Simplicity and Fascination: or, Guardians and wards

Front matter

'WILL VOU ALLOW ME TO OFFER YOU A VERY ROUGH SHAWL?'— PAGE 77. SIMPLICITY and FASCINATION. By ANNE BE ALE, AUTHOR OF fit— 'GLADYS, TIIE REAPER,' ' IDONEA,' 'THE QUEEN* o" THE MAY,' 'FAY ARLINGTON,' ETC 1 This small inheritance my father left me Contenteth me, and is worth a monarchy. I seek not to wax great by others' waning, Ur gather wealth, I care not with what envy ; Sufficeth that 1 have maintains my state. And sends the poor well pleased from my gate.' Htnry VI. Part II, GRIFFITH AND FARRAN, SUCCESSORS TO NEWBERV AND HARRIS, WEST CORNER OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD, LONDON. E. P. DUTTON & CO., NEW YORK. lie Rights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved. To My Mother, WHO WILL READ WITH INDULGENCE, AND RECOGNISE, AS SHE READS, MANY FAMILIAR SCENES, THIS STORY IS INSCRIBED, IN TOKEN OF THE LOVE AND GRATITUDE OF HER AFFECTIONATE DAUGHTER, THE AUTHOR.

Chapter I

' Born in one week, and in one font baptized On the same festal day, they grew together. And their first tottering steps were hand in hand While the two fathers, in half-earnest sport, Betrothed them to each other.' Hartley Col_rid_e. I MUST begin my story by requesting the reader to go back with me over many years already trodden by the foot of time, and to walk with me to the door of a snug and pretty house, situated about a mile from a small market town in the county of Somerset. The evening is just beginning to close in, as we move off from the turnpike road, cross a stile, and pass through a fine field of corn, ready for the sickle. Brightly shine the blue corn-flowers and ruddy poppies amongst the golden ears, and thickly twines the wild clematis in the green hedgerow. This neat gate at the bottom of the field leads us into a large orchard, full of ripe apples, waiting for the hungry jaws of the cider-mill ; in the midst of which is a huge round pigeon-house, towards which pigeons are flocking, as to their dormitory.

We pass the well-perforated pigeon-house, and, emerging from the orchard through another neat gate, circumnavigate a pond full of sleepy ducks and geese, cross the road and reach an ornamental wicket, flanked by a trim hedge of laurel and privet. We venture through this inviting entrance, and find ourselves in a small court, in front of a low-roofed thatched house, covered with roses and Virginian creeper, into whose latticed windows we long to peep, sure of finding peace and plenty within. Before knocking at the door, we glance round us, and see another ornamental wicket-gate opposite us, dividing more trim hedges of laurel and privet, through which we spy a straight gravel walk, and the heads of sunflowers, hollyhocks, and dahlias, that stand up proudly to look at the setting sun through some dark yew trees at the bottom of the path.

From certain rural sounds, of men whistling, cattle lowing, horses tramping, poultry cackling, and human voices answering human voices, we feel convinced that there must be a large farm yard somewhere at the back, but we are not permitted to see any of the detail here in the front. We knock at the door, and are admitted by a rosy country girl into a passage, where is a stand of geraniums, and thence conducted into a large hall, where we will sit down in a corner, invisible as ghosts by daylight, and look about us. This hall is a substantial apartment, panelled with black oak. Heavy oaken rafters form the ceiling, and polished oaken planks the floor ; while an oaken chimney-corner usurps a third of one side of the room, on the hearth of which are placed two bright steel dogs, or andirons. Across these dogs lie big logs of wood, that burn as if they took a pleasure in enlivening by their cheerful flames the party assembled near them.

Seated at a table, with a large work-box open before her, and a basket containing all kinds of stockings at her elbow, sits a young girl, engaged in sewing a button on a boy's waistcoat. She may be about sixteen or seventeen years old, and looks very smiling and good-tempered. By her side, minutely examining the contents of her work-box, sits a youth about her own age, of a grave and sedate countenance ; and opposite the pair, a curly-headed, pale little boy, busily occupied in covering a piece of paper ■with hieroglyphical pencil-marks. In a large green chair is a jolly, sunburnt, elderly man, smoking a pipe. He has settled himself in one chimney-corner, from whence he looks complacently about him ; whilst in the opposite chimney-corner sits a tall, middle-aged woman, erect and stately, knitting or knotting, or doing some curious ornamental work.

