Dorothy Penrose. A novel

Chapter I

' Herself the solitary scion left Of a time-honoured race.' — Btron. It was on a certain afternoon in June 1684, that the travelling coach of Sir Hugh Treslove, baronet, of the county of Gloucestershire, rolled at a sober pace down a road not many miles from the ancient town of Thornbury, and made its way to a house which stood just half-a-mile from the little viU ge of Cheever. Now the progress of this coach — like everything else in the seventeenth century— had been slow. It had started from the baronet's own residence, situated only twelve miles away, three mortal hours before ; but, as some excuse for these guarded paces, it was carrying most precious freight, to wit — no less a personage than Mistress Dorothy Penrose herself, who, attired in a new cote and caleche, was sitting therein side by side with her cousin, the baronet's OAvn daughter, and smiling as happily as if she had not a care in the world.

Arrived safely at its destination, the coach drew up in the neatly paved court into which the main en trance of the house opened. The baronet, who was a stout, ruddy-faced gentleman of sixty, immediately descended, and gravely handed the ladies to the vol. I A ground. This arrival was evidently an expected one, for the housekeeper, Mrs "Wilburga Prynne, attired in her best gown and pinners, an array of some half dozen domestics behind her, stood on the threshold, and with a respectful curtsey now bade Mistress Pen rose 'most heartily welcome to her own house.' The young lady smiled and blushed, kissed Mrs Prynne affectionately on the cheek, and then, accept ing the hand Sir Hugh offered her, entered the house. Sir Hugh's manner at this moment Avas punc tiliously and profoundly polite, as if he felt that the occasion required some special display of good manners.

The pretty young face of his companion, too, was full of meaning, for her eyes glanced round with a look of quick and sympathetic interest, as if the sight of the place had kindled some sudden emotion in her heart. Yet it was one of which any owner, far more a young woman of twenty years, might justly have been proud. It was well arranged and commodious, and was plen tifully embellished with the adornments with which the wealth and taste of many successive Penroses had enriched it. It was one of those houses whose chief charms lie snugly apart from a first survey, a high wall screening it from the winding road which passed it on the eastern side, where a small postern just wide enough to admit a single horseman flanked the heavy wooden gates of the court in which the coach had drawn up. But even as this short space was traversed the suggestion of beauties as yet but half reA*ealed began to be apparent.

Quaint gables where the swallows twittered — a timbered front facino south, with mullioned windows — a terrace walk stretching from end to end, overlooking a beautiful garden, and from which the ear gathered eloquent Avhisperings as of the summer Avind passing over ivied walls as yet unseen, and through heavy branches of beech and yew. The hall into Avhich the party entered was square and finely panelled with oak. Immediately opposite the door, a pair of carved gaces crossed the staircase at the top of the first flight, shutting off the two shorter ones, which — leading away on either side — gave access to a gallery into which the doors of the upper chambers opened. Weapons of war and the chase — eloquent memorials of the pursuits and pleasures of those dead Penroses whose dusty monu ments, gathered together in a corner of the village church, were graven with the record of their virtues when living — ornamented the walls of this hall in somewhat sad abundance.

As the young heiress — now the sole survivor of this family — crossed the threshold, the afternoon sun was shining placidly upon these relics of her fore-fathers. For nineteen years its beams had found them undisturbed. For nineteen years no hand had di*awn the blades from their scabbards, and the hunting horns had hung silent on the wainscot. ' But now,' said Mrs Prynne, her eyes noting the direction of her young mistress's, ' now we shall have some fine doings I reckon — fine doings ! ' The young heiress stood still, a tumult of indescrib able emotion rising in her heart, and tears, whether of pain or pleasure she could not tell, filling her eyes. ' If I thought — ' she began, and stopped. ' If you thought what, my dear ? ' asked Sir Hugh. ' That I could ever forget the honour of my name,' cried the girl, with sparkling eyes. ' Oh ! to be mistress of this noble place !

