The mystery of Mirbridge

Front matter

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Contents

MRS. WESTROP’S VIEW

TWO COUPLES MR. SMUG

A PRECAUTIONARY MEASURE

Chapter I. The Rectory

SPRINGTIME in England—whatever may be said to its discredit —is, after all, our best time. It may set in with its usual severity, but, like the parrot when it nips its mistress, its bite has a something caressing in it. Even the people that go abroad to. avoid ‘that hateful east wind’ of ours pine to be at home again when the bullfinch begins his song. ‘Oh, life in England now that April’s there,’ sings the poet in Italy as he sees in imagination, as Wordsworth saw, the daffodils, ‘the buttercups, the little children’s dower,’ and compares them, to its disadvantage, with the ‘ gaudy melon flower.’ What the maiden dying of consumption, and the old man dying of old age, alike desire to see once more before they go, is, above all other sights, the springtime, as it comes too slowly up their way. The spectacle of Nature renewing her youth and strength and beauty is grateful to everyone, whether they recognise what it is that charms them or no.

The Reverend Percival Thorne, walking in his Rectory garden this April morning before breakfast, recognises it well enough. His lot had long been cast ina manufacturing town, where the changes of the seasons were marked chiefly by the use or disuse of fires in the grates, or by the difference of the viands on the table, and he vastly prefers his country Rectory to Stoketon.

‘IT seem to breathe freely for the first time these ten years,’ he observed to his wife on his first arrival at Mirbridge, and he is sniffing the fresh odours that arise from the fields and streams around him now as though he could never inhale enough of them. His present lines, in comparison with his old ones, have certainly fallen in a pleasant place.

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2 IHE MYSTERY OF MIRBRIDGE.

The Rectory is a house of considerable size, standing on a knoll, with a well-wooded hill behind it, that shields. it from north and east; around it runs a veranda, from which, in summer time, so charming a view is afforded, that it often tempts certain of its indwellers to remain at home, and take the loveliness of neighbouring but more distant landscapes upon trust, from hearsay, rather than stir from their chairs.

The garden is large and very picturesque, being interspersed with huge lichen-covered boulders (which have rolled down years ago from the hill behind) and ancient trees, whose still leafless boughs are moss-covered like the antlers of a stag. It is skirted by an unseen high road, sunk between deep banks, on the other side of which is a meadow, intersected by the Mir, at present a bright, sparkling stream, full of high spirits indeed, yet respectful of its banks, but which, a month earlier, when the snow from the hills begins to melt, is given to spread itself to right and left, till it looks more like a lake than a river. To the west the valley narrows; the stream is there pent up between two walls of rock, and never ceases, even in the driest weather, to make complaint of its imprisonment, Beyond this gorge rises a range of hills, almost large enough to be called mountains, green, save when capped by snow, to their very summits. On the south the landscape is shut in by low-lying woods which, even in summer-time, do not reach the spire of the village church, nor the scarcely less aspiring turrets of the mansion of the Squire. As fine a home-view as even in England, so rich in similar scenes that to the very alien who looks upon them it seems almost ‘home,’ was ever beheld from Rectory garden.

On his favourite walk, between the apple-tree and the boxwood hedge, the Rector paces up and down—a man of sixty or more, but upright as a dart, and bright-eyed asa star. It is not always thus with him, for the reverend gentleman, in common with most of his clerical brethren in these times, has cause enough for depression ; but the pure air and bright sunshine have for the moment driven sombre thoughts away. Moreover, truth to say, he has another reason for his unwonted lightheartedness in a certain day-dream in which he has been indulging—not for the first time.

It is broken by a clapping of hands from the veranda and a

«musical cry of ‘ Pa—pa, pa—pa!’ which awakes the evhoes.like the notes of a key-bugle ; the very hills, though in gentlest tones, seem to be calling for him.