On a huge oak settle, that stretches from one side of the chimney half down the room, and partly encircles the whole party with a projecting arm, are three children of various ages. The eldest, a boy of about fifteen, is reading, or seeming to read, but still occasionally joining in the conversation of the rest. As he leans carelessly over the arm of the settle, to let the blaze from the fire fall upon his book, an anxious, thoughtful expression steals over his face, and makes him look too careworn for his years. The other two children, a boy and girl, are twins, and as much alike as twins are usually supposed to be. They are remarkably handsome, and apparently as remarkably idle, for a pile of lesson-books lies unopened by the side of the boy, together with a small unfinished boat ; and near the girl is a piece of needlework, with the needle and thread hanging loosely upon it ; whilst the pair are occupied in tying together a bunch of ripe corn-ears of unusually large growth, and occasionally picking out a grain and eating it.

When they have finished this business, the boy rises, and, having called the attention of the party to the size and splendour of his autumn bouquet, stands upon a chair and fastens it by a string to the mantelpiece, which, unlike our modern ones, is nearer the ceiling by a yard than the floor. This being achieved, he jumps down rather noisily, and stumbles against the quiet possessor of the pipe, who utters a growl ; then peeps over the shoulder of the younger child at the table, and, giving him a hearty knock on the crown of his head, exclaims, ' Well done, Charley ! I declare if it isn't as like as it can stare. Look, Captain Burford ! Aunty, look ! If he hasn't made a capital likeness of Jessie and Nelson ! ' ' Oh, Peter, how rough you are ! ' said Charley, yielding up the paper, and rubbing dolorously the crown of his head. ' By Neptune, that's not so bad !' said Captain Burford, hand ing the paper over to his opposite neighbour. ' We must make an artist of him, after all.

What do you say, Miss Burton ? Shall we apprentice him to the arts? ' ' I do not think my poor brother would have thought of apprenticing him to anything,' replied Miss Burton, looking at the paper through an eyeglass. ' And as to an artist, he would as soon have thought of making him a shoemaker.' Charley hung down his head, and Captain Burford laughed. 'And why not a shoemaker?' he asked; 'it will be "all the same a hundred years hence." ' 'You always put one down with that very uncomfortable sentence,' said Miss Burton, with an irritated voice. ' Let me see the likeness,' said Jessie, laying aside the waist coat. ' Well, I declare, it is like you, Nelson ; but if this is like me, I am certainly no beauty.' ' Oh, but you are a beauty, Jessie ! ' exclaimed Charley ; ' you have such a nice smile.' ' Oh, my dear,' said Miss Burton, 'it requires something more than a smile to make a beauty ; ' and she drew herself up with a proud consciousness of good iooks. 'This really would be like you, Jessie,' said Nelson, ' if it had the smile.' ' Just give it to me,' said Charley. ' Now, Jessie dear, laugh.

Look again now, Nelson.' ' That is capital ! ' said Nelson. ' Why, you are a great genius, Charley, and no mistake.' The little boy smiled and blushed. The picture was again handed round, and finally secured by Nelson, who put it in his pocket-book. 'Why don"t you sketch me?' asked the young lady on the settle, putting herself in an attitude. ' You're not good-looking enough, Miss Anna,' broke in the bookworm ; ' is she, Aunt Betsey ? ' ' Pynsent, you always discourage that dear child ! ' whispered Aunt Betsey. ' You know she and Peter are the only ones who inherit the family beauty.' 'Very complimentary!' said Pynsent, resuming his book. At this crisis the red-cheeked servant-maid came in with a letter, which she presented to Aunt Betsey. ' Why do you not bring the letters on a waiter, Dinah ? ' asked Aunt Betsey. ' Iz, zure, ma'am,' said Dinah, making a hasty exit. ' Excuse me,' said Aunt Betsey, glancing round apologetically. ' To be sure ! ' said the Captain impatiently ; adding to himself in an undertone, 'Why don't she make haste?' All eyes were fixed on the letter, which took a long time to read. ' So, ma'am ? ' at last suggested the Captain interrogatively. ' I thought so,' said Aunt Betsey majestically ; ' but you would insist on my writing.

