a little hill just by; it is one of the celebrated Countess of Pembroke's castles. You know the legend, Aunt Milly?' 'No, I cannot say that I do.' 'She seems to have been a strong-minded person, and was always building castles. It was prophesied that as long as she went on building she would not die, and in consequence her rage for castle-building increased with her age; but at last there was a severe frost, during which no work could be carried on, and so the poor countess died.' 'What a lovely view there is from here, Richard.' 'Yes, that long level of green to our left is where the celebrated Brough fair is held. The country people use it as a date, "last Brough Hill," as they say—the word "Brough" comes from "Brugh," a fortification. My father has written a very clever paper on the origin of the names of places; it is really very interesting.' 'Some of the names are so quaint—"Smardale," for example.' 'Let me see, that has a Danish termination, and means Butter-dale—"dale" from "dal," a valley; Garsdale, grass-dale; Sleddale, from "slet," plain, the open level plain or dale, and so on. I recollect my father told us that "Kirkby," on the contrary, is always of Christian origin, as "Kirkby Stephen," and "Kirkby Kendal;" but perhaps you are not fond of etymology, Aunt Milly.' 'On the contrary, it is rather a favourite study of mine; go on, Richard. I want to know how Kirkby Stephen got its name.' 'I must quote my father again, then. He thinks the victorious Danes found a kirk with houses near it, and called the place Kirkby, and they afterwards learnt that the church was dedicated to St. Stephen, the proto-martyr, and then added his name to distinguish it from the other Kirkbys.' 'It must have been rather a different church, Richard.' 'I see I must go on quoting. He says, "We can almost picture to ourselves that low, narrow, quaint old church, with its rude walls and thatched roof." But, Aunt Milly, we must be thinking of returning, if we are to call on the Trelawnys. By the bye, what do you think of them?' 'Of Mr. Trelawny, you mean, for I certainly did not exchange three words with his daughter.' 'I noticed she was very silent; she generally is when he is present. What a pity it is they do not understand each other better.' He seemed waiting for her to speak, but Mildred, who was taking a last lingering look at the ruin, was slow to respond. 'He seems very masterful,' she said at last when they had entered the pony-carriage, and were driving homewards. 'Yes, and what is worse, so narrow in his views. He is very kind to me, and I get on with him tolerably well,' continued Richard, modestly; 'but I can understand the repressing influence under which she lives.' 'It seems so strange for a father not to understand his daughter.' 'I believe he is fond of her in his own way; he can hardly help being proud of her. You see, he lost his two boys when they were lads in a dreadful way; they were both drowned in bathing, and he has never got over their loss; it is really very hard for him, especially as his wife died not very long afterwards. They say the shock killed her.' 'Poor man, he has known no ordinary trouble. I can understand how lonely it must be for her.' 'Yes, it is all the worse that she does not care for the people about here. With the exception of us and the Delawares, she has no friends—no intimate friends, I mean.' 'Her exclusiveness is to blame, then; our neighbours seem really very kind-hearted.' 'Yes, but they are not her sort. I think you like the Delawares yourself, Aunt Milly?' 'Very much. I was just going to ask you more about them. Mrs. Delaware is very nice, but it struck me that she is not equal to her husband.' 'No; he is a fine fellow. You see, she was only a yeoman's daughter, and he educated her to be his wife.' 'That accounts for her homely speech.' 'My father married them. She was a perfect little rustic beauty, he says. She ran away from school twice, and at last told Mr. Delaware that he might marry her or not as he pleased, but she would have no more of the schooling; if she were not nice enough for him, she was for Farmer Morrison of Wharton Hall, and of course that decided the question.' 'I hope she makes him a good wife.' 'Very, and he is exceedingly fond of her, though she makes him uneasy at times. Her connections are not very desirable, and she can never be made to understand that they are to be kept in the background. I have seen him sit on thorns during a whole evening, looking utterly wretched, while she dragged in Uncle Greyson and Brother Ben every other moment.' 'I wish she would dress more quietly; she looks very unlike a clergyman's wife.' Richard smiled. 