Up and Down the Pantiles: a story of Tunbridge Wells a hundred years ago

Front matter

T1IE PANTILES IN THE EIGHTEENTH CENTUKY. A STORY OF TUNBRIDGE WELLS A HUNDRED YEARS AGO BY EMMA MARSHALL AUTHOR OF "HER SEASON IN BATH," "THE TWO SWORDS," "BRISTOL DIAMONDS," ETC. " Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, And Phœbus 'gins arise, His steeds to water at those springs On chaliccd flowers that lies! And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With everything that pretty is — My lady sweet, arise." LONDON SEELEY AND CO. LIMITED ESSEX STREET, STRAND 1S90 Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, LUNDO'I & liUNQAY.

Chapter I Stuart Lodge

At the close of the last century, the great city of London had not stretched out in every direction, and driven the country so far from its centre, as in the present time. Stately trees and primrose banks, copses where the birds sang merrily to meet the spring, lay in the time of George the Third between Hampstead and the busy populous quarters of north London. Hampstead Heath was a far-reaching common, dangerous to cross after dark, and a favourite resort of the gentlemen of the road. And even in broad daylight " footpads " were unpleasant people to meet, in the lonely parts of the Heath, out of reach of the few houses which were built in the neighbourhood. Some of these were of red brick — of the time of Queen Anne ; of a type imitated now in many a little villa residence all over the country.

But the original Queen Anne house was of stately proportions, and had an imposing aspect. Such a house was the residence of Sir Stuart Legh, which was half hidden by trees, at the bend of the high road leading off the Heath at its furthest extremity from London, and was protected from curious eyes by a high wall of red brick, mellowed with age, and with a curious door in the southern side, by which visitors were admitted to the old-fashioned garden. A straight path of pebbles, neatly laid down in circles and other devices, led from the door to the house itself. Here another door, with the upper half glazed and the lower half panelled and painted white, was the principal entrance to Stuart Lodge. The white paint contrasting with red brick was a salient point in these Queen Anne houses. The thick window-frames were white, so was the deep edge of the projecting roof.

The windows were square bays, with small panes, and there were three rows of them ; of the upper row the centre one was the shape of a large crescent, and surmounted by a huge pine-apple, which reared a pointed head sky ward, and let plumes of leaves fall from it to right and left, rather stiffly than gracefully. Stuart Lodge had a somewhat small entrance hall, but a circular doorway led to a further and rather larger hall into which a narrow staircase abutted. No one crossed that threshold without being impressed with the profound stillness which reigned. The air seemed scented with the dead roses of many past summers, mingled with lavender sprigs gathered from the large bushes which were seen through another door, also partially glazed, for the flowering shrubs and old - fashioned flowers flourished undisturbed by any very extensive horticulture.

Sir Stuart Legh hated innovations or changes, and as the garden had been in his youth, so should it continue in his o!d age. The same might be said of the house. Month after month, year after year, all things remained the same, and the air of stiffness and precision which it is now considered proper to imitate, marked the arrangement of every room. Stiff Chippendale chairs, high-backed and spindle-legged couches, glass cupboards for china, shiny mahogany or dark oak bureaus with brass handles ; corner cupboards displaying curiosities, such as a bit of white coral, an ostrich's egg, or a tea-pot with a dragon's head. There was a solemnity about Stuart Lodge, an aristocratic air which seemed to raise it far above its nearest neighbour, a house of similar proportions and size, which was inhabited by a " person " who had made his money, nay a goodly fortune, in trade.

It was pain and grief to Sir Stuart when old Lady Scarlett died with no heirs, no kith or kin to inherit Gloucester Lodge, which was forthwith put in the market and bought by Mr. Westmacott, who, as I say, had made a fortune by trade. It was almost irreverent to whisper the nature of this trade in Sir Stuart's ears. He always called his neighbour" that Quaker grocer," and did not distinguish between the wholesale and the retail business, which in our time is allowed to be not only a distinction but a difference. But Sir Stuart did not recognize this difference. " A respectable tradesman" was the most that he ever con descended to call Robert Westmacott, and the law was strictly enforced that no member of his family should have any dealings with the household at Gloucester Lodge. The name was not so inappropriate after all, Sir Stuart said, there were such things as Gloucester cheeses!

