Of the other personages of the drama, no avowed or very perceptible change could be remarked; and when the day for the Knightly Abbey pic-nic arrived, the party met beneath the sheltering shadow of its venerable walls apparently in the same humour that they had parted many weeks before, after the Weldon Grange dinner party.
The company was the same, save that old Mr. King and the Catholic priest were not of it.
Neither love-making nor anything else ever prevented Herbert Otterborne from taking care of his mother. It was not very often that she felt strong enough to join such a party as the present, but she had done so now chiefly, perhaps, because she wished to witness the pleasure which she was sure Janet would feel from the romantic beauty of the scene. Nor was she disappointed in this. The ruin is itself a very fine one, and the woodland scene in which it stands is admirably well calculated to add to the charm.
Sir Charles, Mr. Mathews, and Stephen Cornington, went on horseback. Herbert drove his mother, Mrs. Mathews, and Janet, in an open carriage; and the Steyton and Price families each occupied their own.
The drive was rather a long one, for the latter part of it was very rough and slow driving and when the party had all assembled upon the soft turf, which now made the flooring of the long and graceful nave, it was voted nem con that the dinner should be immediately prepared, and the walk, which was to exhibit the beauty of the surrounding scenery to the strangers, taken after it.
This resolution immediately put all the servants into a state of great activity, and several of the gentlemen volunteered their assistance in preparing the splendid dining-room for the accommodation of the party. Chairs and a table were always to be had at a neighbouring cottage; and everything else that reasonable hearts could wish for was brought forth from the carriages.
Herbert, as soon as he saw his mother safely treading the velvet carpet, which was kept in excellent order throughout the whole of the ruin, and saw her, too, with her arm passed through that of Janet, immediately placed himself, as in duty bound, and as a matter of course, at the side of Miss Steyton, and offered her his arm.
She took it very much in the same manner — that is to say, as a matter of course; but any very watchful observer might have perceived that her eye wandered, and that she did not look up at his “beautiful head,” as she was wont to describe it, with such passionate admiration as heretofore.
In short, the truth must be told, and therefore it is more convenient to disclose it at once. The heart of the beautiful Miss Steyton was not a constant heart, but it was a very inflammable one.
In the interval between her leaving school and the period at which the reader has been introduced to her, she had already had three love fits. The first was for a very clashing young nobleman, whom she had met at the county ball (the first at which she had ever appeared), and who, equally struck by her beauty and the uncouth vivacity of her manner, danced with her four times during the evening, and swore, when he gave a final pressure to her hand at parting, that unless some dreadful necessity tore him unexpectedly from the neighbourhood, he should be at her feet within twenty-four hours.
The enraptured Emily went home the most enamoured of maidens, and scrawled with a pencil, which she found on her dressing-table, the name of her noble partner, with the word “LADY” before it, merely as an experiment to see how it would look. Nay, before she went to bed — although the night’s candles had long been burnt out, and that jocund day was peeping at her through the half-opened window shutters, she wrote her own name as “Emily Cartagenet!” at least half a dozen times on the fly-leaf of a novel.
In short, she was, as she would herself have acknowledged to anybody else as frankly as she did to her maid Minny, most violently and distractedly in love!
But unfortunately the “dreadful necessity,” to which Lord Cartagenet had alluded as possible, undoubtedly occurred, for Emily Steyton never saw Lord Cartagenet again.
She bore her disappointment, however, wonderfully well; assuring her confidential Minny that she did not care for the paltry fellow one atom more than she did for the man in the moon.
“A pretty idiot he must be, Minny! must he not?” said she, “not to get his own way in such a thing as that. I despise all such lovers and all such love!”
Tho second of her amatory fevers was, I am sorry to confess it, brought on by the audacious staring, and still more audacious familiarity of a young linen-draper, whose acquaintance she made at one side of a Hertford shop, while her mamma was buying a few dozen of dusters at the other.
