Green Pastures and Piccadilly

Chapter I. Introductory

You may be sure there was a stir among our women-folk when they heard that a young man had come courting the Earl's daughter. We have amongst us — or over us, rather — a minia ture major-domo of a woman, a mere wisp of a thing, who has nevertheless an awful majesty of demeanour, and the large and innocent eyes of a child, and a wit as nimble and elusive as a minnow; and no sooner is this matter mentioned than she says, " O the poor child ! And she has no mother." " That," it is observed by a person who has learnt wisdom, and does not talk above his breath VOL. I. B in his own house, " that is a defect in her char acter which her future husband will no doubt condone." She takes no heed. The large and tender eyes are distant and troubled. She has becomo a seer, a prophetess of evil things in the days to come. .

" Think of the child ! " she says to our gentle visitor-r-who was once being courted herself, but is now a brisk young matron blushing with the honours of a couple of bairns — " think of her being all alone there, with scarcely a woman friend in the world. She has no one to warn her — no one to guide her — " " But why," says our young matron, with mild wonder, " why should she want warning ? Is it such a terrible thing to get married ? " Common sense does not touch the inspired. "The getting married? No. It is the awakening after. How can she tell — how can she know — that this young man, if he really means to marry her, is at tlie present moment courting her deadliest rival ? Whom has she to fear in the future so much as her old idealised INTRODUCTORY. self? He is building up a vision, a phantom, no more like that poor girl than I am like her ; and then, when he finds out the real woman after marriage, his heart will go back to the old crea tion of his own fancy, and he will wonder how she could have changed so much, and grieve over his disappointment.

Yes, you may laugh " — this is a sudden onslaught on another meek listener — "but every woman knows what I say is true. And is it our fault that men won't see us as we are until it is too late ? We have to bear the blame, at all events. It is always the woman. Once upon a time — and it only hap pens once — she was a beautiful, angelic creature ; she was filled with noble aspirations ; wisdom shone in her face ; I suppose the earth was scarcely good enough for her to walk on. Then she marries ; and her husband discovers — slowly and surely — not his own blunder, but that his imaginary heroine has changed into an ordinary woman, who has an occasional headache like other people, and must spend a good deal of her life in thinking about shops and dinners. He tries to hide his dismay ; he is very polite to her ; but how can she fail to see that he is in love, not with herself at all, but with that old ideal of his own creation, and that he bitterly regrets in secret the destruction of his hopes ?

That is no laughing matter. People talk about great tragedies. The fierce passions are splen did because there is noise and stamping about them. But if a man stabs a woman, and puts her out of the world, is she not at peace ? And if a man puts a bullet through his head, there is an end of his trouble. But I will tell you my belief, that all the battles and wars that ever were in the world have not caused the fifteenth part of the misery and tragic suffering that has been caused by this very thing you are laughing at — those false ideals formed before marriage. You may laugh if you like." Indeed, we were not disposed to laugh. She was really in earnest. She had spoken rapidly, with something of an indignant thrill in her voice, and a proud and pathetic look in her dark eyes. We had, after all, a certain fondness for this gentle orator ; and it was diffi cult to resist the eager pleading of her impas- INTRODUCTORY. sioned words, when, as now, her heart was full of what she was saying.

Or was it the beautiful May morning, and the sunlight shining on the white hawthorn and the lilacs, and the sleepy shadow of the cedar on the lawn, and the clear singing of the larks far away in the blue, that led us to listen so placidly to the voice of the charmer ? A new comer broke the spell. A heavy-footed cob came trotting up to the verandah ; his rider, a tall young man with a brown beard, leapt down on the gravel and called aloud in his stormy way, " Donnerwetter ! It is as warm to-day, it is as warm as July. Why do you all sit here ? Come ! Shall we make it a holiday ? Shall we drive to Guilds ord ? — Wey bridge ? — Chert- Sey ?— Esher ? " The two women were sneaking off by them selves, perhaps because they wished to have a further talk about poor Lady Sylvia and her awful fate ; perhaps because they were anxious, like all women, to leave holiday arrangements in other hands, in order to have the right of subsequently grumbling over them.

