Miss Gwynne of Woodford

Front matter

MISS GWYNNE OP WOODFORD. BT GAETH EIVEES. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL. M.DCCC.LXI. [ T.'e right of Translation is reserved.] CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME. cn_p. PAGE I. Maud ...... i H. Archery . . . . . 19 EŒ. Wrathful . . . . .38 IV. Physical and Metaphysical . 46 V. Anxiety . . . . .56 VI. The Swift River . . 69 VII. The Quiet House . . . .74 Vm. Connomore Farm . . .82 IX. Maud and Stephen . . . .91 X. Maud's Reflections . . . 102 XI. Stephen . . . . .107 Xn. Blanche's Words ans'wtjr the Purpose . 115 Xni. The Sea-side '. . . . 128 XTV. Maud Tries to conquer Self . .133 XV. Change of Air and Scene . . . 149 XVI. Sisterly Care . . . .158 XVH. Hugh . . . . . CONTENTS. IV CHAP. page XVIIL A Stormy Night . . . .191 •XIX. A New Doctor . . . . 209 XX. Mary ruthlessly Investigates . .212 XXI.

What the Wreck Brought . . .215 XXII. Maud gets impatient . . .218 XXIII. Weaving . . . . . . 226 XXIV. Old Nell's Daughter . . . 237 XXV. Work . . ... 247 XXVI. Hugh's Living .... 264 XXVII. At Westcliffe . . . . . 272 XXVIII. A Dream . . . . .277 XXIX. Philip . . . . . . MISS GWYME OF W00DF0ED.

Chapter I. Maud

" ' Poor race of men,' said the pitying spirit, ' Dearly ye pay for your primal fall ; Some flow'rets of Eden ye still inherit, But the trail of the serpent is over them all.' ' The June sun blazed gloriously that fine after noon over the farstretching woods and meadows of Forrestrange and Woodford. The drenching thunder-rain that had fallen in the early morning had cleared the air, which now was filled with the smell of new hay ; for in the hayfielcls scores of haymakers were hard at work, turning and spreading the saturated haycocks. Just the day for the country! Pleasant even on the flat high road, where tall hedges shut out the fields from view, for the dust was washed VOL. I. away, and the leaves and grass on either side glistened fresh and green, glancing light and shade as stirred by the soft west wind.

"Capital harvest!" said Squire Forrester to himself, as he emerged on his mare Nell from a shady lane into the broad sunshine flashing across this same high road. " Capital ! The hay'll be in before tlie week's out, if it goes on like this." Here the squire took his hat off, and wiped his head and face; then turned in his saddle to look behind up the green lane. There was no one in sight, so exclaiming, " The young ones can take care of themselves, I warrant," he rode on, at Nell's own peculiar pace : which, be it known, was no pace at all, being neither a walk, nor a trot, nor a canter, nor yet an amble ; but a mode of proceeding partaking more of the nature of a run than anything else. Presently two other riders appear in the shady distance. The squire's son, Stephen, and young Maud Gwynne, the squire's godchild and pet.

The lane was too narrow to admit three riders abreast ; their horses, too, were not so fresh as Nell, it .would seem, for by the time the road is reached they are considerably distanced by the squire and NelL He is far ahead now, passing a roadside public- MAUD. 3 house, where the landlord and a customer are standing at the door. They touch their hats. "You should be at work yonder," says the squire, pointing to the adjacent meadow, " instead of helping one another to do nothing here." The men laugh, and the squire goes on. They look after him, and the landlord says to the customer, "Be'ent is onner ail an 'arty, Jim?" " A perfec pictar o' cattle, God bless 'im," replies Jim. Whereupon they watch the stalwart squire out of sight. " Look t'other way," exclaims the landlord, wink ing as Maud and Stephen appear round the corner.

