Mrs. Gerald's Niece

Part I. Chapter

I. " Yes, is it not a pretty place ?" Annie Derwent said as she and her visitors, the two Miss Conways, were returning from a walk in Holmwood Park on a beautiful evening early in July. This was said in answer to Ehza Conway's remark that she had never seen such beautiful scenery. There was greater truth in this assertion than is often the case with these sort of exclama tions, for she and her sister lived almost aU the year round in London, and only went in the autumn for a few weeks to the seaside. Their father, a hard-working lawyer, cared chiefly for fresh air and boating during the short time he devoted to health and relaxation ; and their mother, a great invalid, could not bear a long journey. They had, therefore, seen little or nothing of the beauties of Enghsh scenery, and had never been abroad.

Holmwood House was a pleasant, old-fashioned country place in one of the most picturesque counties of England. It had been in former times a monastery, but not much of the original budding remained. AVhat were now the offices were said to have belonged to the original conventual pde. The grey stone waUs of the kitchen-garden and an old archway overgrown with ivy and bearing the fragments of a Latin inscription, were likewise supposed to be remnants of the ancient enclosure. The present house dated from the reign of James I. Successive additions had been made to it which were not aU improvements ; but whatever faults it possessed in an architectural point of view were disguised by the abundance of creepers which covered its walls. On the southern side especially, pink, white, yeUow, and red roses, pomegranates, ancl myrtles, passion-flowers and jessamine climbed up to the second storey, invading and wreathing with then blossoms the framework of the windows, peeping into the sunny rooms, and mingling their dehcate shoots with the stout branches of the AAresteria, which in spring clothed the whole of the front and western side of the house with its luxuriant ldac clusters.

The garden, too, was one bright mass of colours, not a mere flowery patchwork of various hues, laid out in a systematic manner, but a charming combination of flowers, such as Perdita might have woven, or Ariel couched in — " Merrily, merrily, Under the blossom that hangs ou the bough." This blooming maze occupied the whole space between one side of the house, and a low moss-grown waU which separated it from the churchyard — one of those old-fashioned burial places full of tall trees and waving grass, and daisies innumer able growing on the nameless graves of obscure viUagers, and white roses and clematis adorning the tombstones of the more honoured, if not more honourable, occupants of the consecrated ground. On the opposite side a smooth, green lawn extended to the edge of a grove of ash-trees, and a hdl, covered partly with wood and partly with gorse, rose behind the house.

Before it flowed a rapid and transparent stream, in which many a speckled trout and careless minnow courted its doom. The constant sound of rippling water was one of the charms of the place. It was hke its own peculiar music in the ears of those who loved it. Little diminutive brooks wended their way through the park, the shrubbery, and the grove, singing their songs of joy under the bushes, across the lawn, amongst the flowers. Though sheltered by its woods and secluded in its own grounds, Holmwood had also glimpses of distant country. Through the branches of the grove, where it was thinned, ancl straight away in front of the house, was to be seen, in the midst of a wide extent of pasture-land and corn-fields, the spire of Ashdown Church, and farther on a broad river bearing on its bosom black barges which looked in the distance like flies on a mirror.

A ridge of blue looking hiUs, over which a heavy mass of Clouds generally rested, was discernible towards the west ; and by certain lights, especiaUy when the sky was stormy, the sea coidd be perceived lining the horizon with a sdvery thread or a dark-blue ribbon. The whole of this fair scene was gdded by the rays of the setting sun, when the three girls reached the steps in front of the house, and turned back to give a last look to the illuminated landscape and the sky tinged by fiery and rose-coloured clouds. AVhat need is there to dwell on what every one has felt, the deUght of the first evening in the country after months spent in a town ? AATio does not know that delightful sensation ? Even those whose lot is by their own choice cast in that great huge London, so forcibly described by a modern writer as " That monster winch looks so unmanageable and is so awfully wicked, so hopelessly magnificent, so hereticaUy wise and proud after its own fashion, and yet after a fashion so good also !

Such a multitudinous remnant in it who have never bowed the knee to Baal. Such numbers seeking their way to the light; so much secret hohness, such supernatural lives, such loyalty, mercy, sacrifice, sweetness, and greatness." Yes, even they who love it with aU its miseries, and who would not willingly Uve many days out of the year far from the great City, the mighty pulse of winch seems to throb in their own hearts, they know the joy of leaving it behind for a time. More than others, perhaps, they appreciate the luxury of the silence which seems only the more deep for the low twitter of the birds amongst the leaves, or the drowsy hum of the bees over the flower-beds. With more or less of gladness or of melancholy, of hope or of souvenance, that beautiful old French word, according as hfe, and age, and God have dealt vith tlieir souls, they gaze on the shadows lengthening on the dewy grass, and hsten to the night wind whispering among the branches.