" Stay ! " cries one of us, who has been re leased from the spell. " There is another word to be said on that subject. You are not going to ride rough-shod over us, and then sneak out at the back-door before we have recovered from the fright. This, then, is your contention — that a vast number of women are enduring misery because their husbands have become disillu sionised, and cannot conceal the fact? And that is the fault of the husbands. They con struct an ideal woman ; marry a real one ; and live miserable ever after, because they can't have that imaginative toy of their brain. Now, don't you think, if this were true — if this wretch edness were so widespread — it would cure it self? Have mankind gone on blundering for ages, because of the non-arrival of a certain awful and mysterious Surrey prophetess ?

Why haven't women formed a universal association for the destruction of lovers' dreams ? " "I tell you, you may laugh as you like," ia the calm reply, "but what I say is true; and every married woman will tell you it is true, AVhy don't women cure it ? If it comes to that, INTRODUCTORY. women are as foolish as men. The girl makes her lover a hero ; she wakes up after marriage to find him only a husband, and the highest hope of her life falls dead." "Then we are all disappointed, and all miserable. That is your conclusion ? " " Not all," is the answer, and there is a slight change of tone audible here, a slight smile visible on her lips. " There are many whose imagination never went the length of construct ing any ideal, except that of a moor covered with grouse. There are others who have edu cated themselves into a useful indifferentism or cynicism.

Unfortunately it is the nobler natures that suffer most." " Well, this is a tolerably lively prospect for every girl who thinks of getting married. Pray, Frau Philosophin, have you been constructing all these fiddlestick theories out of your own head, or have you been making a special study of Sylvia Blythe?" " I know Lady Sylvia better than most people. She is a very earnest girl. She has ideals, con victions, aspirations — a whole stock-in-trade of things that a good many girls seem to get on very well without. If that poor girl is disappointed in her marriage, it will kill her." ■ "Disappointed in her marriage!" calls out the young man who has been standing patiently with the bridle of his cob in Ms hand. " Why do you think that already ? No, no. It is the girl herself — she lives in that solitary place, and imagines mere foolish things — it is she herself has put that into your mind.

Disap pointed! No, no. There is not any good reason — there is not any good sense in that. This young fellow Balfour, every one speaks well of him ; he will have a great name some day ; he is a busy, a very active man. I hear of him in many places." " I wish he was dead ! " says my Lady ; and curiously enough, at this moment her eyes fill with tears, and she turns and walks proudly away, accompanied by her faithful friend. The young man turns in amazement. "What have I done? Am I not right? There is nothing bad that Balfour has done ? " INTRODUCTORY. " There is plenty bad in what he means to do, if it is true he is going to carry off Lady Sylvia Blythe. But when you, Herr Lieutenant, gave him that fine certificate of character, I suppose you know that people don't quite agree about Mr. Hugh Balfour ?

I suppose you don't know that a good many folks regard him as a bullying, overbearing, and portentously serious Scotchman, a little too eager to tread on one's corns, and not very particular as to the means he uses for his own advancement ? Is it very creditable, for example, that he should be merely a warming-pan for young Grlynne in that wretched little Irish borough ? Is it decent that he should apparently take a pride in insulting the deputations that come to him ? A member of Parliament is supposed to pay some respect to the people who elected him." Here the brown-visaged young man burst into a roar of laughter. "It is splendid — it is the best joke I have known. They insult him ; why should he not turn round and say to them, 'Do you go to, the devil ! ' He is quite right. I admire him.

Sacrament ! — I wrould do that too." So much for a morning gossip over the affairs of two people who were not much more than strangers to us. We had but little notion then that we were all to become more intimately related, our lives being for a space intertwisted by the cunning hands of circumstance. The subject, however, did not at all depart from the mind of our sovereign lady and ruler. We could see that her eyes were troubled. When it was proposed to her that she should make a party to drive somewhere or other, she begged that it might be made up without her. We half suspected whither she meant to drive. Some hour or two after that you might have seen a pair of pouies, not much bigger than mice, being slowly driven along a dusty lane that skirted a great park. The driver was a lady, and she was alone.

She did not seem to pay much heed to the beautiful Spring foliage of the limes and elms, to the blossoms of the chestnuts, nor yet to the bluebells and primroses visible on the other side of the grey palin°*, INTRODUCTORY. where the young rabbits were scurrying into the holes in the banks. There was a smart pattering of hoofs behind her; and presently she was overtaken by a young gentleman of some fourteen years or so, who took off his tall hat with much ceremony, and politely bade her good morning. " Good morning, Mr. John," said she, in return. " Do you know if Lady Sylvia is at home ? " "I should think she was," said the boy, as he got down from his horse, and led it by the side of the pony-chaise, that he might the better continue the conversation. " I should think she was. My uncle's gone to town.