The other grins. " They be a fine pair ; I never see a no arnsomer," he says, dropping his voice as they approach. " Well, Jenkins, have you a good tap now ? " asks the young man, pulling up his horse. " Hexcellent, Mister Stephen : ome-br«wed last Hoctober ! " " Bring me a glass, and take one yourself. Bring a third for my friend Jim too." The ale was brought. Stephen threw down the money, smiled at Maud, and quaffed the " 'ome-brewed." 1—2 " Capital ! " he exclaimed. " Jenkins, bring me another glass." Maud Gwynne rode on. Stephen swallowed the ale at one draught, and galloped after her. " Why wouldn't you wait, Maud ? " " I— I don't know." (Hesitatingly.) " Was it because I took that second glass ? " She coloured, but made no answer. " WeU, you didn't mind my having one . " " Of course not."

"I see; you were disgusted at my taking two." " I thought it scarcely necessary." " Pooh ! You're so mighty particular. Perhaps you think I smoke too much ? " No answer. "You do; I know it. Pooh! why don't you say so, then ? " She laughed : " As if you would mind what I said ! " "But I should; I do, Maud." " Not one bit." " I swear I do ; you know it quite well too." " Let us overtake your father," she interrupted, setting off on a canter. Instantly Stephen stopped. He pulled a pipe out of his pocket, filled it, lit it, smoked it, and followed at a walk. Puffing away, he presently came up to where she and his father had reined MAUD, in their horses, at a low white gate. This was the way to Woodford, Maud's home. " You must come on to Forrestrange, Maud," said the squire. " I will send up from the village, that your father need not expect you to-day."

"No, thank you, godpapa; I must go home this evening." " Nonsense, my dear ! " interrupted he, hooking her horse's bridle with his whip. " Nonsense ! come on with us. Your father won't mind losing you once in a way." " Oh, but he won't enjoy his dinner if I'm not there ! Everything will get cold, and he'll go on reading ! He'll forget his tea too, and all his papers will get astray into the bargain. You don't know the misfortunes that occur when I'm ss away. " Well, my dear, as you think best. I won't urge you against your duty. Tell him to make haste over to Forrestrange; say that I rather tliink I'm in for a fit of the gout: I've had two or three sharp twinges to-day, and he must bring you over. Good-bye." The squire rode on. Stephen opened the white gate. " Good-bye, Stephen," said Maud.

" Won't you shake hands ? " quoth Stephen, in an injured way. "Of course. Why not?" " I thought you were cross." " Cross ! oh, no." She laughed and put out her hand. He took it. " Maud," he said, holding it in his own. " You don't like my smoking so much, now do you ? " "I think it isn't quite good for you, Stephen, indeed." "Then look here! You see this pipe? it's a great beauty, and splendid in point of colour ; but because you don't like my smoking, I will throw it away. There " saying which he flung the coal-black treasure over the palings. "Now you will believe I mind what you say; won't you ? " She seemed too intent on counting the hairs in her horse's long thin mane, lifting them with her whip, to answer. "Do you believe me, Maud?" he asked in a low tone. " Well— yes." She shook her bridle and galloped off, as Stephen, reddening like fire, turned his horse and trotted smartly after his father.

Maud presently slackens speed. A strange new sensation has crept over her: delight pervades her whole being. The warm blood cour sin «■ MAUD, 7 swiftly through her veins, dyes her cheek, as in imagination she recals Stephen's manner and still feels the pressure of his hand. It is a glorious summer afternoon. There is no dust in the air; the trees are green and fresh ; and the birds sing blithely above Maud's head, as she passes under the overarching boughs. " Everything is happy," she thinks as she rides slowly homeward. " How delicious is summer ! " She is full of joyousness, and at last sings out in a loud beautiful treble, just like one of the birds. Was it the pleasant afternoon that occasioned this happiness ? The less said on the subject the better, perhaps, for Maud is not yet eighteen.