Sir Stuart Legh's household was, or rather I should say, had been, easy to manage. His widowed daughter, Mrs. Cuninghame, had lived with him since her husband's death. Captain Cuninghame had fallen in a skirmish in the Low Countries, and left his wife with a small inde pendence and one child. Sir Stuart Legh had received his daughter with kindness, after his fashion. If her husband had been poor, he satisfied his pride by race. The Cuninghames were a fine old family, and no member of their ancient race had ever soiled their fingers with trade. Mrs. Cuninghame was a gentle, amenable woman, and was like Crummlin the butler, Mrs. Crow the housekeeper, and Curtis the coachman — entirely subservient to her father's will. So the days, and months, and years had glided smoothly on ; for if a strong will is never crossed there is no suspicion as to the greatness of its strength.

It is only by resistance that opposition is awakened, and there was no one at Stuart Lodge to resist Sir Stuart Legh's will. Again I must correct this assertion, and say there had been no one for six years, but a cloud, no bigger than a man's hand at first, was in the horizon, and gentle Mrs. Cuninghame began to be uneasy, and to feel that the return of her daughter Clemency from Mrs. Dawney's establishment for young gentlewomen in Kensington Gore, " for good," was hardly a cause of congratulation, dearly as she loved her, and infinitely proud as she was of her beauty and accomplishments. It had been easy to get through the two holidays of the year, but Clemency was now a permanent inmate at Stuart Lodge. Before this time, she had been a visitor. Her school-days had been extended, as a parlour boarder, for a longer time than was usual in the last century.

Sir Stuart was quite willing it should be so, and Mrs. Cuninghame, with a foreshadowing of coming trouble, was only too thankful to fall in with his wishes, which were indeed her own. But girls cannot always be school-girls ; the time comes for emancipation to every one alike, and it had come to Clemency at the Christmas preceding the lovely May-time when we first see her standing by the gate, which was open ; while on the other side stood a tall man of two or three and twenty, with a portfolio under his arm, dressed after the fashion of the time in a velvet cut-away coat, knee breeches, and high boots. He wore his hair long, and a soft hat was set jauntily upon it. He was in the act of taking off the said hat, and making a low bow to Clemency, when an old-fashioned chariot drove up, and Clemency exclaimed, " Here is that odious old Mr. Charteris.

Good-bye." Then the fair vision vanished, and the young man turned away, disappointed that his interview had been so provokingly cut short, and by no means inclined to answer the request made from the chariot — " Ring that bell, young man, and I'll be obliged to ye." The fat coachman could not get down from his high perch. There was an air of shabby smartness about the chariot, and the powdered footman who ought to have been in attendance, standing on the footboard, was conspicuous by his absence. " Do ye hear ?" the old gentleman called. " Ring the bell." " The gate is open," John Westmacott said. " I don't want ye to tell me that. Can't I use my own eyes ? " " I do not question the fact, sir," was the reply, as the bell was pulled impatiently, and gave two or three sonorous " dongs " with its iron tongue.

" Yes, I can use my own eyes ; and I saw you playing the fool with an uncommon pretty girl. Why did she run off? She is Sir Stuart's grand-daughter, I take it." By this time the solemn butler had, after scanning the chariot from the front door, made out that it was his master's friend, Mr. Charteris, and hastened— if such a term could be applied to so deliberate a personage — to the chariot, to assist the gouty old gentleman to descend. Mr. Charteris indulged in a good many imprecations before he had, by the help of Crummlin's arm, accomplished the descent of the four steps, which Crummlin had let down. " What time are you returning, sir ? " asked the coachman. " Go and put up at the inn, and wait there till you are ordered back." The coachman gave Crummlin a knowing wink, as much as to say, " You have got him for the day," and then Mr. Charteris, with the help of a gold-headed stick, managed to walk with tolerable dignity to the door, followed by Crummlin, who carried a large cloak with a massive silver clasp, which seemed very much out of place on this bright May day.