Look here ; I've been over to the ' Fox and Hounds ' for a bottle of champagne. Shan't we have some fun ? You'll stay to lunch, of course." In fact, there was a bottle wrapped round with brown paper under his arm. " Oh, Mr. John, how could you do that You know your cousin will be very angry." "Not a bit," said he, confidently. "Old Syllabus is a rattling good sort of girl. She'll declare I might have had champagne at the Hall — which isn't true, for my noble uncle is an uncommonly sharp sort of chap, and I be lieve he takes the key of the wine-cellar with him — and then she'll settle down to it. She's rather serious, you know ; and would like to come the maternal over you ; but she has got just as good a notion of fun as most girls. You needn't be afraid about that. Old Syllabus and I are first-rate friends ; we get on capitally to gether.

You see, I don't try to spoon her, as many a fellow would do in my place." " That is very sensible of you — very con siderate." The innocence of those eyes of hers ! If that brat of a school-boy, who was assuming the airs of a man, could have analysed the tender, ingenuous, lamb-like look which was directed towards him — if he could have seen through those perfectly sweet and approving eyes, and discovered the fiendish laughter and sarcasm behind — he would have learnt more of the na ture of women than he was likely to learn in any half-dozen years of his idiotic existence. INTRODUCTORY. But how was he to know ? He chattered on more freely than ever. He had a firm convic tion that he was impressing this simple country person with his knowledge of the world and of human nature. She had been but once to Oxford.

He had never even seen the place ; but then as he was going there some day, he was justified in speaking of the colleges as if they were all on their knees before him, implor ing him to accept a fellowship. And then he came back to his cousin Sylvia. "It's an awful shame," said he, "to shut up the poor girl in that place. She'll never know anything of the world : she thinks there's nothing more important than cowslips and daisies. I don't suppose my uncle is over burdened with money — in fact, I believe he must be rather hard up — but I never heard of an Earl yet who couldn't get a town-house somehow, if he wanted to. Why doesn't he get another mortgage on this tumble-down old estate of his, and go and live comfortably in Bruton Street, and show poor old Syllabus something of what's really going on in the world ?

Why, she hasn't even been presented. She has got no more notion of a London season than a dairymaid. And yet I think if you took her into the Park she would hold her own there : what do you think ? " " I think you would not get many girls in the Park more beautiful than Lady Sylvia," is the innocent answer. "And this old place! What's the good of it ? The whole estate is going to wreck and ruin because my uncle won't have the rabbits killed down, and he won't spend any money on the farm-buildings. And that old bailiff, Moggs, is the biggest fool I ever saw : the whole place is overrun with couch-grass. I am glad my uncle gave him one for himself the other day. Moggs was grumbling about the rabbits. ' Moggs,' said my uncle, ' you let my rabbits alone, and I shall say nothing about your couch.' But it's an awful shame.

And he'll never get her married if he keeps her buried down here." " But is there any necessity that your cousin should marry ?" " I can tell you it is becoming more and INTRODUCTORY. more difficult every year," said this experienced and thoughtful observer, " to get girls married. The men don't seem to see it somehow, unless the girl has a lot of money and good looks as well. Last year I believe it was something awful ; you could see at the end of the season how the mothers were beginning to pull long faces when they thought of having to start off for "Baden-Baden with a whole lot of unsaleable articles on hand." " Yes, that is a serious responsibility," is the grave answer. " But then, you know, there needs be no hurry about getting your cousin married. She is young. I think if you wait you will find at the right moment the beautiful prince come riding out of the wood to carry her off, just as happens in the story-books.' ' " Well, you know," said this chattering boy, with a smile, "people have begun to talk already.

There is that big boor of a Scotch fellow — what's his name ? Balfour — has been down here a good many times lately ; and, of course, gossips jump at conclusions. But that is a little too ridiculous. I don't think you will catch old Syllabus, with all her crotchets, marrying a man in the rum and sugar line. Or is it calico and opium ? " " But I thought he had never had anything to do with the firm ? And I thought it was one of the most famous merchant houses in the world ? " " Well, I don't suppose he smears his hands with treacle and wears an apron — but — but it is too ridiculous. I have no doubt when my uncle has got all he wants out of him, he won't trouble Willowby again. Of course, I haven't men tioned the matter to old Syllabus. That would be no use. If it were true, she would not confess it : girls always tell lies about such things."