It would be difficult to say which is sweetest at that hour — the young man's vision or the old man's dream. We who are old remember the gradual manner in which thc 1—2 MRS. GERALD'S NIECE. sense of this agreeable change used to steal upon us in days of yore, as we passed from the streets into the suburb, where the houses, standing wider and wider apart, admitted ghmpses of green fields and hedges, till at last the highroad was reached, and the fragrance of the air gave token that we were reaUy getting into the country. How welcome was the sight of the little roadside inn, where we stopped to change horses— the picturesque gable-ended cottage -like hostelry, with its tiny garden and large spreading tree. And then, after perhaps three or four days' journey, came the longed-for arrival, the glad revisiting of favourite haunts, the sunset hour, the quiet stroU, the faUing asleep that first night luUed by the profound stdlness, one of Nature's greatest charms ; and yet Charles Lamb, the London poet, fled from Wordsworth's house in West moreland, scared by the silence of those mountainous regions.

He could not rest far from the murmurs of the great City. Now that a few hours wid take us to the furthest part of England, the transition is more striking stdl. The noise of the streets has scarcely died away in our ears, when we find our selves in the midst of pure air, rural scenery, and sylvan shades. A newspaper or a doze have silled up the time, and we seem scarcely to have left behind the bustle of the London station before we are landed in the depths of country retirement. But the exquisite pleasure of the contrast is seldom purchased nowadays by an uninterrupted residence of many months in town. EUza and Jane Conway, however, had bought their enjoyment at that price, and thoroughly appreciated the change. "It seems so strange, Annie," Jane exclaimed, "that this wonderfuUy beautiful place should be your own — your very own, as children say."

" And those woods and fields, and that pretty Uttle viUage does it also belong to you ?" Eliza Conway asked. "Almost aU you see from here is my property," Annie rephed ; " one or two of the cottages in Holme are Mr. Hendon's ; he is our nearest neighbour." " AVhat an immense responsibility it is for a young girl hke you to possess such a property." AIRS. GERALD'S NLECE. 5 " But I do not, of course, manage it myself ; Aunt Gerald does aU the business with the trustees and agents." " But it will not always be so ?" " No, not when I am of age, I suppose. It amuses me to see that the gardener begins to inquire what flowers I wish to have in the beds, and the housekeeper actually asked me this morning winch rooms she was to get ready for you. I think my aunt had told her to do so. If you are not comfortable you must complain of me, you see."

"We wdl complain to you in that case," Ehza answered. smiling ; " but from what I saw of them before I came out, there is not much chance of our being discontented, I think." " Oh, no, they are quite charming," Jane added. "Come this way," Annie said, "I want to get some flowers. Do you not like wearing natural flowers in your hah in the countiy ?" And she led the way to the conservatory, where, somewhat to the dismay of the old gardener, who was watering the plants, she gathered a handful of red and white camellias, which she gave to her friends. " You have not kept any for yourself," Ehza said. " Yes, this white one," Annie replied ; " I have so much hair that I can only wear in it one little sprig or flower." " It is reaUy very hard in these days," Ehza said, laughing, " for those who have a great deal of hair of their own.

Nobody gives them credit for it." "Don't you believe in mine?" Annie exclaimed. "Look." She took off her bonnet and comb, and masses of jet black hair feU on her shoulders and half-way down her back. " Indeed, I believed in yours without this ocular demonstra tion," Eliza answered. " I knew you weU enough to feel sure that you woidd not wear anything false." "I see nothing false in wearing false hair," Jane said, "any more than artificial flowers. It is the fashion, and everybody does it." " Everybody does it !" Eliza repeated. " The worst reason in the world ! Don't you think so, Annie ?" Annie had twisted up her hair, and stuck the white cameUia NIECE. behind her ear. "It is not a reason I care about," she an swered. " It is nothing to me what people say or do ; but I agree so far with Jane that it prevents there being any deceit in the matter.

There is the dressing-beU ! Are you long getting ready?" " Oh, dear, no !" both the sisters replied. Is there any one who ever honestly answered " yes " to that question ? " Have you company at dinner to-day ?" Jane inquired, with a view to the choice between her blue sdk and her white muslin gown. " Only Mr. Hendon, Mr. Pratt, omclergyman, and my cousin Edgar. Not a very formidable party, you see. AVhat are you counting on your fingers, Jane ?" " That makes seven ?" " AVeU, and what of that ?" " I never can open my Ups at dinner where there are fewer than eight persons." " You don't say so ? AVhy, at the cours you used to be one of the quickest at answering. I remember being quite jealous at the number of presidencies you got. 'Mademoiselle a la Iangue tres bien pendue,' some of the girls said when they thought you took the shine out of them."

