The Future Marquis

Chapter I

" A tingling time of hope was ours Betwixt the fears and falterings — we two livedu A chanceful time in waiting for the prize." K. BROWNING. " [TAVE you heard when the Curate -"■ is coming, Mrs. Till ?" asked a young man of a short woman who was standing at the door of her shop. "They dew say," was the answer, "that he be a-coming this very day, but there, we knows nothin', how should us?" " He'll be a rare 'un when he dew come, take my word for it," said a vol. i. B young labourer, called Joe Higgins, " why, he's as rich — as rich as " While the speaker paused for au ade quate simile, a short, rat-faced man put in his word. He was the tailor of the place, he read the papers and was an authority in the district. "Not yet," he said. "He ain't got much yet. When tbe old Lord die, Colonel Maitland git the title and the estates.

As for this young fellow, why, he mayn't never get nothing after all!" " It fare right down singular to me," resumed Joe Higgins, " that a man who expect to be a markis should come down here as Curate and live all amongst us quiet like. It fare to me like spyin'." " So ta dew, so ta dew," was echoed from several speakers, and honest Joe, feeling he had made a hit, retired upon his laurels. Altogether the feeling in Northup was THE FUTURE MAlfQUIS. against the newcomer. The Reverend Spencer Maitland, the subject of these remarks, was at that moment on his way to the village. The nearest railway station was eight miles distant, and when he arrived there he found no conveyance to meet him. Despatching his luggage by the carrier, he set out to walk. It was a lovely afternoon in October. His way lay over the heath where the gorse and faded heather stretched on either side for miles.

He was young and full of philanthropic plans. The land all round him would one day be his ; it was strictly entailed, and he was the next but one in suc cession. The present owner, the Marquis of Dorset, an aged valetudinarian, never came near the place; he lived in Italy, where the sun vivified even his old carcase. He had married a Duke's daughter, but had had no children ; at his death title and lands came to b Colonel Maitland, the young clergyman's father. The gallant Colonel awaited them with some impatience ; he felt that the owner was long in dying, without having Charles the Second's grace to apologise for it. On the contrary, the old man chuckled at keeping his distant cousin so longout of his inheritance, and took extra care of his health whenever he thought of it. Spencer Maitland had no such impa tience ; he was filled with the noblest aspirations.

He longed to help his poorer brethren. At his University he was known as " Reform Maitland," because of his endless schemes for ameliorating the condition of the labourers. He had dwelt so constantly on their privations and hardships that he felt them more acutely than the sufferers themselves, who, by reason of their bringing up and duller sensibilities, did not suffer so much in the THK FUTURE MARQUIS. reality as he in the contemplation. He waxed eloquent over their small cottages and inadequate accommodation. "Imagine," he would say, "three or four human beings clustered together in a room nine feet by ten ! I don't mean when they are of different sexes, that is another and a far worse matter, but a lot of growing boys, say, in a den like that. Why, it's the black hole of Calcutta over again !"

At this his hearers would laugh and reply, " You just go among them and try, you'll find theory and practice very different things. Build them as many extra rooms as you like, they won't use them, they let them to lodgers. Bless you, they like being stuffy, they say it keeps them warm." He had taken his mockers at their word; he was coming "among them to try." Refusing a rich living, which was in the gift of a nobleman connected with his family, he offered himself as curate to Northup. He wished to live among the peasantry, to understand their wants and their ways in order to benefit them the better hereafter ; in order that when he became Marquis of Dorset there should be no gulf, but a bridge of sympathy between himself and his dependents. This was the man that Joe Higgins considered to be a " spy."

Turning over many schemes in his mind, he walked across the heath to his future home. It had been a solitary walk hitherto, for, since the last village had been left behind, he had not seen a human being. At last he came to some cross roads, and was uncertain which to take. Before there had been sign-posts, this time there was nothing. It is true the cross tracks did not look very important, still he felt sure he was nearing his journey's end, and one of these tracks might be a short cut to the village. He was getting tired, and felt he should not be sorry to shorten the way. But there was nobody to ask. As he stood hesi tating he heard whistling, then a young full voice burst out : " If doughty deeds my lady please," &c. The singing sounded near, but nobody was visible. He had been walking on the grass edging the road, and no doubt his steps had not been heard.