'Miss Trelawny is very fond of driving over to Warcop Vicarage. She enjoys talking to Mr. Delaware, but I have noticed his wife looks a little sad at not being able to join in their conversation; possibly she regrets the schooling;' but here Richard's attention was diverted by a drove of oxen, and as soon as the road was clear he had started a new topic, which lasted till they reached their destination. Kirkleatham was a large red castellated building built on a slight eminence, and delightfully situated, belted in with green meadows, and commanding lovely views of soft distances; that from the terrace in front of the house was especially beautiful, the church and town of Kirkby Stephen distinctly visible, and the grouping of the dark hills at once varied and full of loveliness. As they drove through the shrubbery Richard had a glimpse of a white dress and a broad-brimmed hat, and stopping the pony-carriage, he assisted Mildred to alight. 'Here is Miss Trelawny, sitting under her favourite tree; you had better go to her, Aunt Milly, while I find some one to take the mare;' and as Mildred obeyed, Miss Trelawny laid down her book, and greeted her with greater cordiality than she had shown on the previous visit. 'Papa is somewhere about the grounds; you can find him,' she said when Richard came up to them, and as he departed somewhat reluctantly, she led Mildred to a shady corner of the lawn, where some basket-chairs, and a round table strewn with work and books, made up a scene of rustic comfort. The blue curling smoke rose from the distant town into the clear afternoon air, the sun shone on the old church tower, the hills lay in soft violet shadow. 'I hope you admire our view?' asked Miss Trelawny, with her full, steady glance at Mildred; and again Mildred noticed the peculiar softness, as well as brilliancy, of her eyes. 'I think it is even more beautiful than that which you see from the vicarage windows. Mr. Lambert and I have often had a dispute on that subject.' 'But you have not the river—that gives such a charm to ours. I would not exchange those snatches of silvery brightness for your greater distances. What happiness beautiful scenery affords! hopeless misery seems quite incompatible with those ranges of softly-tinted hills.' A pensive—almost a melancholy—look crossed Miss Trelawny's face. 'The worst of it is, that our moods and Nature's do not always harmonise; sometimes the sunshine has a chilling brightness when we are not exactly attuned to it. One must be really susceptible—in fact, an artist—if one could find happiness in the mere circumstance of living in a beautiful district like ours.' 'I hope you do not undervalue your privileges,' returned Mildred, smiling. 'No, I am never weary of expatiating on them; but all the same, one asks a little more of life.' 'In what way?' 'In every possible way,' arching her brows, with a sort of impatience. 'What do rational human beings generally require?—work—fellowship—possible sympathy.' 'All of which are to be had for the asking. Nay, my dear Miss Trelawny,' as Ethel's slight shrug of the shoulders testified her dissent, 'where human beings are more or less congregated, there can be no lack of these.' 'They may possibly differ in the meaning we attach to our words. I am not speaking of the labour market, which is already glutted.' 'Nor I.' 'The question is,' continued the young philosopher, wearily, 'of what possible use are nine-tenths of the unmarried women? half of them marry to escape from the unbearable routine and vacuum of their lives.' Ethel spoke with such mournful candour, that Mildred's first feeling of astonishment changed into pity—so young and yet so cynical—and with such marginal wastes of unfulfilled purpose. 'When there is so much trouble and faultiness in the world,' she answered, 'there must be surely work enough to satisfy the most hungry nature. Have you not heard it asserted, Miss Trelawny, that nature abhors a vacuum?' To her surprise, a shade crossed Miss Trelawny's face. 'You talk so like our village Mentor, that I could almost fancy I were listening to him. Are there no duties but the seven corporal works of mercy, Miss Lambert? Is the intellect to play no part in the bitter comedy of women's lives?' 'You would prefer tragedy?' questioned Mildred, with a slight twitching of the corner of her mouth. It was too absurdly incongruous to hear this girl, radiant with health, and glorying in her youth, speaking of the bitter comedy of life. Mildred began to accuse her in her own mind of unreal sentiment, and the vaporous utterings of girlish spleen; but Ethel's intense earnestness disarmed her of this suspicion. 'I have no respect for the people; they are utterly brutish and incapable of elevation. I am horrifying you, Miss Lambert, but indeed I am not speaking without proof. At one time I took great interest in the parish, and used to hold mothers' meetings—pleasant evenings for the women. I used to give them tea, and let them bring their needlework, on condition they listened to my reading. Mr. Lambert approved of my plan; he only stipulated that as I was so very young—in age, I suppose, he meant—that Miss Prissy Ortolan should assist me.' 