‘If it could only be,’ he murmurs to himself, with a halfsigh; ‘yet why should it not be? and he leisurely obeys the summons, |

In the veranda which frames her charming little figure, as though it were a picture, stands the Rector’s second daughter,

THE RECTORY. - 3

~ Lucy: her cheeks, which have naturally a bright, though delicate colour, are pale; her dark-brown hair is short as that of a boy, for it is only a few weeks since it began to grow, after a, dangerous illness, in which the whole silken harvest of it had to be sheared away. She is quite convalescent now, and her sweet looks are rather improved than otherwise, or soit appears to her foud parent, by the ordeal which she has gone through. She is on2 of those girls whose charms satisfy us so completely that we think they can never change for the better, yet on whom every change seems to confer new beauties; not that Lucy Thorne is really beautiful in an artistic sense, but only winsome and attractive in the highest degree. Six months ago the Rector could not have conceived to himself how he could have loved a daughter more ; but at that time she had been almost lost to him, and by God’s mercy had been given back to his arms, at the very edge of the grave. It is the first time since last autumn that she has ‘ bugled’ to him, as she calls it, a music he had never thought to hear again ; and at the sound of it the selfish tears start to his eyes, because his darling is with him still, and exposed to all earthly snares and woes, and not a saint in heaven. It is the case with even the best of us; though we know that if our dear ones die they ‘In a city glorious, A great and distant city, Have bought a mansion incorruptible, Would they could have stayed with us !’

is still our cry.

‘This is very shocking!’ cries the fairy figure, shaking a reproving finger at her parent as he toils up the sloping sward to the veranda. ‘To be late on the first morning that his daughter has come down to breakfast.’

‘You very wicked and abominable girl!’ returns the Rector, whose humour it is to load with the most severe reproaches the cuild who in his eyes is faultless, and whom he is secretly conscious of having done his best to spoil, ‘how dare you say so ? Why, your mother and I have been waiting for you, and for , Clara,’ he adds with precipitancy (like one who has been nearly

forgetting himself, or, rather, somebody else), ‘these threequarters of an hour. Where on earth, my dear’-—this to his wife, who is sitting at the breakfast-table superintending the tea-urn-—‘did this very shameless and disrespectful young person acquire her habit of mendacity ?’

‘You had better both come in and shut the window,’ returns the lady of the house, without condescending to take the least notice of this grave question of morals, ‘It is very unwise of you, Percy, to go out so early without an overcoat ; and if [had not insisted upon the precaution—would you believe it ?—that

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Pros girl of yours, only just recovering from her illness, would have gone without a shawl to call you in.’

‘Don’t call her my girl,’ said the Rector, looking at the delinquent as if she were some toothsome dainty, which he would prefer to anything on the well-spread table in the way of eating, and shaking his handsome head with a great show of indignation ; ‘she is an unworthy minx, and the plague of our lives Cut me some ham, you witch—fat and very thin, as your father loves it, though I dare say you have forgotten all about his likes and dislikes. There is certainly nothing like the atmosphere of a sick-room for increasing natural selfishness.’

‘I wish you'd eat your toast while it’s hot, my dear,’ observed Mrs. Thorne drily. She did not disapprove of her husband’s affectionate banter of Lucy, and much less was she jealous of it, for she was well aware that there was someone in the world whom the Rector loved still better than his younger daughter, but she always discouraged it, for it sometimes gave offence in other quarters. To keep the peace, and to cause others to do so, was good Mrs. Thorne’s mission, which had earned for her the gratitude of her family and the title of ‘The Special Constable.’ :

She had prejudices and preferences of her own, no doubt ; but she never showed them, except, indeed, as respected the Rector, whom she worshipped without much concealment. She was his junior by only a few years, but looked much younger ; not a wrinkle had the ‘envious crow’ planted on her plump and comely cheek ; her brow only showed signs of care, but it was care for others, not for herself, and they had no resemblance to a frown. Thirty years ago she had been the handsomest of Lancashire lasses ; and as a matron she still bore away the bell. Of this, however, I believe she was unconscious. It was natural to her to dress with taste, but she gave far less thought to her whole attire than to the choice of a ribbon, or a rose, to be worn by one of her girls. Her manner was very quiet, and she spoke but little ; always, however, as sensibly as gently, and nothing escaped her eye.