But where was the singer? He could not begin an address, " 0 wandering voice, tell me the way to Northup." Again he stood and listened. This time his ear guided him to the place, and he saw a young man seated on the ground, with a sketch by his side, busily engaged in packing up his painting materials. At the sound of approaching footsteps he stopped singing and looked up. " Would you be kind enough to tell me which road leads to Northup?" asked Mr. Maitland. " Certainly. I am going there myself, and shall be happy to show you." The speaker was quite young, with a pleasant, genial manner. He hurried his packing proceedings and off they started. They were a strong contrast as they walked side by side. The Curate, un usually tall, broad-shouldered and fair haired ; his companion slighter in build, and dark as an Italian.

He had also the beauty of that race, while Spencer Mait land was plain. Before they reached Northup the two young men were very friendly. Both were enthusiasts, one for art, the other for philanthropy. They parted with mutual expressions of goodwill, and of a desire to improve their acquaintance, Spencer Maitland to dine with his Rector, Mr. Ridsdale ; Tom Hayling (for that was the artist's name) to his mother's house at the other end of the village.

Chapter II

" My Mary, she, oh, she's that one !" OLD SONG. TE had not gone very far, however, when he saw three riders coming towards him. The foremost, a tall big man, gave him a careless nod of recog nition as he passed. It was Mr. Lamont, one of the largest tenant-farmers on Lord Dorset's estate, and an important man in the neighbourhood, for he employed a great many labourers. Nothing delighted him more than to be called " Squire Lamont," which he was sometimes by the poor people, in honour of his owning some land in two adjoining parishes. The other riders, who were two young girls, bowed and smiled pleasantly. Tom's face lighted up when he saw them, and when they had passed he turned to watch them. The fairer and slighter of the two girls also turned, and when she met Tom's eyes she smiled again and coloured very prettily.

Her father, who had gone on a few paces, suddenly drew rein and called out to the young man. " D'ye know where Burt is ? (Burt was Lord Dorset's agent) I can't light upon him anywhere, and I want especially to see him about the audit dinner." " I saw him about an hour ago," answered Tom, " he was on his way to the Grove Farm." " How vexatious ! about the furthest place he could have got to ! However, I must see him. How about you, Mary," continued Mr. Lamont turning to one of his daughters, " that will be too far for you." " I can turn back at Queen Esther's copse, as I often do, and leave you and Louisa to go on." "Very well then, come along," said her father, and without taking any further notice of Tom, he touched his cob with the whip and trotted off. Tom hurried home, and after depositing his various impedimenta, easel, sketch book, &c, rushed out again.

Directly he was out of sight of the cottages, he ran as fast as his legs could carry him to the top of a small hill, if hill it could be called, for it was merely a mound in the wide surface of the heath. He looked eagerly round. Nobody was in sight. He then proceeded more leisurely along the road till he came to where four cross ways met. He leant against the sign-post and wiped his face, which was heated from his rapid running. Before he had been there many minutes, a solitary figure came riding slowly along. It was Mary Lamont, the fair headed girl who had turned back to smile at him. When she recognised who it was that was coming to meet her, she uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Why, Tom, how did you come here ? It was only a few minutes ago we saw you in the village. You must have come like the wind.

How hot and tired you look !" " Do I ? well, I am rather warm. I was afraid I should miss you. You must have gone further than Queen Esther's copse. I heard you say you should turn there, and I came to walk back with >> you. " That was very nice of you, but how do you know I should wish to go so slowly ? I may have reckoned on a good gallop across the heath !" She spoke playfully, but Tom's face fell. THE FUTCRE MARQUIS. 13 " I never thought of that. It was selfish of me, I suppose, but do let me walk with you a little way." " Of course you may," said Mary. " I want to hear all the news, and as for galloping, I am not sure you would not beat us in the race, to judge from the short time you have taken to come here ! I want to hear about Mr. Maitland. We met Joe Higgins, and he said you were walking with the new parson.

You have been before us all. How did you become acquainted with him so _S5 soon r " I met him on the heath, and I went with him to show him the way to the Rectory. He seems an awfully nice fellow." " Is he good-looking ?" « Yes — that is — no. I can't tell. You must decide that knotty point for your self. He is very tall and broad, what i$ considered a fine man. We got on famously. He is very downright and enthusiastic, I should say." "I am very glad. We want rousing out of our sleepy ways. I am sure I shall like him very much." Tom made no reply to this remark, and Mary continued after a pause : " I wonder how Mr. Ridsdale will like him. He is too old to care to be roused !" " He will let him do as he likes most probably, and as Mr. Maitland is young and strong, and no doubt craves for work, Mr. Ridsdale will be only too glad to satisfy that craving."