But, had the day been dark, dreary, cold, nip ping, she would have been quite as happy, and enjoyed her ride just as much. Maud is the squire's godchild, and his pet. He thinks that she and the two-year old filly he has in the home paddock, are the most promis ing young things in England : this he has frequently said, since Maud came home from school these holidays. There is no surpassing beauty in her face; but again and again you would be attracted to look at the serious, intellectual countenance, the clear grey eyes, soft and melancholy in repose, shining with subdued fire when animated, the expressive mouth, which has a peculiar charm when she smiles: in fine you would derive pleasure in resting your eyes on that young, vigorous, earnest face, and in watching its varied expression. At present she is so sunburnt that you would not be able to discover her natural fairness, except when she takes her hat off; then you see her forehead, white, massive and beautiful, like a Saint Cecilia by Guide-.

She is only half Saxon. Her father came of an old Welsh family, whose rank and place went to the dogs, so to speak, long ago. Mr. Gwynne inherits Woodford from his mother, who in her day was an heiress. His wife — Maud's mother — died four years ago, when Maud's little sister was born. Since that time Mr. Gwynne has lived in great retirement, associating with few besides his neighbours the Forresters. His only son Hugh has been Stephen Forrester's schoolfellow, and the two young men are now together at Oxford. Hugh went to Wales with a party this vacation : Stephen refused to join, avowing he preferred reading at home. Forrestrange is just two miles from Woodford, MAUD, 9 Maud's home, and the country for miles round, except where Woodford interferes, belongs to the Forresters, who, from generation to generation, have lived at the fine old place.

Woodford is a modest dwelling compared with Forrestrange ; but Maud thinks nothing of this as she comes within sight of home this evening. She rides on happily, and her handsome black galloway Rupert (her godfather's gift) quickens his pace and neighs as he approaches the stables, to which Maud rides direct. After dismounting, she hastens through a laurel grove to the house, and knowing it is dinner-time, she enters by a window which opens on the ground floor, hastens up to her room, takes off her riding-dress, dresses speedily, and runs down to her father, who is sitting amongst books and papers in a small room adjoining the drawing room. "Well, my dear?" That was all he said, scarcely looking up from the book he was en grossed in. She kissed him. " Oh, papa, I've had such a delicious ride !

Rupert is splendid. I can't tell you how I've enjoyed the day." "I'm glad to hear it, my dear. You shall tell me about it presently ; now I'm busy." " But you mustn't be busy any longer ; dinner is ready. Let me have this, papa." She took the book out of his hand, put a mark in, closed it, and laid it on the table. " Ah, Maud, you tyrant." She stood leaning on the chair in which he reclined with a patient air, evidently quite abstracted with what he had been reading. He had a pale, tranquil face, an expanded brow, and thoughtful grey eyes. Maud was very like him ; only where you read in her countenance vigour and decision, you saw in his, depression. Altogether he was a refined, intellectual, sad-looking man, seemingly not strong in health. Dinner was announced. " Come, papa ; I'm so hungry," she said.

It was very odd that after this avowal she did not enjoy her dinner more. She had no manner of appetite to-day; but she was very urgent her father should appreciate the merits of the pink, crimped salmon, to the enjoyment of which she herself was oblivious. " You don't appear to be eating anything, Maud. I thought you said you were hungry ? " " Papa, I'm eating enormously." She coloured crimson as she spoke, and applied herself to roast meat with vigour. Then she asked her father about the draining MAUD, 11 in the alder meadows,* and got him absorbed on this favourite subject, and presently proposed walking as far as the meadows after dinner. " I daresay you have not been out to-day; now have you, papa ? " " No, my dear," he replies. " I'll go with you, though, if you wish." So after dinner, away they go, Maud on his arm.

They pass through the farmyard, where the cows are being milked. Jenny, the dairymaid, is there with her stool and pail ; Maud sees the milk flowing easily, frothing up in the pail, and is seized with a desire to milk one of the cows herself. Jenny recommends the Guernsey, as being old and steady, kept in the herd for the sake of her rich milk. Maud sets to work. To say the least her milking is peculiar, for in a remarkable manner the milk squirts in all directions but the desired — into Mr. Gwynne's face one moment; into her own eyes the next. She struggles at it, however, and has succeeded in getting a little, a very little, I may say, into the pail, when the Guernsey having had quite enough of it, gives a kick, gets her hoof into the pail, and puts a stop to the proceeding. Maud is considerably spattered over : her hands are stiff and uncomfortable.