But my weapons shall not rust — though I am a woman!' — by which speech it Avill be seen that this young lady was a firm believer in proprietary rights and not at all inclined to give way on any point of family honour, or be ungrateful for the good things Avhich fate had bestowed upon her. Now Sir Hugh Avas a jocose, good-tempered gentle man, full of a sportive humour that could never long refrain from teasing his niece a little when he got the chance ; and this opportunity was of course too tempting to be missed. 'Oh, no!' said he with great gravity: 'there is surely no reason why they should. Betwixt the handle of a jousting pole and that of a broom there is really no difference but what might be easily ad justed ; and I believe that a " thrust-in-earte " is some times perfectly admissible in the domestic game of housekeeping.

Yonder little pennon, now ! I am not fanciful — heaven be thanked ! — but on my honour, I could almost swear that at this moment I see it shaking under villanous apprehension that its tail must shortly do penance for long idleness as a duster ! ' ' That pennon, sir,' cried his niece, ' shall remain idle as ever. It was won — if tradition be true — on a victorious field ; and as an emblem of victory it shall never cease to represent a Penrose.' ' That,' said Sir Hugh, slyly,' depends upon whom you marry, my dear.' This remark, to which — taking counsel from long experience — the young lady deemed it prudent to make no reply, brought the party to the dining-room, a fine apartment looking on to the terrace ; Avhen the refection which had been spread under the careful supervision of Mrs Prynne herself, for a while en gaged the baronet's attention much too pleasantly* to enable him to devote any further attention to the peccadilloes of his niece.

But as soon as his appetite was somewhat pacified, and he began to have leisure to look about, he Avent in for another inter change. 'I must really allow,' said he, 'that your ancestors had very good taste. This room, you see, was chosen for the setting forth of your family motto. 'Tis there you perceive, in the mantelpiece. " Servabo fidem." Now I presume, that applied to this particular apartment, Avhich it most aptly decorates, it implies that when a Penrose invites a hungry man to dinner he in no Avay fails to satisfy all reasonable expecta tions on the score of a good one. A praiseworthy pledge, on my honour ! and one which I hope will not be forgotten the first time I come to see you.' ' And when,' said his niece, who had a ready wit, ' I will take care that you have as much reason to commend my cookery as to rebuke my vanity in the serving of it.' ' A fair warning,' said the baronet, ' for if your cookery be bad, and I do not love it, I perceive by the confidence of that assertion that I am still to eat it.

Now I consider that method of serving a dinner to be much in Fluellen's fashion of serving his leek.' ' Oh, no,' replied his niece ; ' for if you alread}' make up your mind that my dinner shall be bad, the failure of your own prophecy, sir, should prove hard est to your digestion.' ' Not at all !' cried Sir Hugh laughing, ' not at all ! for if your dinner be well cooked — by Cadwallader and all his goats ! I'll swallow my own prophecy, my dear, with all the humility in the world.' After the repast was ended, the baronet took the ladies for an airing on the terrace, and Mistress Penrose, who was very fond of a garden, felt supremely happy at the prospect her young eyes now surveyed. This garden was all that her heart could desire. The turf was smooth and green, the trees fine, and the flowers plentiful.

The terrace stretched — as we have before explained — right across the front of the house. At the eastern end a side entrance gave access to the court previously described, and at the other a flight of steps led down to the garden. Here a door in the Avail opened directly into a wood — deep, shady and secluded — which stretched for some miles, and skirted the high road which led on to the village of Cheever. The portion of the garden immediately contiguous to this door was inexpressibly romantic and picturesque. Overhung by the dense branches of the trees just beyond the wall, it had assumed the loveliest tints of summer greenery. The softest moss carpeted the ground, and numberless ferns spread their feathery fronds under the shadow of the wall. The effect of this green transparent shade, in contrast to the sunshine that at noonday flooded the rest of the garden, was deliciously cool and inviting.