" It will be quite a nice excitement for the place, especially for Zoe. I wonder what she thinks of it," said Mary. "Oh, as for Zoe I give her up," said Tom, shaking his head, " she is always a mystery to me. Nobody will know -..hether she likes his coming or not, unless she chooses to say, and then it's ten to one if she speaks the truth." " Any news of your pictures," asked Mary presently. " Yes. The one I sent to the Liverpool Gallery has been sold. Oh, it's nothing much, a matter of a very few pounds. It was merely a single figure, and rather sketchy. The larger, more fiuished ones, which I sent to Edinburgh and Dublin, have, of course, been carefully returned." " Better luck next time," said Mary cheerily. " Yes, it is to be hoped so. It would not matter so much for some men who can afford to wait, but, if I am to succeed at all, I want it to be now.

What is the use of my getting on in my profession ten years hence? Why, by that time — " he stopped suddenly. " Even ten years hence you won't be very old, Tom. You will be able to enjoy life I daresay. People are not decrepit so soon after thirty. Look at clergymen, many of them don't get livings till they are quite old, fifty or sixty." " What makes you think of clergymen directly?" asked Tom, almost suspici ously. " I don't know. Because they are the best examples of how not to succeed in life, I suppose — that is, I mean, if you are talking of worldly goods. I'll say bar risters, if you like, there are plenty of briefless ones long after thirty. Mr. Warren, our drawing-master, said if artists exhibited for eight years they might hope at the end of that time — not before — to get known and to sell their works.

Every profession has a time of waiting to go through. Don't be dis couraged. If I could only persuade you that you have every ground for hope." Tom looked up quickly. His face, which had begun to cool down, flushed again, but Mary was arranging her habit on the further side from him, and went on in a more careless tone of voice. " Mr. Warren said you were one of the few students who had a chance of doing anything ; the rest were only fit for sign-painters." "Much obliged," said Tom sarcastically, " the compliment is great, I allow. Enough to encourage the most despairing. That I should excel sign-painters is enough to raise the wildest hopes !" Mary looked at him with an air of wonder. " What is the matter ? You have been quite different lately. I believe the Slade School has spoilt you, you have become so bitter."

" Mary," said Tom passionately, putting his hand on the pommel of her saddle, " I shall go distracted. I work like a slave, and it's not a bit of good; at least not in the way of making money, and till I can vol. i. c THHi FUTURE MARQUIS. earn a decent living my tongue is tied. Nothing succeeds with me. I go out of my way to be civil to your father. If he wants anything, I am ready to run, fetch, and carry, like a dog; and naturally, I suppose, he treats me like one. Barely a nod or a look in return, certainly never a hearty word." " Mother likes you," she said gently. " Umph, that's because she never sees me then," he said, kicking a loose stone out of his way with some violence, as an outlet to his pent up feelings. " I never dare go to your house." Mary looked distressed, but she did not answer, and they went on fora few minutes in silence.

Then she said, " I am awfully cold ; let us race to the pine clump as we used to do when children. When it was a short distance you always beat the pony, you know." But Tom did not take his hand from the pommel nor respond to her appeal. He merely broke into a sort of shambling trot to keep up with her, and when the roads diverged the two young people separated, Mary going briskly towards her home, and Tom walking slowly to his mother's cottage. c

Chapter III

" So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came, Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek. GOLDSMITH. II /TRS. HAYLING lived in a pretty little house, close to the ruins of the Priory. Her garden was her chief employ ment, and was beautifully kept. The view from her balcony was very extensive and very fine. On a moonlight night you could see the sea, like a silver streak on the horizon, then marsh and meadow in the middle distance, and the ruined win dows and broken arches of the Priory in the foreground. Not that Mrs. Hayling cared much for the picturesque, she left all that to her son. Still it was convenient, if she had evening guests, to take them out upon the balcony on fine nights to see the view. It made something to talk about, and the young people admired it gushingly, and the older ones more sedately ; these last hurrying in for fear of rheumatism and colds, leaving the younger ones to enjoy the prospect or each other, as the case might be.