"But it is a most delightful occupation," she .avows, as she proceeds to the meadows. The sun is low ; the alders throw deep shadows on the rich green grass ; bits of red clay tubing lie scattered about in all directions. " Oh, papa, these pipes ought to have been cleared before the grass grew," said Maud. " So they ought. Why didn't Roberts see to it ? He will be here directly ; I must tell him to have it clone forthwith." As Mr. Gwynne speaks, a number of workmen emerge from a deep drain some little way off, who collect their tools and prepare to leave the meadow : there are fifty or sixty men, in red or blue flannel shirts. The scene is rendered quite lively immediately ; picturesque life brought into the still, lovely sunset scene. They pass by where Mr. Gwynne and Maud stand, touching their caps, and wishing good evening as they go by.

Lastly, a man in a suit of drab clothes, short, fat, smooth-cheeked, with a very small hat on his big head, comes up. " Fine hevenin', sir." " Yes. Roberts, you should have had this broken ware cleared before now." Roberts scratched the head to which the hat was a joke. "Get it done to-morrow," continued Mr. Gwynne. MAUD, 13 " Yes, sir." " When will the work be completed, tliink you ? " " More than I can say, sir," casting a careless glance round. "Can't you give me any idea? I assure you I don't feel disposed to go on paying such high wages to so many men." "Oh, sir, you're sure of getting your money back," interrupted Roberts. " But I want to see the work done." Roberts scratched his head again. " Well, sir, I b'live I may undertake to say, it will be finished the hend of the hautumn." Maud exclaimed, " Why Mr. Roberts, the men have been at work since November."

" They 'ave, Miss." " Then indeed it ought to be finished noic. There are the Fordlands above : if I recollect rightly, the same number of men were there six months only, and the acreage is considerably more." "Well, Miss, this will be done in time, to hanswer to the Fordlands: Squire Forresters, hain't they ? Maybe I misreckoned the job ; prob'ly now I think of it, we may come to a bend the beginning of the hautumn." " I hope so," said Mr. Gwynne. '•' This draining has been far more expensive and tedious than I imagined it would be." "I dare say, indeed, sir. But thc vally of the land eventually will be treble what it is now." " Of course. Good evening, Roberts." " Good evening, sir, and Miss." Maud turned a cold shoulder on Mr. Roberts, and walked on. " Papa," she said, " I am certain that man is a cheat : I always thought so ; this evening more than ever."

Boberts thought, " I hope that 'ere young miss is not agoing to interfere with my arrangements : she's sharp — too sharp by a great deal," and he walked away, after the men. Maud and her father reach the main drain, where the fall is so good, that the water rushes on in a mimic river. It is excellent drainage ; the low-lying land at Woodford will be quadrupled in value : already the long rushes, and smooth velvety patches of swamp have disappeared, and hay grass waves where last year there was only morass. But the hay is sadly trampled down far and near, and there will be no good of it this year at any rate. Mr. Gwynne describes to Maud the scientific system in which the draining is canned out. She tries to attend, and at any other time perhaps MAUD, 15 she might have felt interested ; but now the low red sun flashes on the windows of Forrestrange (a mile distant), and do what she will, she cannot keep her eyes or her thoughts off from where the bright lights glitter in the great wood.

Mr. Gwynne goes on talking and walking until they reach the river, which is here crossed by a wooden bridge. The other side belongs to Forrestrange ; this, to Woodford. The sun goes down behind a bank of purple and gold; they stand and watch its setting. Notliing breaks the stillness of the evening but the flow of the river, and every now and then the baying of an old hound faintly heard. The west is all one glow of fiery red. " Oh, papa, isn't it beautiful ? " exclaims Maud. He pats her cheek and says, " Very ; but we must turn homeward, my dear: see, the river damps are rising." The red is burning out ; a deep orange glows over the western horizon, dying away overhead to pale golden light. She turns with her father homewards. There, towards the east the sky is yet blue, and one pale star trembles.