To Dorothy it seemed impossible to conceive anything more delight ful than to sit on those terrace steps and look across the green turf below with its brilliant flower plots, or watch the fine forest trees beyond the wall sway their interlacing boughs in the summer wind. The fragrance of the roses which climbed the house front lent their sweetness to complete the enjoyments of this delightful spot, the timbered front and low windows of the house being in some places literally wreathed with the fragrant garlands. There was another matter connected with this ter race which, as it is frequently mentioned in the course of this narrative, demands a few* Avords of descrip tion. The central portion of the house projected a little beyond the two sides or wings, and on the left side of this projection, facing west, was a door.

Within this, a flight of steps led to a chamber on the upper floor, into which it opened by a door screened with tapestry. This room was perhaps the prettiest in the house. It had generally been appropriated to the use of the mistress of Penrose, and was called the ' ladye's par lour.' It was embellished with a fine wainscot of black oak, and hung with choice tapestry — the re puted work of Letitia, Avife of John Penrose, Avho had lived in the days of the first Tudor king, by whom he Avas knighted on Bosworth field. It was \>y the prow ess of this personage (generally termed the ' Knight of Penrose ') that many of the rich lands pertaining to the manor had been won. His wife's taste, how ever, seemed to have lain in sylvan rather than martial directions ; for her needle had limned the outline of hawk, hunting-horn, and hound, and her worsted horsemen rode on gaily decked palfreys over meads starred with flowers.

The colouring of these hangings was very fine, especially when illuminated by the rays of the evening sun, which filtering in broken gleams through the stained Avindows, dyed them with the shifting colours of the casement until they seemed almost to live in the changeful light. Two fine cabinets of Italian workmanship also stood in this apartment, which contained besides numerous relics of feminine usage, scent jars, china, fans, and many little trifles which twenty years before had belonged to Dorothy's mother. Portraits of this lady and her husband hung on either side of the fireplace — the one fresh and dimpled in her wedding gown — the other in a satin doublet and point lace collar — the hand resting on the hilt of a weapon whose use had cost the last lord of Penrose his life. A single glance at this face, with its handsome features, bold blue eyes, and brown curling hair, sufficed to tell the most indifferent observer whence his daughter had in herited her beauty.

But before proceeding further, we must give a short account of the circumstances of this gentle man's death, and the manner in which our heroine had inherited her patrimony.

Chapter II

'Light as a dream your days their circlets ran.' — Coleridge. Dorothy was the only child and sole heiress of Richard Penrose, whose career had been brought to an early though honourable close in the great naval engagement with the Dutch in 1666. Three years before he had married Agatha, youngest sister of Sir Hugh Treslove ; but that lady had died when the child was an infant, having contracted fever while on a visit with her husband to Oxford, where Parliament was then sitting. This untimely eA*ent — for the lady Avas but in her twentieth year — greatly affected her family, and was the chief reason which influenced Richard Penrose to leave a home whose opulence and comfort were now only associated with the haunting memories of a happier time. He departed on the expedition which proved so fatal to him and never returned.

A name inscribed on a tablet in the village church of Cheever, beneath which the remains of his young AA*ife were already lying — a portrait and some huntinggloves hanging on the wainscot at Penrose, were almost all that remained of the bold cavalier who had gone down sword in hand among the breakers, while the English fire swept the decks of de Ruyter's vessels and drove the Dutch from the mouth of the Thames. 'Deo non fortuna,' was the motto reverently inscribed upon the tomb of this ill-fated pair ; and while the bonfires were still burning in London and the bells rinoino- Sir Hugh, who had been left sole guardian of his infant niece, took the little creature (but two years old) to his heart and home, and entered upon the duties of a trust which he afterwards most faithfully performed. Sir Hugh Treslove was a man of much repute in the neighbourhood in which he lived.