Mrs. Hayling was a tiny, neat woman, devoted to her son, and seldom venturing any opinion of her own. She generally began her sentences, " Tom says," or " Tom thinks." She felt that her own ideas were so incapable of running alone, that she propped them upon him on every occasion ; sometimes on very unsuitable ones. She had been known to quote him with regard to babies' teething and other kindred subjects, of which Tom, with all desire to do him justice, had not the most rudimentary knowledge. Her husband, Dr. Hayling, had died when Tom was a lad of fifteen. Before his death one can imagine how glibly she quoted the doctor. " The Doctor " says. It had such an im portant sound ! It was such a round, full beginning to her sentences. It was really a come-down to have to say Tom after that— a name that had no manner of prestige about it.

However, she loved her son, which was more than she ever did her husband. He, the husband, was a tall, pompous indi vidual, who suddenly appeared in Northup as the new doctor. Nobody knew who he was, nor whence he came ; but within a year he had married the prettiest girl in the place, and from that time till his death, sixteen years after, he kept her and the whole village in a state of awe. When he died it was found necessary to have a policeman in the place. Till then the terror produced by the sight of Dr. Hayling and his gold-headed cane kept the boys in order ; after his death they took their revenge and became utterly unman ageable. He left his widow the house in which she now lived, and a modest income to keep it up. It may safely be said that she was a far happier woman as a widow than she had ever been as a wife.

She was having her tea when Tom came in. She was most anxious to hear every detail about the new Curate, but he cut short her questionings, and shut himself up in the attic which he used as his studio. Here he remained the whole evening revolving plans and schemes. The next day he painted busily all the morning; towards evening he went out. He took the same road by which he had entered the village with Mr. Maitland. After about ten minutes walking, he turned off into what was called the Broad Green Wav. It was a wide grass road between two hedges, and here he walked up and down, evidently expecting some one. The sun was setting behind the Priory ; the ruined arches and bits of broken wall standing out dark and massive from the delicate background of pale blue and amber, and even in his impatience his artist's eye delighted in the picture.

Presently a slight girlish figure turned into the grassy lane, and his face bright ened. It was Mary Lamont. He went forward eagerly to meet her. " What a lovely sky !" she said, when he was near ; " don't you long to paint it ?" He shook his head sadly. " Do you know I am getting awfully depressed about my painting ? I seem to potter, potter, and do no real good work. I sometimes feel as if I had better throw up the whole concern. Everyone knows it doesn't pay, and as I don't seem able to do anything valuable, for its own sake, for true art's sake, where is the good of it ? However," he continued, with bitterness, " my friends are kind enough to remind me that I'm not fit for much else " " Oh, pray don't say that," the girl interrupted, eagerly ; " father was only saying the other day you could do almost anything you liked ?"

The colour mounted into the young man's cheeks with pleasure. " Did Mr. Lamont really say that ? It was very kind of him ; but did he mean to imply that anything would be better than painting ?" It was the girl's turn to colour now, but she did it from embarrassment. She had certainly given a very favourable im pression of her father's remark, and here was Tom finding her out. " You must not mind his opinion. Father, of course, is a practical man, and " " You mean he thinks painting waste of time, mere play, and all that sort of thing. It's hard enough work sometimes, much harder than riding over green fields, and counting up a long balance at your bankers. No, Mary, I'm not bitter, but I am discouraged. I wish to Heaven I could do something else. Sometimes I think I would go into any dirty little trade to get money; not that I care to be rich, God knows, but your fa . . . ." >s Here Tom pulled up, he was afraid of going too far.

" The grocery business, now, I believe that pays. What do you say to my putting on a white apron and dealing out sugar and plums ?" "Oh, Tom," laughed Mary, "you wouldn't do at all. You would always be making mistakes, and it would be ages before you knew the prices of things. Now tell me how much sugar is a pound ?" Tom did not answer, but kicked viciously at the stump of a tree left in the hedge. He did not know whether sugar was a shilling or a penny the pouud, and didn't care, but he was vexed at Mary's treating the matter so lightly. " Now then, Sir," she began, but seeing his expression her own became serious at once. " What is it, Tom ? has anything happened ?" " No, at least, nothing new. It always vexes me that Mr. Lamont thinks so poorly of my profession. In town, fellows whose opinion I don't value a rush come and pat me on the back and say — oh, all sorts of absurd flattering things, while your father, Mary, the only man in the world whose goodwill I care twopence about, he thinks me a fool, not able to get my own living, and therefore not able to keep anyone else.