Mr. Charteris was conducted to Sir Stuart's study, and was received graciously. Sir Stuart had a taste for the gossip of the big world, from which he had retired, and Mr. Charteris was always ready to cater for his benefit. Mr. Charteris was very often in difficulties, and the idea that on the present occasion some claim might be pressing, to which he was indebted for this visit, perhaps rather took the edge off the warmth of his welcome. " How do, Charteris ! " he said, extending two fingers to his friend. " You'll stay and dine, and have a rubber, eh ? " " Thank ye kindly, Sir Stuart. I hope I am not come at an unsuitable moment," glancing at a pile of papers which lay on the table. " Not at all ! not at all ! I am only engaged with my wonted work, tracing the strange chain of events which connected a branch of the Leghs with Royalty.

It is an interesting historical study, but I need not go over it with you." Sir Stuart had gone over it many times before, and Mr. Charteris had often listened, with an endeavour to assume the appearance at least of profound interest. " Ah ! aye, yours is a noble family, Sir Stuart. Blue blood in your veins, sir." And then the two old gentle men held out to each other their massive silver snuff boxes, and " pinched the pinch of peace," which the exchange of a sneeze was supposed to ratify. Sir Stuart Legh was a fine old gentleman, and dressed with all due regard to appearances. His bag-wig was faultless in its curls, and the bows, with long ends lying upon his claret-coloured coat, were always fresh and appropriate in colour. His coat, of the finest cloth, opened to display a long waistcoat of figured saffron-coloured silk ; his necker chief, folded several times round his neck, was edged with old lace, and the same costly material finished the ruffles of his coat sleeve.

He wore irreproachable silk stockings, with buckles on his shoes and at the knee. Sir Stuart's hands were long and white, and a huge signet ring, worn on the middle finger, had his arms and quarterings cut on a rare onyx, with which he sealed all his letters. Sir Stuart's features were singularly refined and well chiselled, and if his small keen gray eyes had been a little wider apart, he would have been a handsome man. As it was, his appearance was sufficiently imposing, and a very marked contrast to that of his friend Mr. Charteris. He was untidy, not to say dirty, in his toilette. His linen was besprinkled with many spots of snuff; his chocolate-coloured suit was stained in several places ; so was his frilled shirt. His black silk stockings were wrinkled, ?.nd the buckles on his shoes, of tawdry brilliants, were minus several stones.

But — Mr. Charteris had a handle to his name ; he was the Honourable Owen Charteris, and this covered all defects of his toilette in Sir Stuart's eyes, and even made him supremely indifferent to the spots upon the frilled shirt and waistcoat, the crumpled neck-cloth, and general air of slovenly disregard of appearances which characterized him. " That's an uncommon pretty girl, Sir Stuart, your grand-daughter. I saw her at the gate as I drove up ; but I would have you look out for squalls. A young beau was paying her tender attentions — very tender indeed." " Ah ! where did you say you saw him ? " " At the gate — your gate, Sir Stuart. He had a portfolio under his arm— a handsome fellow ! " Sir Stuart's brow grew dark, but he did not choose to discuss the matter with his guest, so he turned quickly to another subject, and deferred further con sideration of the interview at the gate ; which, however, did not escape his memory at the fitting time.

Clemency had found her mother in the little sitting room up-stairs, which commanded a view of the road, and beyond, one of the loveliest landscapes which any eye could wish to look upon. Far away was Hendon Lake, lying in the full sunshine of the summer noon, to which a long line of low hills formed the background against the sky. In the foreground, immediately in front of Stuart Lodge, the grounds of a mansion stretching out for a quarter of a mile from the house were a mosaic of lovely colours. Lilacs, laburnums, and rhododendrons, now in full beauty, were set off by the copper beeches interspersed amongst them, in their spring dress of faintest transparent terra-cotta. Between the lake and the hills the country was undulating and varied, copses and lofty trees, meadow and pasture land, with here and there the vane on a church tower shining in the light, and the red roofs of the hamlets and villages were distinctly seen.