Nothing satisfactory to be obtained from those sort of people.' 'I suppose I may see it, as your co-guardian?' said the Captain. Aunt Betsey passed over the letter, and he read it attentively. ' Odds bobs, madam ! ' he said, when he had finished, ' what would you have? Why, the good gentleman offers to educate one of the girls !' ' Educate, indeed ! and for a governess ! What would my dear brother' — ' Your dear brother, ma'am, and my good friend, is, I am sorry to say, no more ; and we must look at things as they are. Co-trustee number three, — I'm poetical, you see, — what do you think of the matter ? ' Here the Captain handed the letter to Jessie. She looked perplexed at the disputants, but said, ' Why, aunty, it really is very kind. He says not only that he will educate one of the girls, but that if the boys are steady and turn out well, he may lend them a helping hand.

I think we should be thankful.' ' Very fine for you, my dear,' said Aunt Betsey ; 'you are too old to be sent to school, and then made a governess of.' ' I only wish I were not,' said Jessie. Here a long discussion ensued between the Captain and Miss Burton, in which Jessie was occasionally called upon to take a part, concerning the propriety of submitting Miss Anna bella Burton — the little girl now pouting on the settle — to the horrors of a first-rate education, with a view to her becoming a governess. An elderly bachelor uncle in London, whom none of the present party had ever seen, proposed putting her to a good school for some years as a pupil, then making a teacher and learner of her in the same school, and finally launching her on life as a governess. The discussion was gradually warm ing into a quarrel, in spite of Jessie's quiet interference, when it was put a stop to by Miss Anna herself, who said suddenly, — ' But, Captain Burford, I don't want to be a governess.' ' The devil you don't ! ' said the Captain in an angry tone ; ' pray then, little miss, what may you want to be ? ' 'I want to be a lady, and marry an officer,' was the reply, with a naughty toss of the head.

A general laugh put the disputants in good humour. ' But, you proud little minx,' said the Captain, ' you know Nelson is going to marry Jessie. They have been engaged ever since they were born.' 'Oh, I know that ! ' said Anna; 'but I don't mean to marry Nelson.' ' And pray on what officer may you have fixed your affec tions?' asked the Captain. Again Anna tossed her head. ' But, my dear Anna,' here interrupted Jessie, ' if you mean to marry an officer, you must learn to play, and sing, and dance, and draw, and I know not what besides.' 'Must I?' said the little girl, running towards her sister; ' then perhaps I will go to school, and then I can marry when I leave school, and shouldn't need to be a governess. I should like to go to a grand school, Aunt Betsey, very much. Will you write and tell Uncle Timothy that I am very much obliged to him?' Aunt Betsey was softened at once.

She had no doubt that any girl possessing, as Anna did, the Burton beauty, would be sure to marry as soon as she left school ; so she yielded, for once, to her co-trustees. ' I declare we are nearly all settled now,' remarked the Captain, taking a long pull at his pipe. 'There's Jessie, the farmer; Pynsent, the doctor; Peter, the sailor; Anna, the — gov — wife of the officer; and Charley — well, you must have some more schooling, my boy, and then we will see about you.' ' I will help Jessie to manage the farm,' said Charley, putting a finishing touch into the eye of the Captain, whose picture he had been trying to take for the hundredth time. 'Very good! very good! So now let us have our rubber,' exclaimed the Captain. Charley opened a small box that he took down from a bookshelf, and produced two packs of cards, which he placed opposite each other on the round table, and beside each pack four ivory markers.

Aunt Betsey laid aside her knotting, and seated herself opposite Nelson, whilst the Captain had Jessie for a vis-a-vis and partner. ' Mind, Jessie,' said the Captain, ' that you return my lead, and remember how many trumps are out.' ' May I put up your tricks, Captain Burford ? ' asked Anna, seating herself by his side. 'To be sure, Mrs. Colonel Somebody. Only remember to shove them together when they are six.' The game went on. ' Three by cards and two by honours,' said the Captain. ' I must take a pinch of snuff upon the strength of it,' and he pulled out a large round box. 'Why did you trump my best diamond, Nelson ? ' asked Miss Burton ; ' we lost a trick by it.' 'I thought all the others were out,' replied Nelson, 'and that my father would overtrump me.' 'Six tricks again, Captain Burford,' said Anna, pushing the graduated cards up together. ' Oh, I beg your pardon ! ' exclaimed Jessie ; ' I quite thought that the ace was out.' ' There, my dear ! ' cried the Captain impatiently, ' we shall lose the game by that oversight.