" Oh, Annie, slang !" Ehza exclaimed. " It is not pardonable in you who have no brothers." Annie laughed, and answered, " Take care, Lizzie. I shaU be on the watch, and I venture to say I shall detect you using some slang expression before the day is over." " AVe shall have to define what is slang, and what is not," EUza answered, with a smde. " Rather a difficult thing I fancy." "But how long have you been afraid of the sound of your own voice, Jane ." Annie asked. " I do not mind answering a question, but I do not like to converse with my neighbours when everybody can hear what I say." " But do you think they listen ? I find it difficult enough to attend to what is said to myself. I should never think of AIRS. GERALD'S NLECE. 7 listening to what was said to other people. Should you, Lizzie ?"

" Oh, as to Lizzie," Jane exclaimed, " she knows every word everybody litters all round the table. And that is another thing ; I cannot bear her to hear what I say." "AVhy?" " Because I know she thinks it all so stupid." " ReaUy, Jane, you are too humble," Annie said. " Or too vain," EUza added, with a snide. " It is getting very late," Jane observed. And, as that remark was undoubtedly to the point, they all ran into the house, and up to their rooms. " Are you ready, dearest love ?" Mrs. Gerald asked, as she knocked at her niece's door at a few minutes before seven. Annie appeared dressed for dinner, and looking very handsome. They went downstairs together. The windows of the drawing room were wide open, and when they came in, a young man, who was walking on the terrace, hastened to meet them.

This was Edgar Derwent, Mrs. Gerald's nephew and Annie's cousin. They both seemed very glad to see him ; there was, however, something a little reproachful in the tone with which Mrs. Gerald said, " I was almost afraid you would not come. AVe fully expected you would arrive by the four o'clock train, and I went in the pony-chaise to the station in hopes of finding you there, and having the pleasure of driving you home. But I suppose you did not think we should expect you by that train?" " To say the truth, I did not know when you would expect me ; but I could not leave London by an earlier train." " It was fortunate Annie did not volunteer to fetch you. She would not at aU have liked to be disappointed. I have hved long enough to know that people can never get away from London tiU the very last possible minute."

Edgar smded good humouredly, and said, " If I had come when you expected me, I shoidd have had a much pleasanter drive than in that creeping fly, which went at the rate of four mdes an hour, I think." " And you would have had the society of two young ladies," Annie said ; " that is, if you had happened to sit in the same carriage with them." " Friends of yours coming here ?" he asked. " Yes ; the Miss Conways. I have known them a long time. We were always meeting at M. Boche's cours." "Are they daughters of Mr. Conway, a barrister ?" " Yes, their father is a lawyer ; they live in Bryanston Square." " I know him, and I am very glad his daughters are friends of yours." "Mr. Hendon and Mr. Pratt are also coming to dinner. There is Mr. Pratt in his gig coming up the avenue." A moment afterwards both those gentlemen, who had driven up to the door at the same time, were announced.

Just as dinner was on the table, the Miss Conways came down. It had taken a long time to fasten the cameUias in their hair. Jane explained this to Mr. Pratt, who took her in to dinner, and she also defended herself warmly from the charge of unpunctuality, which, in a rather pointed though jesting tone, Mrs. Gerald had made against her and her sister. If it had not been for Mrs. Gerald's exertions, there would have been very httle conversation during dinner ; she had managed to keep it going, and to start subjects generaUy suit able, rather than particularly interesting. She was a warm hearted and well-informed person, but her manners were stiff ancl her language studied. Her voice, too, was always pitched in the same key, and the use of set phrases had become so habitual with her that it had grown into a second nature.

It is said that Mrs. Siddons and aU the Kembles acquired so strong a habit of using Shaksperian expressions in ordinary conversation, that they did it at last unconsciously. Mrs. Gerald, without any effort, talked like a weUwritten book. Is it our own fault that we find this tedious — more tedious than many a worse defect ? There was, however, much difference of opinion as to her powers of agreeableness ; some people thought her very clever. There was no doubt that she acquitted herself extremely weU at tenants' dinners or school-examinations, when she made fluent Uttle speeches in what the schoolmaster called a mellifluous voice, and the housekeeper generaUy informed the ladies' maids, the first evening they were at Holmwood, that her lady read prayers beautif idly. " It was quite a treat to hear her."