This sitting-room, or boudoir, was the favourite resort of mother and daughter. To the mother it afforded the quiet she delighted in, and here she could carry on all her little occupations unmolested. Clemency hid a small window at the end of this room to herself. It was a deeper bay than those in the front of the house, and her harp stood there, and her embroidery frame. But the chief charm of the window was that it was a vantage-ground, from which she could look over the dividing wall into the next garden, where, under a spreading cedar-tree, a young man was often to be seen with a canvas before him, at which he cast scarcely as many glances as at the fair vision at the open bay window ; who, professing to be reading, or drawing her slender fingers over the harp, was all the time conscious of the eyes that were upon her, and now and again would lift her head, and turning it, smile and even wave her hand.

Mrs. Cunmghame tried to be unconscious of this little by-play, but to-day she was becoming uneasy. So when Clemency came in and threw herself on the cushioned window-seat, she said — " Did Mr. Charteris see you speaking to Mr. West' macott, Clemency ? " " Horrid snuffy old man ! I don't care if he did." "But I care very much, Clemency. It would make your grandfather very angry — pray be careful." "Why should not I speak to John Westmacott, mother? He wants to paint my portra:t. Do let him." " My dear ! the very notion of it ! Your grandfather would never think of allowing it." " He painted Lady Mary Bellsize — he had fifty guineas for it. Miss Angelica Kauffman says he is a genius, and even Sir Joshua praised the portrait. Ask grandfather about it, for he won't have to pay anything. John Westmacott will paint me for nothing."

" I dare say ! No, Clemency, this cannot go on, and, my dear, do not call him ' John ' — say Mr. Westmacott." "Very well, I will say 'Mr.'; and — and tell me, little mother, why he is hated, why the whole family are treated as if they were dust under our feet, when they are all twice as good, twice as nice and clever as we are — at least, pardon me, mother, I meant to say as / am." " You are talking foolishly, Clemency. The family of a tradesman cannot be fit to associate with you. You are the descendant of noble families on both sides, and you must not forget it." " Noble families ! I am sick of the very name. What good does a noble family do me ? I go nowhere, I see no one, I am so moped and dull, and when the very nicest people in the world are next-door neighbours, I am forbidden to have aught to do with them.

I hate it," Clemency said, vehemently. " Such nonsense and silly pride ! What is the good of — of being pretty — I mean of having pretty gowns, when no one sees them except at church on Sundays? I vow I look forward to Sunday just to see folks and be seen." " Clemency, Clemency, I am shocked ! You have an invitation to supper at Mrs. De Vere's, and another to go to Hampton Court to visit the Countess of Hares court to-morrow." " Countess indeed! little be-rigged, painted-up creature, who takes snuff, and only plays a rubber with grandfather to win money from him. Do you think, mother, the people in Gloucester House play for money ? No ; nor paint their faces. Mrs. Westmacott would be ashamed to do it, and as to Clarissa,* — you don't know how lovely she is." " Clemency, you don't mean to say, — you don't dare to say, — you have ever been inside Gloucester House ?

" " Yes, I have ; and I shall go again." " Then you are a very naughty, disobedient and wilful girl, and — and I am sure ■" Poor Mrs. Cuninghame fairly broke down, and tears fell thick and fast. In a moment Clemency's mood changed. She flung herself on her knees by her mother's side, and kissed her, and wiped away her tears, saying— " Sweet little mother. I won't vex you ; I won't anger grandfather, only — " and she buried her head on her mother's shoulder — " only I do like — I do like John Westmacott."