“I tell you what, Minny,” she had said on this occasion, “there is a young fellow at mamma’s country linen-draper’s that is worth a dozen young lords any day of the week. And what’s more, you must find his name out: mind that, if you please. He has got the most beautiful, monstrous dark blue eyes that ever were seen; and his hair is dark too, and curls naturally, and his teeth I do really think are almost as beautiful as my own, and his whiskers are divine, and he is very tall.
Now mind all that, Miss Minny, and let me know “what the beautiful creature is called before I go to bed to-morrow night. And if you don’t, you shan’t have my last new bonnet but one, for months to come. Do you hear?”
Minny’s reply, both in word and deed, was this, “To hear is to obey;” and, accordingly, by the hour of dressing for dinner on the following day, she was enabled to inform her young lady that the name of the youth in question was Robert Tomkins, though the importance of the information was very considerably lessened by the veracious Minny’s feeling herself constrained to add, that the young man was married.
Miss Emily, however, behaved very honourably on this occasion, for she not only gave the bonnet alluded to above, in return for this very disagreeable news, but she had the courage to bind herself by a very solemn promise to Minny on the spot, — namely, that she never would look at any man’s eyes again, till she had found out whether he was married or single.
“Not that I care one single farthing about Robert Tomkins,” she added; “so, don’t you take it into your head to fancy I do. Our French governess always used to tell us great girls, as soon as we were old enough to understand her, that the best thing a girl could do was to fall in love a good many times before she was married, because then she might have had enough of it, perhaps, and not be so likely to fall in love again afterwards. So I don’t the least mind about Lord Cartagenet, or Robert Tomkins either. I dare say it is all for the best.”
It was in this state of mind that she had first become acquainted with Herbert Otterborne, that is to say, as a young lady who had completed her education; for he had been hard at work preparing for his degree at the time she was first “brought out.” That she should immediately fall in love with him was, of course, inevitable, and accordingly she did fall in love with him.
But on this occasion the tender passion came upon her “with a difference.” Her love, this time, was of a graver quality. She felt, as she told Minny, that she really was grown up now, and that being in love at present was not at all like being in love when she was a schoolgirl, nor even like the first falling in love after she came home. “Now, Minny, I know and understand all about it; and you will never again hear me talk such nonsense as I used to do.”
Minny replied, with much discretion, that she was very glad to hear it.
“The great difference,” resumed Emily, “is that now, when I fall in love, I mean really and truly to be married. And so I will, too, you may depend upon it. My papa never denies me anything, and I am quite sure he will not let me break my heart for love, and that is just what I shall do if I don’t marry — somebody that I know of.”
All that followed after this is already sufficiently known to the reader to make him comprehend why it was that the taking of Herbert Otterborne’s arm appeared to be so completely a matter of course to the beautiful Emily.
But Stephen Cornington had not gazed upon her in vain! It was not in vain that he had passed many evenings after their first important interview a
t the Grange, in exerting all his talents, and all his faculties, in order to captivate her.
For a week or two, the agreeable notion of being engaged, kept her in some degree quiet, notwithstanding all the insidious attacks upon her peace made by the looks, the sighs, the songs, the dancing, the hand-pressings, and the occasional hints at selfdestruction of Mr. Stephen Cornington. But by degrees she certainly began to suspect that Stephen was really and truly a monstrous deal handsomer than Herbert; and in this opinion Minny confessed that she too perfectly agreed; after which, all the conversations between the mistress and the maid on this interesting subject became most thoroughly sincere and confidential; for Minny no longer scrupled to avow, that, to her mind, the young squire at the Manor-house was a great deal too pale to be really handsome; but that as for Mr. Cornington, he was out-and-out the most noble gentleman to look at, that ever she had seen in all her born days.