" There you have acted wisely ; I would not mention such idle rumours to her, if I were you. Shall I take the bottle from you ? " " If you would," said he. " And I shall ride now ; for we have little time to spare, and I want you to see old Syllabus's face when I produce the champagne at lunch." So the lad got on his horse again, and the cavalcade moved forward at a brisk trot. It INTRODUCTORY. was a beautiful country through which they were passing, densely wooded here and there, and here and there showing long stretches of heathy common with patches of black firs stand ing clear against the sky. And the bright May sunlight was shining through the young green foliage of the beeches and elms ; the air was sweet with the scent of hawthorn and lilac ; now and again they heard the deep " joug, joug" of a nightingale from out of a groveof young larches and spruce.

By-and-by they came to a plain little lodge, and passed through the gates, and drove along an avenue of tall elms and branching chestnuts. There was a glimmer of a grey house through the trees. Then they swept round by a spacious lawn, and drew up in front of the wide-open door ; while Mr. John, leaping down from his horse, rang loudly at the bell. Yet there seemed to be nobody about this deserted house. If was a long, low, rambling building of grey stone, with no architectural pretensions what soever. It had some pillars here and there, and a lion or two, to distinguish it from a county U VOL. I. C c jail or an asylum : otherwise there was nothing about it to catch the eye. But the beauty of Lady Sylvia's home lay not in the plain grey building, but in the far-reach ing park, now yellowed all over with buttercups, and studded here and there with noble elms.

And on the northern side this high-lying park sloped suddenly down to a long lake, where there was a boat-house and a punt or two for pushing through the reeds and water-lilies along the shore ; while beyond that, again, was a great stretch of cultivated country, lying warm and silent in the summer light. The house was strangely still ; there was no sign of life about it. There wras no animal of any kind in the park. There was no sound but the singing of birds in the trees, and the call of the cuckoo, soft, and muffled, and remote. The very winds seemed to die down as they neared the place ; there was scarcely a rustle in the trees. It was here, then, that the Lady Sylvia had grown up ; it was here that she now lived, and walked, and dreamed, in the secrecy and silence of the still woodland ways.

Chapter II. The Mistress Of Willowby

The Lady Sylvia arose with the early dawn, and dressed, and stole noiselessly down the stairs, and through the great stone hall. Clad all in a pale blue, with a thin white garment thrown round her head and shoulders, she looked like a ghost as she passed through the sleeping house ; but she was no longer like a ghost when she went out on to the high terrace, and stood there in the blaze of a May morning. Eather she might have been taken for the very type of English girlhood in its sweetest springtime, and the world can show nothing more fair and noble and gracious than that. Perhaps, as her boy cousin had said, she was a trifle serious in ex pression, for she had lived much alone, and she had pondered, in her owrn way, over many things. But surely there was no excess of gloom about the sweet young face — its delicate oval just catching the warm sunlight — or about the pretty, half-parted, and perhaps somewhat too sensitive lips ; nor yet resting on the calm and thoughtful forehead that had as yet no wrinkle of age or care.

However, it was always difficult to scan the separate features of this girl ; you were drawn away from that by the irresist ible fascination of her eyes, and there shone her life and soul. What were they — grey, blue, or black ? No one could exactly tell, but they were large, and they had dark pupils, and they were under long eyelashes. Probably, seeing that her face was fair — and even paler than one might have expected — and her hair of a light, wavy, and beautiful brown — those eyes were blue or grey, but that was of little consequence. It was the story they told that was of interest. And here, indeed, there was a certain serious ness about her face, but it was the seriousness of sincerity. There was no coquetry in those tender and earnest eyes. Familiar words ac quired a new import when Lady Sylvia spoke them; for her eyes told you that she meant what she said, and more than that.

It was as yet the early morning, and the level sunshine spread a golden glory over the east ward-looking branches of the great elms, and threw long shadows on the greensward of the park. Far away the world lay all asleep, though the kindling light of the new day was shining on the green plains, and on the white hawthorns, and on this or that grey house remotely visible among the trees. What could be a fitter sur rounding for this young English girl than this English-looking landscape ? They were both of them in the freshness and beauty of their spring time, that conies but once in a year and once in a life. She passed along the terrace. Down below her the lake lay still ; there was not a breath of wind to break the reflections of the trees on the glassy surface. But she was not quite alone in this silent and sleeping world.