Chapter II Gloucester House In

its exterior Gloucester House was very much like Stuart Lodge ; within, the difference was marked. Walls painted a pale gray colour, on which hung no B pictures, and rooms entirely devoid of ornaments or knick-knacks. The whole atmosphere of the house was that of precise and uncompromising neatness and cleanliness. Specks of dust were nowhere to be seen ; indeed the strongest magnifying-glasses would have failed to find anything like a stray atom anywhere. Comfort there was — and plenty — and all the mahogany shone with what Mrs. Westmacott called "elbow-grease," and there was never a rain-spot left upon the crystal clearness of the windows. Stray books, stray papers, were unknown. If a fugitive volume was discovered, with its face down wards, it was instantly confiscated ; and woe to Clarissa Westmacott if she were guilty of leaving a pocket handkerchief on a chair, or a bit of needle-work on the table.

Such a household as that which I am now describing could not be found in these days. For the Quakers, or "dear Friends," as I prefer to call them, have vanished. The great stream of progress, and the necessity of adaptation to the circumstances of the times, to which we are all obliged to bow in our turn, has made the " plain dress," and the plainly furnished home, a dream of the past. Whether the change is wholly for the better, it is not for me to inquire, but there was in the midst of the fashion and folly of this era of our national history, a refreshment in the modest, unpretentious bearing and manners of men and women like Robert Westmacott, and Sophia his wife. In their steps followed their eldest son James, and their two daughters, Patience and Deborah. But was there ever a household where all the members see eye to eye, or follow in precisely similar grooves ?

There are no rules without exceptions, and to the rule of this good Quaker family— the nearest neighbours of Sir Stuart Legh — there were two notable exceptions, John Westmacott and his cousin Clarissa. Clarissa was the child of Robert Westmacott's only brother, who had married " out of the Society," had scoffed at the business, and had incurred the lasting displeasure of his father, the founder and head of the firm of " Westmacott & Brothers," tea and provision merchants, of CheapsiJe. Clarissa's very name was against her. It smacked of romance and the gay world, and some effort had been made to supplant it by her second name, which was Anne. It did not fit her. It was like the little Quaker cap and bonnet which she was compelled to wear — it did not seem as if it belonged to her. But there was a more serious secession from the ways of the Society in John Westmacott.

He had renounced the plain dress, he had boldly declared that to the eye of an artist such drab cloths and broad brims were an offence. At twenty-one he had shed these hateful garments, and with them attendance at the " house of business," which his good father was not ashamed to call a " shop " ; and declaring that he had every prospect of earning his living as an artist, and perhaps even fame as well, he left the business and the Friends together, and affected the jaunty air of the day. It were vain to tell how many heart-aches this course of her favourite son gave Sophia Westmacott, and then her husband would wisely say — " There is no harm in the lad, Sophy ; thou mayst be thankful he is not as many youths are, inclined to a gay life, and to drinking over much wine. The way he has chosen may not be the way thou wouldst have chosen for him.

But the lad is clever with the brush, and I hear even Joshua Reynolds spoke well of one of his performances." " The praise of man, dear husband ! the praise of man ! And do not our first principles forbid the hang ing of profane pictures on the walls ? How canst thou reconcile this with the fact that thou shouldst encourage thy own son to paint such pictures ? No, it is not con sistent, and it is a grief to me and to his brother. I confess to thee I have much searching of heart about Johnny, and I am by no means satisfied with that gay and giddy young neighbour, who is constantly at the window, or lying in wait in the garden. The example to our niece Clarissa is injurious. I have often many fears concerning her." " She is a good girl, and I feel her to be as my daughter," Robert Westmacott said, "a sweet temper, and ready to oblige.

Nay, I cannot find fault with Clarissa." " Thou art always too lenient, dear husband. Perhaps a little sterner discipline would have saved us trouble ; but we have reason to be satisfied with our own daughters and James, so I would not murmur. But a sense of my own shortcomings moves me at times to much concern." Such conversations as these were frequent between Robert Westmacott and his wife, and that which I have now recorded took place on the evening of the lovely May day when my story opens. The air was sweet with the fragrance of the lilacs and syringa, and a pair of wood-pigeons were repeating their love-song. They had built their nests year after year in a group of tall fir trees, which stood behind the two houses as sentinels on a stretch of broken ground, now doubtless covered with the bricks and mortar of a later time.