Upon hearing this, Emily replied with her usual frankness, “Oh, as to that, Minny, I should not care a farthing about it. Though it is as true as gospel that he is the noblest-looking creature that was ever sent upon earth. But I should not mind that one farthing, I tell you, if it was not for his bewitching ways! A woman must be made of iron itself, Minny, to be looked at, as he looks at me, and not feel it! God knows what is to become of me! I suppose that, with all my money and all my beauty, I shall have to die of a broken heart at last.”
And here the beauteous Emily positively began to weep.
Thereupon her confidante, as in duty bound, endeavoured to console her, by observing that, as long as a young lady was unmarried, it was never too late for her to change her mind. But in reply to this, the disconsolate Emily shook her head, observing that it might do very well for a poor girl, like Minny, to change her mind as often as she liked, till she was absolutely and positively married; but that it was a very different thing when a young lady of fortune, like herself, was engaged to such a young man as Herbert Otterborne, the heir of a title, and to the finest old place in the whole country.
“Just fancy the rage of that terrible grandee, Sir Charles,” she continued, “just fancy him, Minny, after arranging all about the settlements with papa, and sending for a London lawyer on purpose because papa was too gouty to go to London — just fancy, I say, my breaking off the match after all that! I should die of fright in that case, not so much about papa as about Sir Charles. And it is as well to die of a broken heart as of a fright, you know.”
“Upon my word, Miss, I don’t know what to say,” replied Minny, knitting her brows, and looking very much troubled; “it certainly does seem to be a very crooked business, and that’s a fact; and if I was you, I would just go quietly on, letting things stay seemingly just as they have been, and who can say, Miss, but that by the blessing of God something may happen one way or another that may make it possible like for you to get off with the one and on with the other. If tip’s handsome young Mr. Stephen loves you as he ought, he will find some way to give you a helping hand, I’ll be bound for it.”
“Love me! If he loves me? If Stephen Cornington loves me? Why, you idiot fool, he is mad for love of me!” cried the impassioned Emily—” downright raving mad, I tell you; and it must be a cleverer conjuror than you are to tell how it will all end!”
“Mercy on me, Miss, if it don’t make me tremble from head to foot to hear you!” replied Minny; “you must know best, of course, Miss; but to my humble thinking, it is no more than right that you should stand to all the scolding in the world rather than that love for you should lead to the murder and destruction of such a gentleman. It would take a great deal of cruelty to kill Squire Otterborne, Miss.”
These last words were accompanied by a little smile of the most provoking quality.
The only reply made by Emily was the stout stamping of her stout foot upon the carpet, and such a frown as might have terrified her attendant, had she not cleverly perceived that the feeling of anger which produced that frown was not for her, but for another.
This conversation occurred while the beautiful Emily was dressing for dinner on the day before that on which the pic-nic to Knightly Abbey took place; but the young lady was not aware that the whole of it was very faithfully reported to Mr. Stephen Cornington, in a bowery lane at no great distance from the Lodge, before the faithful Minny lay down to rest that night.
This slight retrospect was necessary to render what follows intelligible.
CHAPTER XXXII.
WE must now return to Knightly Abbey. It was quite impossible that an al fresco dinner-party could have been more successful. The company, however, were not permitted to sit very long at table, except, indeed, those who insisted upon sipping their wine and eating their fruit, much as they might have done at home.
Sir Charles, Mr. Steyton, and Mr. Price were, however, the only individuals who had the boldness to declare that they preferred this to anything which they were likely to find in the neighbouring forest. The rest of the party set off with the avowed intention of taking a long walk; for as the driving home by the light of a full moon was upon this occasion no inconsiderable part of the promised pleasure, they had more time than usual to spare for their ramblings.
Herbert, however, knew perfectly well that a long walk must not be attempted by his mother; and it had been already agreed between Mrs. Mathews and himself that the lady of the Grange should be the companion of the lady of the Manor-house in a particularly sheltered nook, which contained a rustic seat, and which was sufficiently near the still occupied dinner-table to prevent any nervous feelings about their being left without protection.