Warm tempered and impulsive, he yet pos.sessed no small share of prudence and integrity, and under his management every arrangement which could conduce to the future interest of the child was carefully carried out. Though a royalist, at the age of twenty eight he had fallen in love with the demurely dressed daughter of a Puritan gentleman ; and had married her in spite of the opposition of his own family. This union — Avhich had proved a very happy one — had been blighted by but one disappointment. The baronet had no male heir. Three boys had died successively in infancy, and upon reaching middle life Sir Hugh remained father to but one little maiden, who was nearly a year younger than Dorothy. For tunately the boy who stood in position of heir pre sumptive to him was a youth of good parts and open disposition, and although belonging to a distant branch of the family, bore a great resemblance to Sir Hugh both in tastes and appearance.

As young Masterton grew older he became a frequent visitor at the Hall ; and Sir Hugh began to indulge in fond hopes that a certain childish intimacy which existed between his daughter and his heir, might some day ripen into a closer and warmer attachment. But however tempt ing such an ultimate settlement of affairs might be, the baronet was much too fond of his daughter ever to think of coercing her into a mai-riage that was not in exact accordance with her own desires, a piece of good feeling in which he was warmly seconded by his lady, who not only disapproved of early marriages, but had strong notions on the subject of natural affection. Still, both parents were at heart very much interested in the progress of this promised development, and there seemed little reason to doubt that the young people would eventually make up their minds to marry.

The life at Treslove Hall Avas singularly even and unostentatious. Lady Angela, who retained much of the simplicity of her Puritan training, was extremely delicate, and consequently, as she grew older, had little liking for the hospitality which in his younger days it had been her husband's delight to dispense. Quite content in his later years to eschew those pleasures in which his wife could no longer share, the baronet's time was chiefly spent in attending to the well-being of the two little ladies under his roof, pre siding at quarter-sessions, acting as colonel to the Gloucester Militia, and hunting with young Masterton. But the first of these duties was b}* far the dearest. Nothing, indeed, could exceed the devotion which Sir Hugh lavished on these children. He Avas one of those men to whom the companionship of young people seemed a natural instinct, and to whose sympa thetic ears the prattle of babyhood was nature's sweetest music.

He seemed never tired of watching their play, nor even of taking his part in the gambols of the nursery. In the opinion of the little creatures themselves, he was an indispensable playfellow, and in the time-honoured institutions of ' thumbikin ' and ' cock-horse ' he had no rival. His stout erect figure, bluff countenance and scarlet coat, were seldom seen without the attendant graces of his little play-fellows. Even when he went to the Sessions in magisterial dignity as Justice of the Peace, the two youthful beauties sat in his coach as he drove to the Court house, and kissed their little hands to him as he went away. They filled his button-hole Avith flowers and his pipe Avith tobacco, and returned his affection Avith all the devotion of their baby hearts. With Dorothy in particular there existed a bond of unusual strength.

The little girl possessed a character of great force and liveliness, and a much less timid spirit than Margret ; and she entered into all her uncle's sportive schemes with so much zest, that in the fulness of his admiration of her courage, these Avere sometimes carried rather further than Lady Angela might have approved of, had she known. Indeed, it was whispered that on certain holiday occasions — when that pious lady was busied in the distribution of her charities, and the concoction of certain medicinal remedies that she always prepared in person for the sick and ailing among her husband's tenants — the little girl had been seen to handle the foil, or run a tilt at the ring almost as skilfully as Sir Hugh himself. But these friendly interchanges were among the many secrets which lay between Mistress Penrose and her uncle, for Lady Angela demurred a good deal to some of Sir Hugh's educational theories — especially those which, she affirmed, might tend to strengthen a certain wilful ness in his niece.

The baronet always pooh-poohed his wife's scruples on this point — which he declared to be puritanical and quakerish — and continued to laugh in his own good-natured way at the pertinacity with which his little pupil could defend her rights— for, when her childish conscience was once satisfied of the justice of her cause, little Dorothy had never been known to yield. Lady Angela, however, regarded these skirmishes with different eyes, and often lectured the good baronet on his imprudence in provoking them. She maintained that in this spirit of opposition lay many dangers, and endeavoured on her own part to instruct her ward in the virtues of humility and forbearance. Dorothy always listened very respectfully to her aunt. Her childish pride sometimes forbade a verbal admis sion of the very fault that her good sense secretly ad mitted, and as a natural consequence her conscience, which was a lively one, was at times somewhat heavily burthened.