Her friends and companions, the birds, had been up before her ; she could hear the twittering of the young star lings in their nests, as their parents came and went carrying food ; and the loud and joyful " tirr-a-wee, tirr-a-wee, prooit, tweet ! " of the thrushes, and the low currooing of the wood pigeon, and the soft call of the cuckoo that seemed to come in whenever an interval of silence fitted. The swallows clipped and flashed, and circled over the bosom of the lake. There were blackbirds eagerly but cautiously at work, with their short spasmodic trippings, on the lawn. A robin, perched on the iron railing, eyed her curiously, and seemed more disposed to approach than to retreat. For, indeed, she carried a small basket, with which the robin was doubtless familiar, and now she opened it, and began to scatter handfuls of crumbs on the gravel.

A multitude of sparrows, hitherto invisible, seemed to spring into life. The robin descended from his perch. But she did not wait to see how her bounties were shared ; she had work further on. Now the high-lying park and ground of Wil lowby Hall formed a dividing territory between two very different sorts of country. On the north, away beyond the lake, lay a broad plain of cultivated ground, green, and soft, and fair, dotted with clusters of farm-buildings and scored by tall hedge-rows. On the south, on the other hand, there was a wilderness of sandy heath and dark-green common, now all ablaze with gorse and broom; black pine-woods high up at the horizon ; and one long, yellow, and dusty road apparently leading nowhere, for there was no trace of town or village as far as the eye could see.

It was in this latter direction that Sylvia Blythe now turned her steps ; and you will never know anything about her unless you know something of these her secret haunts and silent ways. These were her world. Beyond that distant line of firwood on the horizon her imag ination seldom cared to stray. She had been up to London, of course; had stayed with her father at a hotel in Arlington Street ; had been to the opera once or twice ; and dined at some friends' houses. But of the great, actual, struggling and suffering world — of the ships carrying emigrants to unknown lands beyond the cruel seas, of the hordes driven down to death by disease and crime in the squalid dens of great cities, of the eager battle, and flushed hopes, and bitter dis appointments of life — what could she know? Most girls become acquainted at some time or other with a little picturesque misery.

It ex cites feelings of pity and tenderness, and calls forth port wine and tracts. It comes to them with the recommendation of the curate. But even this small knowledge of a bit of the suffer ing in the world had been denied to Lady Sylvia; for her father, hearing that she contemplated some charitable visitation of the kind, had strictly forbidden it. " Look here, Sylvia," said he, " I won't have you go trying to catch scarlet fever or something of that sort. We have no people of our own that want looking after in that way ; if there are, let them come to Mrs. Thomas. As for sick children and infirm grandfathers elsewhere, you can do them no good ; there are plenty who can — • leave it to them. Now, don't forget that. And if I catch either Mr. Shuttleworth or Dr. Grey allowing you to go near any of these hovels, I can tell you they will hear of it."

And so it came to be that her friends and dependants were the birds', and rabbits, and squirrels of the woods and the heath ; and of these she knew all the haunts and habits, and they were her companions in her lonely wander ings. Look, for example, at this morning walk of hers. She passed through some dense shrub beries — the blackbirds shooting away through the laurel-bushes — until she came to an open space at the edge of a wood where there was a spacious dell. Here the sunlight fell in broad patches on a tangled wilderness of wild flowers — great masses of blue hyacinths, and white starwort, and crimson campion, and purple ground ivy. She stayed a minute to gather a small bouquet which she placed in her dress ; but she did not pluck two snow-white and waxen hyacinths, for she had watched these strangers ever since she had noticed that the flowers promised to be white.

Should he upbraid, I'll oxon that he'll prevail she hummed carelessly to herself, as she went on again ; and now she was in a sloping glade, among young larches and beeches, with withered brackens burning red in the scattered sunlight, with the new brackens coming up in solitary stalks of green, their summits not the fiddle head of the ordinary fern, but resembling rather the incurved three claws of a large bird. She paused for a moment ; far along the path in front of her, and quite unconscious of her presence, was a splendid cock pheasant, the bronzed plumage of his breast just catching a beam of the morning light. Then he stalked across the path — followed by his sober-coloured hen — and disappeared into the ferns. She went on again. A squirrel ran up a great beech tree, and looked round at her from one of the branches.