John Westmacott was leaning against the open window of the room which was his studio, and where his canvases were arrayed against the wall in closely serried ranks. One picture on the easel might be safely said to be the representative of a great many of those whose backs were alone to be seen. The picture was John's ideal, and I need not say it was, in his eyes at least, a true portrait of Clemency. With many of the others he had grown dissatisfied and even angry with himself for nursing a delusion about them ; but this, surely this, was a success. John Westmacott had de cided talent, but not genius. He could clothe the form of his idol in graceful drapery, he could represent her lovely hair, and paint a wandering curl with the light on it, as it fell over her low bodice. Yes, and he could paint the transparent folds of her fichu and the lace which fell from it, but there was a want in the face itself.

Those rosy lips did not part with a smile, there was no dawning light in those lovely eyes. It was the form, but the soul did not make it breathe and live. There was a want in John Westmacott's art as in his nature. Dimly conscious that it was so, almost in de spair of producing what he craved to possess, the true image of the woman he loved, he had turned to the window, and leaning out, drank in the luscious fragrance borne on the evening air, gazing in dreamy abstraction over the landscape, fast fading into purple indistinctness, though Hendon Lake still showed clear under the daffodil sky, tinged with tenderest rose colour, which was re flected in it. John Westmacott was honestly in love, and the impossibility of gaining access to Clemency gave a romantic zeal to his passion ; he was so near and yet so far off!

That very morning he had been interrupted by the arrival of the wretched old man in the tumble down chariot, feeling sure that he would carry the news of the meeting to Sir Stuart Legh, and that a stricter surveillance than ever would be put upon Clemency's movements. As he looked down into the garden below, he saw his brother James in his sober suit of brown cloth, collarless coat, and broad beaver hat, pacing sedately the gravel path that skirted the red brick wall, with a sister on either side of him. Both the girls wore little caps of delicate muslin, tied under the chin, and concealing their hair ; their gowns, made precisely alike, of the same soft dove colour, were covered by plain thick muslin kerchiefs crossed over the low cut bodice. They were talking of the one great event in their simple lives — the yearly meeting of the Friends in Devonshire House, and their young hearts were throb bing with expectation.

Once a year the Quaker world had its " season," for the Friends took long and toil some journeys to meet their brothers and sisters, to discuss matters of faith and practice ; while the chosen representatives and leaders of the Society passed and revised laws, heard how such laws had been kept, and admonished those who had been guilty of breaking them, with a firmness and yet with a gentleness which carried great weight. In its way this annual assembly of Friends was a Parliament, and at the houses of the wealthier members there was much hospitality extended, and many objects attained which were not set down in the programme. Many a bride has been wooed and won at the yearly meeting, and many shy glances of admiring reverence and responsive love have been exchanged in the still ness of the meeting-house, making the way plain for more decided advances at one of the reunions for tea or supper, at which there was a welcome for all comers —though in the Society of Friends, as elsewhere, there were certain class distinctions which were tacitly observed.

As John looked down on these three figures in their somewhat solemn perambulation, he felt lonely and apart from them — and yet " above them," I am afraid I must also add. There was something of pity in the downward glance, something of a curl of contempt on his lips, as he caught Deborah's little subdued laugh and Patience's reproof. "Hush, Deb! mother does not like thee to laugh out of doors, — the neighbours may hear thee!" The three were just beneath John's window now, and the words were distinctly heard. At this moment there was a tap at the door, and John answered — " Come in." And then there fluttered in a little dainty personage in a soft, dove-coloured gown, like her cousins' in the garden below. A cap, too, sat upon the braids of golden hair, and tied under a dimpled chin, encircling cheeks with its plaited border which were like nothing so much as the rounded petals of the China roses which grew against the house.