Maud shivers involuntarily as she faces the white mist creeping up from the river, and again she looks back to the warm sunset sky. "Come, Maud, it will be dark before we get home; these open drains are dangerous too." She wrapped her shawl closely round, and placed her arm within her father's, walking alertly on, talking and amusing him in the quick falling twilight. The stars shone thick and bright long before they reached home, and as they paused on the gravel sweep, the moon rose above the dark tree tops and flooded the night. Was it the glorious evening influence which caused such fulness of happiness to-night ? Exis tence alone was joy, she thought. She must needs remain out a little longer to enjoy the moonlight- The tall beech-trees rose peaceful in the still air, glistening in silvery light, except where shadows lay in mellow gloom.

But it was not the deep night sky, the clear moon, the pale landscape which absorbed her : she looked for a light — to her a beacon — in the distance. She did not look vainly; out of the woods rolling up from the river bank, now transformed to shadowy paleness, it sparkled bright, like some low set star. Stephen had said one day, "Maud, I go out on the terrace every night, to look for the light at Woodford; sometimes I see' it plainly, and then I feel inclined to rush over : I suppose you MAUD, 17 never take the trouble to look for the light at Forrestrange ? " f To which she had replied, " But I do : only the curtains are closed frequently, and I can't see your light." After that day it gleams visibly, every night. Maud goes in presently, strangely joyous ; the lamp is lit in the drawing-room ; she draws back the window curtain, and then makes the tea, which she and her father partake of in calm contentment.

Some days afterwards there was a county meet ing at From, which Mr. Gwynne attended. On his return he told Maud that neither the squire nor Stephen was there, and that he (Mr. Gwynne) called at Forrestrange and found Mr. Forrester laid up with gout. Maud must go and visit him on the morrow : he expressed great surprise she had not been before. " Did you see Blanche, papa ? " " Yes, my clear." She wished to ask another question, but did not. Now Maud attributed Stephen's absence from Woodford, and to-day from this county meeting, to his having begun to " read hard ; " which he had told her he was about to do, the day they vol. i. rode together last. She was glad of this : she was ambitious for him, and wished him to apply. She had told him not to come to Woodford, as she knew it interfered with his reading : there would be plenty of time for holiday enjoyment, she said, after the examination.

She had heard Hugh urge Stephen to work now; for he was abomi nably idle : how he had passed previously was a riddle. Hugh said that with the capabilities Stephen had, he ought to take a first-class, but if he idled in this way, he could scarcely scrape through ; so Maud, who would cut off her right hand to advance him, declared positively he should not waste time with her, and refused to ride out again for ever so long — for a whole week. This was the day week, and she attributed his non-appearance to-day to this county business ; but when Mr. Gwynne said Stephen was not there, she did wonder a very little, and thought that perhaps after all there was no occasion for such close study — such exceeding application. When the day ended, and there was no chance of his coming, she felt sorely disappointed.

True she had desired him on no account to be distracted from his reading ; but what woman does not feel ruffled at a man's obedience, if it should happen in the end to take even the sem blance of indifference ?

Chapter II. Archery

" And after summer, evermore succeeds Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold. So cares and joys abound, as seasons fleet." " Who passed the window, Blanche ? " " Stephen and Kate." Mr. Forrester forgot his leg was gouty ; for the moment was insensible to the fact of its being stretched before him on a green leg rester, and he gave a sharp turn. A horrible pain shot from the swollen knee to the shoulder, and down again to the flannelled thumb. " Ugh — ugh ! " he cried, pulling a wry face. " Oh, you have a bad attack now, I know ! " said Maud, who was standing in the bow window. " Can we do nothing for you ? " Her godfather made no reply. His cheeks were screwed up, his forehead wrinkled. " I am sorry to say we cannot," whispered Blanche, going on writing a letter. 2—2 " Don't whisper," exclaimed the squire, savagely ; "and Blanche don't write here — that scratching goes through me : I asked you not, before."