But tf Mrs. Gerald's voice and her way of express ing herself were under strict control, not so her countenance, which, by a singular contrast, manifested with strange clearness the various emotions of a quick temper and keenly susceptible nature. She easdy changed colour, her lips sometimes quivered, and her eyes fiUed with tears on apparently trifling occasions. She had been very pretty, and was stdl good-looking. She had Ught blue eyes, a smaU aqudine nose, and thin hps. There was in her disposition a mixture of impulsiveness and of reserve, of coldness of manner and impetuosity of character. In theory she worshipped common sense, and what the French caU les convenances de la vie. She was very severe on any foUies of conduct or aberrations of mind in others, and was rather prone to read lectures to her friends on the faults she observed in their characters and proceedings ; but under this worldly-wise exterior were hidden many of the weaknesses of a womanly and ardent nature.

Mrs. Gerald had been a widow for more than twenty years. Her husband had died of a fever at Nice a few months after their marriage ; and although she had not been supposed to be excessively attached to him, she grieved deeply over his loss, and never thought of marrying again. The person she had always most loved was her eldest brother, Robert Derwent, Annie's father ; and one of her strongest feeUngs was her passionate fondness for the home of her chdd hood, and the old family place of the Derwents. After the death of her idoUzed brother and his young wife who had perished by a terrible accident which occurred about a year after she had lost her husband, Mrs. Gerald fixed aU her affection on their infant daughter, of whom she was left sole guardian. Holmwood devolved to this child, though a girl, her father having been thc last of the entail.

His younger brother, Herbert, was Edgar Derwent's father. Mrs. Gerald devoted herseU to her niece with aU the energy and exclusive- NLECE. 10 ness belonging to her character. Little Annie's health and education, and the care of her property, were the only objects she lived for. Annie was four years old when her aunt brought her for the first time to Holmwood. They stayed there almost constantly till she was about fourteen ; then they began to spend some time every year in London for the sake of masters, aud to attend the cours, which were beginning to be in fashion. It was there she had made acquaintance with the Conways. Jane was her own age, Eliza older. As soon as her aunt told her that she was old enough to invite her own friends to Holmwood, which she had clone about the time our story begins, Annie had proposed to ask the Conways.

Mrs. Gerald had avoided tdl then giving that invitation. Perhaps she thought EUza likely to gain influence over Annie, ancl, without owning it to herself, had a secret jealousy on that point. However, when Annie pressed it, she saw no reason to object, and in that, as in everything else, Annie had her own way. Any one who had only judged Mrs. Gerald by hearing her talk, would have fancied her to be the last person in the world likely to spoil any one. She was so sensible in her theories of education, so judicious in her views of moral and inteUectual training, so severe on the weakness aud foUy of the generaUty of parents, that it would have been natural to suppose that Annie's education would have been systematic and strict, if not severe. But far from it — the lectures freely given to the rest of mankind were scarcely ever bestowed on her own niece.

She hteraUy worshipped her, and expected that others should join in that worship. It was easy to perceive that she was always on the watch to see if the idol of her heart was suffi ciently admired. There was something touching in this over weening affection, because it was not selfish ; not in one sense at least. Perhaps it engrossed too much of her heart ; perhaps it made her hard, indifferent, and exacting towards others ; but as regarded herself it was self-sacrificing and disinterested. She would have offered up the whole human race as a holocaust, if it could have ensured Annie's happiness ; but she would have readdy laid herself also at the top of the pile. She had no jealousy of those Annie loved, if only they loved Annie as much as she thought they ought. AVhen this was the case, she gladly admitted them to offer up incense at the shrine of her idol.

The habit Mrs. Gerald had of constantly looking at Annie through her spy-glass, might have been annoying to the young girl had she not been so accustomed to it from childhood, that she harcUy noticed it. She did not seem at all aware that her aunt was fonder of her than the generality of parents, aunts, or guardians are wont to be of their chddren, nieces, or wards. She loved Mrs. Gerald, and knew she had taken great care of her all her hfe, but looked upon that care and affection rather as a matter of course. At nineteen years of age, she had all the simplicity, straightforwardness, and brusquerie of a girl of twelve. There was a great deal to admire in Annie's looks, ancl yet it was not everybody that thought her handsome. She had a weU-shaped head and magnificent dark hair, a good figure, a way of walking and holding her head which made her French dancing-master say, "Mademoiselle a le port d'une cleesse."

But her hands and feet were large — her complexion pale, though healthy — her mouth rather wide. She had large, honest, bright, fearless blue eyes, whose innocently bold expression and con fiding gaze, together with the guileless simplicity of her man ner, reminded one of Dryden's matchless lines — ' ' Without unspotted, innocent within, She feared no clanger, for she knew no sin." Annie and her cousin Edgar had been great friends ever since she could remember. She had always cared for him, in fact, more than for anybody else in the world. As long as she had been a child her power over him had been absolute. After wards this state of things became reversed ; a girl from the age of thirteen to seventeen naturally looks up with some degree of awe to a young man four or five years older than herself.