“I must escort my mother and Mrs. Mathews to the bower I have prepared for them,” said Herbert, addressing the whole of the walking party collectively, but with an especial bow to Emily; “but William Price knows the way to the Great Oak, and I will join you there before you have had half time enough to admire it sufficiently.”
It took rather more time, however, than he had expected before he could succeed in rendering the sylvan shelter of his mother and her friend as comfortable as he wished it to be, for he had to ransack the carriages for cloaks, and then he had to arrange them in such a manner as to display all they wished to look upon, and at the same time to protect them from every breeze they might not wish to feel. But by the help of a little ingenuity and patience both these objects were accomplished, and Herbert Otterborne set off to join the walkers at the Great Oak tree. Altogether, they might, perhaps, have preceded him thither about twenty minutes; but he knew that a circular seat round the noble stem of this magnificent tree offered a favourite lounging-place for all the visitants to Knightly Abbey, and he therefore indulged himself by passing with no very hasty steps along the beautiful forest glade which led to it.
Perceiving as he drew near that the seat was filled, though not very closely, all round the tree, he looked amongst them to discover the precise place occupied by the beautiful Emily; but he soon discovered that she was not there.
“You are looking for Emily,” said Mrs. Steyton, laughing; “but all things considered, Mr. Otterborne, you certainly tried her patience a little.”
“I hope I have not detained you,” replied Herbert, colouring; “but I assure you,” he added, with a manner as gay as her own, “I have been building a house since you left me. There was too much air for my mother in the drawing-room she and Mrs. Mathews have chosen for themselves, and I have been stealing all your cloaks to hang up round them.”
“We all know that you are the very best son in the world,” replied Mrs. Steyton; “and I daresay you will find it no very difficult matter to make your peace with Emily But where the child has run to, Heaven knows. I have no doubt she meant to punish you for keeping away from her so long, Mr. Herbert. But come along! We shall find her in a few minutes I daresay.”
Thus challenged by his future mother-in-law, it was nearly impossible that Herbert could avoid offering his arm, which the plump lady accepted very graciously; and they immediately set off on the usu
al well-known path to the little waterfall, which was the great lion of the forest, followed by the rest of the party The waterfall, as it was rather ostentatiously called, was of a sort, to the construction of which art had contributed rather more than nature, but it answered its intended purpose admirably, for it furnished an object and a name just sufficient to fill up the hours of a pic-nic day Both in going to this waterfall, and in retarding from it, every individual of the party asked his or her neighbour more than once, this very obvious question: “What can have become of Miss Steyton and Mr. Cornington?” But the question could produce no answer more satisfactory than “Heaven knows!” As they approached the place where they had dined, however, some hopeful voices prophesied that they should be sure to find them with the party that had been stationary there. But these hopeful voices prophesied falsely, for when they arrived at the dinner-table, which was the place of rendezvous, they found the friends they had left there impatiently awaiting them; but no Miss Emily Steyton, or any Mr. Stephen Cornington, either.
The sort of alarm occasioned by their absence, and loudly expressed by many of the party, may be easily imagined; but all this was set very gaily to rights by the explanation of the young lady’s papa, who laughed heartily at the alarm of his friends, and said, “I know Miss Emily a good deal better than any of you, I suspect, and I understand it all perfectly.” And then Mr. Steyton looked at his future son-in-law, and laughed again.
“What can you mean, Mr. Steyton?” said the young lady’s mamma. “I can’t imagine why you laugh in that strange sort of way, because Miss Emily chooses to keep us all waiting here. What do you mean?”
“Well, then, my dear, if you will make me speak out, I will tell you what it is that I suspect has been the cause of it. It is just like the saucy beauty! I suspect, then, Mr. Herbert Otterborne, that she took a jealous fit against your lady mother, because you stopped behind with her, you know, instead of giving your arm to your lady-love, and so she was determined to punish you a little. Well, well! never mind, the lawyers cannot keep us much longer, I hope; and as soon as they give the word, our skittish young lady must be ringed and yoked, and then you will be able to manage her.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 404