But the doctrine of non-resistance was a very hard one for the child to understand, and it is doubtful whether Lady Angela ever really succeeded in convincing her ward of its efficacy. She had strong notions of the principles of liberty. Re straint of any sort, if unduly exercised, was most irk some to her. Stories of martyrs moved her deeply, and nothing could have induced her to keep a bird in a cage. But Dorothy had her weaknesses, for with all her good sense there existed an unusually strong tinge of romance in her composition, and though the natural vanity of her sex was tempered with judgment, yet the admiration which her beauty invariably excited, very early taught this little girl something of her own power. But if in her own fancy she reigned queen of her magic circle, she was a beneficent sovereign, dispensing favours rather than receiving them.

In her own busy little brain dwelt her heroes and her antagonists, mysteries lay in the colours which flickered restlessly on the floor of the great hall at Treslove when the sun was shining through its painted windows, and when the moon was rising, many a stolen visit had been paid by the child to a certain bed of daffodils in the garden, within the wind stirred cups of which little Dorothy stoutly maintained the fairies nightly rocked their babies to sleep. Lady Angela, though quite aware of the fanciful vagaries in Avhich her ward indulged, was much too sensible a woman to interfere with their moderate indulgence. She prudently regarded them as nothing more serious than the pretty fancies which are so common to the minds of young people of intelligence, whose imagina tions are easily excited by anything they cannot comprehend, and whose romantic impulses are very easily aroused.

Consequently she strove rather to gain the child's confidence than thwart her whims; and to the end of her life Dorothy always recalled with feelings of the deepest gratitude, the unfailing measure of considerate kindness which her aunt had extended to her in her childhood. Thus, under the fostering care of Sir Hugh and his lady, Dorothy grew into a tall and beautiful girl. Her slender figure and buoyant step, the rubies which adorned her cheeks and lips, and the radiant splendour of her dark blue eyes, charmed all Avho beheld them. As she became older, Sir Hugh, beaming with satisfaction, began to entice his wife into the worldly indulgencies of certain satin gowns and costly laces ; and Dorothy — whose tastes in this direction coincided exactly with his own — looked so womanly in one of these pretty habits, and donned it with such bewitch ing grace, that Sir Hugh hinted laughingly to his lady that he feared his own reign was well nigh over.

But as yet the admiration which the young girl received had made no very deep impression upon her. Though fully appreciating it, she had evinced a good deal of common sense in taking it at its proper value, and the flattery which was sometimes paid to her never influenced her judgment of the qualifications of those who offered it. But the life at Treslove had been quiet — young Masterton being the principal gentleman who had had the privilege of much com panionship with the ladies ; and this young man, as we have before said, was always regarded as an eventual suitor for the hand of Sir Hugh's own daughter. Between Dorothy and her cousin the most sisterly affection naturally existed ; and Margret who confided all her secrets to her companion, had already made her aware with girlish pride of a certain little heart cut from an onyx which she had in her possession, which token of affection, she confessed, she had received from her attached kinsman.

But as yet no absolute engagement existed between the young people, and at the time this story opens, Sir Hugh's daughter was as free from any binding promise as his niece. In the April of 168-t Dorothy was twenty years of age. Under her father's will the young heiress succeeded to her patrimony without restriction of any kind ; so the time was fast approaching when Sir Hugh's guardianship expired, and left her absolute mistress of a fine house and a handsome fortune. Of course it was the baronet's intention to celebrate her majority with due rejoicings, and under these circum stances, she now proffered a request to himself and his lady, that she might be permitted to make a lengthened visit to her future home during the present summer ; and under the supervision of Mrs Prynne the housekeeper, take a practical lesson in the duties Avhich, as mistress of Penrose, would shortly devolve upon her.