Now again she felt there would be another change in their relative positions. They had not met for a long time, and in the meanwhile she had come out, an old-fashioned expression stdl in use, but hardly applicable in the present day, when even httle girls are oftener out of the school-room than in it. In Annie's case it meant dining late with Mrs. Gerald instead of at one o'clock with her governess, and dressing in a manner more accordant with the existing fashion than had been tiU then considered necessary. But the change had made her, of course, a much more important person, and she flattered herseU that Edgar would now talk to her as much as to her aunt. There was a heightened colour in her cheeks, and a bright look in her eyes, when she shook hands with her tall, pale cousin. The last time he had been at Holmwood, she had been some what vexed and mortified at the little notice he had taken of her.

She was too old at that time to be played with, and he was perhaps not old enough to like the trouble of conversing with a young girl between sixteen and seventeen, who had suddenly become shy and reserved with him. Since then he had travelled abroad, Mrs. Gerald and Annie had been a great deal away from home, and they had in consequence seldom met, but now for several months he had been studying for the bar in London, and had gladly accepted his aunt's invitation to spend some time] with them in the country. He was dehghted at the thoughts of seeing the place again, which had been to him in boyhood a sort of earthly Paradise, and at renewing his former intimate intercourse with the only relatives that were dear to him, besides his mother whom he loved, but with whom he had but httle sympathy.

Annie was very happy to meet again her old playmate and companion, and at the same time felt as if they were for the first time reaUy to make acquaintance with each other, for now they were both grown up, and would be on a different footing together. When he took her in to dinner, she felt pleased and a Uttle excited. Any kind of feeUngs with her rose slowly to the surface. It was like one of those great waves which surge up from the depths of the sea, and are slow to break because of their strength. They did not talk much during dinner, but as soon as Edgar came into the drawing-room he sat down by her at the table where she was working with her two friends. " How soon you have come," she said, looking up with a bright smile. " Too soon ?" he added, smiling also. " Oh, no ; I did not mean that.

On the contrary, I was afraid Mr. Pratt and Mr. Hendon would have kept you ages in the dining-room." " AVhat are you working ?" Edgar asked, taking up a corner of the bit of stuff on her knees. " A child's pinafore," she answered ; " I can do nothing but plain work. But look at that wonderful thing Eliza is making." Edgar glanced at the piece of silk in Miss Conwa/s hand. He smded as his eyes met hers, and looking towards the card table where Mrs. Gerald, Mr. Hendon, and Mr. Pratt were about to sit down to whist, he said, in a low voice, "AVhat wTould Mr. Pratt say to that piece of work ?" " Would not he approve ?" Eliza inquired. " Approve of a vestment ? The veiy sight of it, I think, would give him a nervous attack." " I am so sorry," she answered. " Perhaps I had better put it by." At that moment Mrs. Gerald asked Miss Conway tf she could play at whist ; and when Eliza said " Yes," she exclaimed, " Then do come and save us from dummy ; we are so tired of him."

Ehza immediately complied, and in a few minutes Jane inquired if the pianoforte was Erard's or CoUard's ; upon which hint Annie spoke, and begged her to play " that pretty thing Le Zephir ;" and then Edgar and she began to converse com fortably under cover of the ratthng execution of Jane's weU practised fingers. Each time a piece came to an end, Annie said, " How pretty that is ! Won't you play that other pretty thing, Jane 1" and the pleasant noise and the agreeable conver sation went on in perfect harmony. "Annie, how beautiful Holmwood is looking," Edgar said, drawing aside a httle the curtain of the window near which they were sitting. The moon was shining on the lawn, on the grove, and on the river, which was glittering in its rays hke a ribbon of liquid silver. It was nearly as bright as day.

" It is almost a shame." he added, " to be indoors on such a night as this !" " I am glad you admire Holmwood as much as ever," Annie said. " I think it is in great beauty just now." "I much more than admire it ; I love it as if it was a person. I am afraid I should dislike any one who did not appreciate Holmwood. To my mind there is no place in the world to be compared to it." " That is saying too much. There must be some very beautiful places in the world, if we are to beUeve travellers." " I am sure everybody would admit it to be one of the loveliest places in England." " Now you are getting more reasonable. England is a small part of the world." " Well, England is the world to me. I see the beauties of other countries — I feel those of my own. If ever I write a novel, I shaU begin by describing Holmwood."