How many, Anna ? Two by honours and two by cards ? Five and four are nine. In nine holes, by Jove ! If you hadn't led your king, we should have been game, and now I daresay we shall lose it. Nine never won a game.' ' I am very sorry ; I really will try to play better,' said Jessie, dealing and turning up a deuce of clubs. 'Good luck under a black deuce,' said the Captain. 'Con found the cards! they come from Beggars' Row, sure enough. Two to one we shall lose the game ; not a trump in my hand ! I give it up.' ' I thought, Captain Burford, that whist meant silence,' said Miss Burton, leading the ace of trumps, and continuing to play all the honours. ' I told you so, Jessie ; nine never won a game. Go on, Nelson, now it's your turn ; pick 'em up. Nine — ten eleven —twelve, by Jove! Six by cards and four by honours.

A FASCINA TION. 13 slam. There, Jessie ! you lost that game ; I vow I will never play with you again.' And here Captain Burford got up, fumed about the room, and sat down again. ' You're wanted, please, miss,' said the red-faced servant, com ing in and addressing Jessie. ' Pynsent, will you take my hand for a few minutes ? ' said Jessie. Pynsent took the cards, and Jessie went into the kitchen. And such a kitchen ! A huge dresser, with three shelves covered with pewter plates, and the rest with white ware, all shining and clean ; the tall chimney-piece, adorned with brass and tin candlesticks, also shining ; the prickly dry furze and crisp sticks crackling on the hearth, and the tea-kettle singing lustily above them, proclaiming itself ready for Captain Burford's ' toddy ; ' gammons of bacon, hams, and tongues hanging from the wooden raft on the ceiling, and bread and cheese spread upon the white deal table.

Jessie found a labourer's wife awaiting her, who wanted her husband's wages in advance, and medicine for children ill of the measles. She went up-stairs to her large storeroom, and pro cured the necessary articles. She returned and satisfied the poor woman, and promised to visit the children ; then she went about some household matters with Dinah, and finally ordered in supper. When she returned to the hall, she was greeted by the Captain with, — ' We've beaten them, Jessie ; double, single, and the rub — four points. We must tell Uncle James that we beat Aunt Betsey to shivers. I wonder he isn't here ; he is afraid of you, ma'am ; he seldom comes here of an evening now.' Aunt Betsey blushed and frowned. Here Charley put away the cards, and Miss Annabella con descended to help Dinah to lay the cloth.

A plain, substantial supper was spread, and a jug of Somersetshire cider, together with a steaming tea-kettle, appeared. ' Let me make the toddy,' said Pynsent. ' Give me the keys to get the rum, Jessie ; ' and Pynsent, unlocking a cupboard, produced a right jolly-looking bottle. ' One slice of lemon, two lumps of sugar, a wine-glass full of rum, and the rest water,' said the Captain. ' I know,' replied Pynsent. ' Well, Miss Betsey,' said Captain Burford, ' I hope you will all come to my ball to-morrow. It will be our last kick-up before Nelson leaves, and one don't know when he may sail. Heigh ho ! Why wouldn't you be a sailor, Nelson, if you must go away? And I named you after the great commander, too. I hate sojering. ' I do not much enjoy children's dances,' said Aunt Betsey, ' but I shall be happy to avail myself of your kind invitation on this occasion.' ' And you, Jessie, and the rest ? ' asked Captain Burford. 'Oh, I think you must excuse me ! ' replied Jessie; 'I must look after the harvest.' ' Hang the harvest ! you must come to my ball.' ' I cannot dance well enough, and should not like to disgrace your guardianship,' said Jessie, smiling. 'Oh, Jessie, how unkind ! ' said Nelson.