This request was granted by Sir Hugh, who perhaps deemed it wise to give the young heiress her first taste of liberty before his own active supervision of her affairs was withdraAvn ; and hence took place that arrival at Penrose which has been already related. He remained two days, and then returned home, leaving his daughter Margret with her cousin un til his promised visit. His last injunctions related especially to the dinner which was to celebrate his return. Thus far have we brought our heroine, and from this point we are to follow her adventures very closely, the next year of her life being one of startling vicissi tudes. We haA*e seen that she is a young lady capable of conceiving high hopes, and possessing sufficient resolution to endeavour to secure their accomplish ment. We know, too, that she can dream dreams, and colour her aspirations with the vivid hues of her own fancy. How many of these are to be realised and how many to fall into dust and ashes, it is the object of this history to prove.

Chapter III

' But overgrown with dust and old decay And hid in darkness, that none could behold The hue thereof.' — Faerie Queene. A aveek has passed since the departure of Sir Hugh. In these few days we are fain to admit that our heroine eludes the vigilance of her biographer, for tradition has given no clue by which to follow her through the mysterious labyrinth of female eccen tricity. What have been the pastimes of Mistress Penrose — what her pleasures — her pursuits in the one hundred and sixty eight hours since we last left her ? Has she, like the royal Solomon's model house keeper, risen while it is yet night to give meat to her household, and a task to her maidens ? To us her price is surely far above rubies — yet we have no warrant for believing that in this, the first week of her novitiate, she has set so good an example to chanticleer, or given her maidens so hard a time of it.

Perhaps she has been like ' sweet Madeline,' dreaming of love, ' While pale enchantment hell her sleepy eyed ; ' and practised pretty spells to charm some lover to her feet. Alas ! we have already said that the young lady has no lover ; and we cannot hold her fanciful enough to have created an imaginai*y one, in lieu of reality. Then let us be content to hope that she has been happy, and happily employed. Heaven only knows how she has spent her time. Depend on't the tirewoman has had her portion, and the looking-glass a share. She is a beauty, and was there ever a beauty unconscious of her own perfections ? I take it that the meekest among them must feel a little pharisaical at times, and thank Heaven (however stealthily) that she is not as other Avomen. Then let us not censure our heroine too severely for her vanity (if it be vanity that has engrossed her) ; for when we admit her beauty, do we not allow, that of all Dame Nature's favourites, she is in that front rank where the choicest of her cunning pieces of handiwork abide.

But we have no intention to surrender our pretty Dorothy entirely to the weaknesses implied above. In our own mind, we feel sure that she has been keeping house soberly and industriously, in the fashion of the seventeenth century ; brewing home made wines, tart and eschewed of man ; making pasties, distilling sweet waters for unknown uses, and concocting rare perfumes and rarer conserves. And she has been sewingsamplers, doubtless, and hemming and darning linen. She could never so far forget her own sex, and her duty to the other, as to neglect those subtle arts, which to a thoughtful and calculating man amply compensate for the want of every other in the maiden of his affections. And we love her the better for practising these homely virtues, and we wish her well, and prepare with enthusiasm to follow her through fifty chapters or more ; conscious that she is not unworthy of our attachment, or the happy fate that Ave trust is in store for so orthodox a young woman at the end of them.

But there is no reason why we, and the rest of her admirers, should be com pelled to witness the tedious routine of the feminine iabours which go to make up so much of our happiness. No! no !— ' chacun a son gout' — we were meant for other things. A true woman is always invisible to a lover's eyes at such stirring times ; and Dorothy Penrose shall be as happily concealed from prying curiosity while entangled in the domestic difficulties suitable to her sex and condition, as if she possessed no admirers at all. Ten to one we should not enjoy the exercise, if thoroughly put to it, even in her company ; and might love our victuals none the more, because, like the witches in Macbeth, we had diligently laboured in person at the mingling of strange ingredients, that, for anything we know, might be necessary to produce that appetising result we so keenly relish.