Blanche wiped the pen, put it into her desk, collected her papers, and walked out of the room without a word. Presently the gouty patient's acute pain ceased, and the contortions left his face. Ho opened his eyes and exclaimed, " There ! " "There!" was a form of thanksgiving — it was the squire's first grace after dinner, too, and Maud understood it as such. " You are better now," she said. "Yes, my dear. Put this pillow right — take care " — (he winced) — " you don't know what the gout is." " Oh, I am so sorry you suffer such great pain. Why won't you have a doctor ? " " A doctor, child ! a doctor would kill me at once ! nothing disagrees with me like physic, filthy stuff! No, no, I wish to die naturally when my time comes : no doctors for me while I have my senses." Maud could not help smiling, he spoke so irately.

The squire regarded doctors as antago nistic to the health of the human race. " This leg rester isn't right, Maud. I don't think you can settle it properly — ring for Jack." ARCHERY. " I can. Let me try." She gathered up her riding skirt, and adjusted the whole apparatus to the squire's satisfaction. " Take your hat and habit off, Maud ; Blanche will give you a dress. Of course you will remain the day here." "No, thank you, I must be going soon. Papa will be glad to hear you are downstairs again : I can tell him you are better ? " " Yes ; but sit a bit longer, Maud : you are in no hurry." " Oh, no — that is — notliing particular. I am afraid of tiring you, godpapa." " Pooh ! Nothing of the sort. I like to have you when I'm not in pain, but when my leg feels as if screwed up in a vice, then I wish everybody at the Halifax I mean.

You mustn't talk at that time : now, you may speak as much as you like." " I want to tell you about Rupert," said Maud, directly. " We came through the meadows, by the ford; he took me so beautifully over the ditches: he is so nice, so handsome, so tractable. Oh! I can never thank you enough for giving him to me." " I am glad you like the horse ; I thought he would turn out well : he is just the thing for you. Did you ride alone ? " " Oh, yes ; I would not have a servant with me on any account. Rupert and I are perfectly happy, and understand each other quite well as we race over the meadows: a servant behind would destroy our pleasure quite ; I know I should be looking continually to see if he were still alive." Maud laughed, and her godfather laughed too. Inwardly he applauded her, for there was nothing he liked better than independence and spirit ; but he said, " I think you ought to have some one with you, until Rupert is more tamed.

Stephen will ride back with you : haven't you seen him this morning, Maud ? " "No: that is, only through the window. I saw him pass just now," said Maud, blushing scarlet. " See whether he's in sight." Maud went up to the window and looked out. " Yes," she said briefly. '•' Is Kate Bryan there, too ? " " Yes." The squire gave another fidgety turn, and pulled another wry face. " Go and ask her to come and see me, Maud ; she has not been this morning," he said, gruffly. ARCHERY. 23 Maud was about to obey — indeed, was just stepping out through the low window, when she suddenly drew back. " Why don't you go, my dear ? " " Perhaps — I don't know — I had rather not." " Call Blanche — she's in the next room." Blanche came. " What is Kate doing ? " he asked. " Practising archery." " Is it Stephen who teaches her the use of bows and arrows ?

" " Yes. Don't you remember she asked him to do so the other day." The squire grunted. " I thought he was very busy," said he. Blanche elevated her eyebrows, but made no reply : she walked to the window and sat down. " I was not aware Miss Bryan was here," observed Maud. " We found her on our return the other day; the day, by-the-by, you rode out with us," replied Mr. Forrester. Maud now declared she must go: Bhe rang the bell and ordered her horse. " Stephen will go with you, my dear : I want him to take a business message to your father, and bring me a reply. Call him here, Blanche." " He will scarcely like to be interrupted in the archery," replied Blanche. " Damned nonsense ! " ejaculated the squire, angrily. " If this is the ' reading ' that prevents him attending to the business of the district, as I heard him make excuse yesterday, there shall be an end of it."