'And it was an excellent idea,' returned Mildred, warmly. 'Yes, but it proved an utter failure,' sighed Ethel. 'The women liked the tea, and I believe they got through a great deal of needlework, only Miss Prissy saw after that; but they cared no more for the reading than Minto would,' stooping down to pat the head of a large black retriever that lay at her feet. 'I had planned a course of progressive instruction, that should combine information with amusement; but I found they preferred their own gossip. I asked one woman, who looked more intelligent than the others, how she had liked Jean Ingelow's beautiful poem, "Two Brothers and a Sermon," which I had thought simple enough to suit even their comprehensions, and she replied, "Eh, it was fine drowsy stuff, and would rock off half-a-dozen crying babies."' Mildred smiled. 'I gave it up after that. I believe Miss Tabitha and Miss Prissy manage it. They read little tracts to them, and the women do not talk half so much; but it's very disheartening to think one's theory had failed.' 'You soared a little beyond them, you see.' 'I suppose so; but I thought their life was prosaic enough; but here comes my father and Richard. I see they have Dr. Heriot with them.' Ethel spoke quietly, but Mildred thought there was a slight change in her manner, which became less animated. Dr. Heriot looked both surprised and pleased when he saw Mildred; he placed himself beside her, and listened with great interest to the account of their afternoon's drive. On this occasion, Mildred's quiet fluency did not desert her. Mr. Trelawny was less stiff and ceremonious in his own house; he insisted, with old-fashioned politeness, that they should remain for some refreshment, and he himself conducted Mildred to the top of the tower, from which there was an extensive view. On their return, they found a charming little tea-table set out under the trees; and Ethel, in her white gown, with pink May blossoms in her hair, was crossing the lawn with Richard. Dr. Heriot was still lounging complacently in his basket-chair. Ethel made a charming hostess; but she spoke very little to any one but Richard, who hovered near her, with a happy boyish-looking face. Mildred had never seen him to such advantage; he looked years younger, when the grave restraint of his manners relaxed a little; and she was struck by the unusual softness of his dark eyes. In his best moods, Richard was undoubtedly attractive in the presence of elder men. He showed a modest deference to their opinions, and at the same time displayed such intelligence, that Mildred felt secretly proud of him. He was evidently a great favourite with Mr. Trelawny and his daughter. Ethel constantly appealed to him, and the squire scolded him for coming so seldom. The hour was a pleasant one, and Mildred thoroughly enjoyed it. Just as they were dispersing, and the pony-carriage was coming round, Dr. Heriot approached Ethel. 'Well, have you been to see poor Jessie?' he asked, a little anxiously. Miss Trelawny shook her head. 'You know I never promised,' she returned, as though trying to defend herself. 'I never think it fair to extort promises—people's better moods so rapidly pass away. If you remember, I only advised you to do so. I thought it would do you both good.' 'You need not rank us in the same category,' she returned, proudly; 'you are such a leveller of classes, Dr. Heriot.' 'Forgive me, but when you reach Jessie's standard of excellence, I would willingly do so. Jessie is a living proof of my theory—that we are all equal—and the education and refinement on which you lay such stress are only adventitious adjuncts to our circumstances. In one sense—we are old friends, Miss Trelawny; and I may speak plainly, I know—I consider Jessie greatly your superior.' A quick sensitive colour rose to Ethel's face. They were walking through the shrubbery; and for a moment she turned her long neck aside, as though to hide her pained look; but she answered, calmly— 'We differ so completely in our estimates of things; I am quite aware how high I stand in Dr. Heriot's opinion.' 'Are you sure of that?' answering her with the sort of amused gentleness with which one would censure a child. 'I am apt to keep my thoughts to myself, and am not quite so easy to read as you are, Miss Trelawny. So you will not go and see my favourite Jessie?' with a persuasive smile. 'No,' she said, colouring high; 'I am not in the mood for it.' 'Then we will say no more about it; and my remedy has failed.' But though he talked pleasantly to her for the remainder of the way, Mildred noticed he had his grave look, and that Ethel failed to rally her spirits. <hr style="width: 65%;" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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