Do you think it would make any difference if I could sell a picture well, say for some two or three hun dred pounds, would he think more of me then ?" Mary was now thoroughly distressed. She had often heard him speak something in this strain, but never so despondingly. They had known each other from child hood, and Mary was perfectly aware why Tom Hayling valued her father's opinion before all others, but she did not wish him to say anything definite just yet. They understood each other sufficiently to wait in silence, she thought, and she feared lest Tom's impetuosity should spoil all. " Don't speak in that way, Tom. Father knows nothing about such things ; he only knows farming. Mother is quite different, she understands you better. Don't distress yourself about father. What does it matter?"

" It matters a great deal to me what he thinks ; at least, next to what you think," he replied, looking straight into her eyes. She coloured and moved on. " I must hurry into the village, I have a letter to post." " I will go with you, if you will allow me," said Tom, and the two walked on together. For some time they were silent, then Tom went back with obstinate persistency to the same subject. " If I got a picture into the Academy, and it became celebrated, would that please him ?" he asked again. " Oh, I really don't know ; I ought not to repeat what he says. I daresay he would speak differently to you." " Well, I will go and ask him what sum he considers a profession ought to bring me in a year, and I will slave day and night to earn that sum. Not that I think there is much chance for me," he added, sadly.

Mary blushed again, but she did not answer. They were walking near the hedge, and some of her drapery became entangled in a straggling bramble. Tom stooped to release her. It was difficult, the material was delicate, and he was afraid of doing mischief. He knelt on the grass to be nearer his work, and at last succeeded. Before he relinquished his hold, unseen of Mary, he imprinted a passionate kiss on the soft fabric. His heart was full of thoughts he dared not utter, but there, at her feet, he registered a vow almost in the words of that grand oath which Arthur took of his knights, when, amongst their other duties, they swore " To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her." As he rose their eyes met. If his lips were closed his eyes could speak, and he gazed at her with love, adoration, and constancy shining out of their dark depths.

After an embarrassed silence, he said : " I have been thinking that it would be a good thing if I went to Rome." Mary's face fell, and she gave a little exclamation of surprise and sorrow ; but she did not interrupt. Tom saw the expression, and went on more quickly and cheerfully : " I believe it would be for the best all round. There are such splendid opportu nities for study, such galleries, such models ! Then when I had sold my picture and put down the money before your father, just to show what I could do, you know, I should be able " " Good evening, Miss Lamont," said a young fellow, leaning over a gate by the road-side. It was Mr. Acton, a neighbour ing farmer. " If there's a fellow on earth I hate," said Tom, as they walked out of hearing, " that's the one." Mary laughed, but made no remark.

They were now approaching the village, aud they met groups coming out for an evening stroll. Mary was soon absorbed into one of them, consisting of three young ladies, and Tom had to content himself with a polite bow, and go home.

Chapter IV

" The surest way of making a dupe is to let your victim suppose you are his." — bulwer lttton. sT.0 return to Spencer Maitland. He had reached the Rectory about six, the usual dinner hour. He found Mr. Rids dale in his study. A number of drawers full of coins were on the table. He rose with some surprise, and said : " I had not expected this pleasure. My little chaise, which I sent to meet you, returned empty. I feared you would not come to-day. How was it ? How did you come? I fear, judging from your dusty feet, that you have walked." The young man looked down at his boots with horror, and began to apologise; VOL. I. D but the Rector laughed, and assured him he was not a particular person, which indeed he was not. Five minutes in the house was enough to assure anyone of that fact. There was a general litter everywhere.

The Rector, a tall, spare man, slightly bent by age, and speaking indistinctly by reason of badly-fitting false teeth, was very courteous and gentlemanly. He was concerned to find that Mr. Mait land had mistaken the station and had walked over ten miles. However, there he was, none the worse, but with a good youthful appetite for dinner. He was shown into an untidy room upstairs, where the toilette appliances were broken and scanty. After making himself as fresh and decent as he could, he came down, and found Mr. Ridsdale waiting for him in the drawing-room with a young lady, whom he introduced as his niece Zoe. A thin, sallow-faced girl, with fine eyes, and plenty of talk and self possession. The appointments of the table were such as might have been expected. The courses were served very much in the rough, the plates were chipped and cracked, and did not match the dishes, the wine glasses had excrescences in the stem where they had been mended ; the whole set out was a very " harlequin " one.