Tessie glanced reproachfully at Nelson, and then at her halfmourning dress. The youth understood her, and was silent. ' Aunty will take Anna, and the three boys can do without me,' said Jessie. ' Indeed we can't,' cried the two younger ones ; ' nobody is so good at games as you. It is worth a pound to play at blindman's-buff with you.' ' But you will not have blindman's-buff to-morrow,' said Jessie, ' because all the grand people will be there.' ' Then I shan't go,' said Pynsent ; ' I hate grand people.' 'That's more sincere than polite,' said the Captain, 'seeing that I consider myself a grand person, and Aunt Betsey has no mean notion of her family ; but least said, soonest mended. I shall expect you all. Mind, Jessie, no excuses ! I should be miserable without your good-natured face ; and as to Nelson, fie ! for shame ! and you engaged to him ever since you were born !

I remember it as if it was to-day. Nelson came into the world the 20th of June 1815, — year memorable for the battle of Waterloo, — and in the evening of that day I walked down here to ask why your father hadn't been to congratulate me, and drink his health. To my astonishment, I found that you were born the same day. Old schoolfellows, old friends, son and daughter. We sat down at that identical round table, and called for the toddy. We drank one glass to Nelson's health, one glass to your health, and one to your marriage at some suture day. First time I ever saw your father more than a little merry, though those were days of hard drinking. It was then I vowed I would call my boy Nelson, after the great commander, and destined him for the navy. Your father looked through the old pedigree to find a grand family name for you.

He was divided between Jessica and Annabella, but I inclined to the former, because I like the song of "Jessie of Dunblane," and so it was settled. He wanted to add " Pynsent," on account of that confounded family of Burton Pynsent, that he said you belonged to ; but I suggested that it was a boy's name, so it was reserved for this younker here. Ah ! those were happy days, weren't they, Miss Burton ? Well, and so are these : we have no reason to complain. Now, Nel, past half after nine. " Early to bed " — you know the rest' There was a great shaking of hands, and a general rush to open the door, where the full-faced harvest-moon looked so mag nificent overhead, that all went out to greet her, and to congratulate one another on the prospect of a continuance of fine weather and a good harvest.

And now, patient reader, you and I will also emerge from our corner, and, wishing our new fiiencls good-night, proceed to make some fresh acquaintances. C H A P T E R I I. ' A doctor for near half a century. He lived and laboured for the good of men : Though called to watch the sick-bed of the rich, And earn the fee for care and 'tendance due, He never shrank, at all unseemly hours, From waiting on the poor man's couch us pain, And living to alleviate the ills That human nature is foredoom'd to bear.' WHILST you and I, gentle reader, have been employed in the hall at Fairfield, making acquaintance with the family of orphan children and their guardians, there has been much anxiely and some bustle within a few miles of us. Just when our little party were about to sit down to their rubber, Mr. Michelson was pacing impatiently the dining-room of Michelson Hall.

He had just risen from his solitary dessert, and had left his wine-glass dry and his plate unsoiled. He was a tall, hand some man of middle age, dressed in black, and, as the French would say, tire a quatre epingles. His head was just beginning to be bald a little above the sorehead, and his hair, naturally wavy and of a dark brown, was carefully brushed over the in vidious space of white. His eyes were fine, — too sine, perhaps, too large, too searching, too bright, almost too bold; your glance fell beneath them, you scarcely knew why, not exactly from personal shame, but from a kind of intuitive shame for him : they professed to be blue, but verged upon green ; and if, to borrow again from the French tongue, so rich in figures, le bleu et le vert se fu rent, it is not to be wondered at that they were so restless and yet so impudent.

The nose was un peu retrousse. (French again ! but what polite writer of the present refined age could say 'turned up,' when speaking of the nose of a gentleman of ten thousand a year ?) The lips were red and full, and con cealed, or, more properly, were frequently parted to reveal, a magnificent set of teeth. Diamond studs adorned his shirt, and his shirt-collar was as stiff as starch could make it He was altogether an uncomfortably good-looking man. At last the door opened. ' Well, Stephens, what news ? ' he said, as a tall, wary-looking butler entered. ' Miss Rutherford started by the mail for London this morning at seven, sir. She had no luggage whatever, sir. The boots particularly remarked that she had no luggage.' ' What had the boots to do with her or her luggage ? — the impudent rascal ! ' ' Nothing whatever, sir ; only you told me to ask.' ' Hold your tongue, and answer my questions !

Did Miss Rutherford make known her intention of leaving to any one ? ' 'No, sir. The housemaid said that she heard her in her room moving about at between five and six; but, as she was always an early riser, and frequently walked before breakfast, she thought nothing of it.' ' Did she know whether she was in bed at all last night ? ' ' She thought not, sir ; it was near two o'clock before she went up-stairs.' ' I suppose I know that, since I was with her up to that hour in the drawing-room. Were the servants gone to bed when I went to my room ? ' ' All but me and Vigars, sir.' 'Ah! Vigars! He cams in with tea,— then with candles, — then, as usual, with the keys. Tell me exactly what he said about Miss Rutherford. Come, sir, no evasions ! ' ' Why, sir, he said nothing particular.' ' What did he say that was not particular ?

Speak at once, or I will dismiss you.' ' He only said, sir, that you and Miss Rutherford seemed to be having a quarrel, and that he heard high words as he came through the hall.' ' Go on ; what more ? ' 'Nothing particular, sir, that I can remember, except that Miss Rutherford was too high and mighty for her situation.' ' The impudent scoundrel ! What was Miss Rutherford's situation to him ? And that was all ? ' ' Yes, sir.' ' Well, Stephens, I think you are a faithful servant enough, as times go, and I will trust to your discretion to try and find 'out where Miss Rutherford is. As companion to my late dear wife —here Mr. Michelson heaved a sigh, and glanced at a mourning ring, — ' I always thought it my duty to treat her with considera tion. When Lady Charlotte died, — how long ago is it now, Stephens ?' ' More than a year, sir.' ' When my wife died I felt that Miss Rutherford had still a claim upon me.

Besides, Chatham was so fond of her that I knew he would be miserable if she left us ; so, as you know, I offered her the situation of superintendent of my household, which she accepted. She was young and inexperienced ; still I believe she did her duty. What do you think, Stephens ? ' ' Yes, sir ; your own daughter could never have been more careful and particular.' ' Tush ! Well, of course I am anxious to do what is right by her. In the first place, to find out where she is gone ; in the second, to let it be understood that she took offence at some thing I said to her concerning the management of the house. You understand ? ' ' Yes, sir.' ' I believe it is well known that I always treated her as an equal ; and no one can suppose that she left on account of any unkindness on my part.' ' I should think not, sir.' ' Why do you speak with that tone ? ' ' I didn't mean any tone, sir.' ' Then don't assume a tone.

If Miss Rutherford does not return to-morrow, you must see the guard of the mail ; find out whether she went to London ; follow her ; make inquiries at the Sun, where the coach stops, and where she probably will be ; see her, and give her a letter that I will write.' ' Very well, sir.' ' Let it be understood that I am particularly anxious to serve her, because my dear wife' — another glance at the mourning ring, and a pressure of the eyes with the hand it ornamented — ' recommended her to my care on her deathbed. Don't look so surprised.' ' I didn't mean to look surprised, sir. Your orders shall be faithfully attended to, sir.' ' And now you may go. See that the servants do not make Miss Rutherford's sudden departure an excuse for aspersing her character. I believe they did not like her.' 'Very well, sir. Most of us liked her, sir.' Here the butler left the dining-room, and found his fellow servant Vigars in the hall very near the door.

The pair went quietly together into the butler's pantry. 'I never!' said Vigars. 'Poor crittur ! I don't think she'll ever come back. I never see such a way as she was in,— trembling with passion, and her eyes streaming with tears, that she tried to hide when I came in ; and master in a towering rage ; he was standing close up to where she sat, and I believe he'd 'a' struck her, if I hadn't come in. I heard her say, " I will leave you— I will never bear this— I would starve, die, rather ! " And when I went in again they were at it still, only calmer ; and so they went on from nine o'clock till near two in the morning.' "Tis very odd,' said Stephens, 'but I don't think my poor mistress ever really liked her, especially along at the last, though she was as submissive and attentive as any one could be, and nearly cried her heart out when she died.