‘Where is the Duchess?’ inquired the Rector presently. ‘Her Grace is less punctual even than usual.’ :

‘Clara has been up some time,’ replied Mrs, Thorne, confining herself to the defence of her offspring, without taking notice of the high rank accorded to her.

‘It’s a great day, you know, papa, and preparations must be made accordingly,’ said Lucy slily ; ‘there are three degrees of comparison in a young lady’s attire : Hightems, Tightems, and Scrub! With Clara this morning it is Hightems.’

‘And with you, you minx? .But you need not tell me; I can see by your waspish waist that it is Tightems,’

PEE REGO Y. 5

‘What a libel! Put your finger into my waistbelt. Your thumb, if you like—I insist upon it. Now apologize,’

‘It is elastic,’ said the Rector gravely. ‘I bad thought it was leather.’

‘Tt 1s leather !’ exclaimed Lucy indignantly.

‘Come, I had you there,’ observed the Rector complacently. ‘She really thought I was in earnest. Please to score one for me, Amy, will you, my dear, in case I should forget it ?”

‘You won't forget it,’ cried Lucy, compelled, though conscious of defeat, to join in her father’s mirth. ‘It will be your only victory.’

‘You have put it down, my dear Amy, have you ? reiterated the Rector, ignoring his daughter’s sarcasm ; ‘ because it’s important,’

‘My dear Percy, how can you be so silly ?? exclaimed his wife ney: ‘I don’t know which of you two is the greatest

aby.’

At this moment the door opened ; there was a rustling of some stiff material, of I know not what sort, but presumably not canvas, and in sailed a majestic young woman. At the sight of her, the faces of the two delinquents assumed that unnatural eravity—in his case the supposititious child of some irregular Greek verb—which overspreads the schoolboy’s countenance on

.the sudden appearance of the pedagogue, and, save that the Rector murmured ‘ Dr. Busby,’ under his breath, the atmosphere of the breakfast-room at once lost its levity.

Clara Thorne was a magnificent young woman, whom no one dreamt of calling a girl, though in the eyes of the law she was still an infant. She stood five feet ten in her—well, without her—shoes ; and, unlike most young ladies of the same height and age, had no resemblance toa Maypole. Her well-developed figure was, for the present, faultless. Her complexion was exquisitely delicate, soft, and pure as cream, with the least touch of pink showing through it. Her hair, of much lighter brown than her sister’s, was luxuriant and very long. ‘There was a rumour—unsupported, however, by any trustworthy evidence —that she could sit upon it. Her eyes were gray and full of grave intelligence. She was chary of her smiles, which, moreover, were always reserved for the individual, not wasted on the public like mere largesse ; but when she did smile, one felt one had earned something—the approbation of royalty. In her appearance, her manners, her movements she was indeed queenlike ; no other word could express it,and she felt—for, indeed, though she had neither land nor wealth, all about her were her subjects—every incha queen. If some Lord of Burleigh had won her, ‘the burthen of an honour to which she was not born’ would never have incommoded her, Her case, indeed, was quite

the contrary of that of the lady of the ballad ; her nature was too ample and majestic for her modest surroundings. Had they been more humble, it would have only made the disproportioi the greater, not detracted from her supremacy. Independence of character, based upon consciousness of natural superiority, 1s rare in women; and, when it exists, it involves certain drawbacks, and Clara Thorne was not without them.

With the stateliness of a three-decker she made the circuit of the breakfast-room, touching, as it were, at its three ports, and saluting each in a different fashion. Her mother she kissed affectionately, bestowed on Lucy a patronizing pat upon the head, and gravely pressed her lips, as though affixing a seal to some legal document, to her father’s forehead.

‘Have the letters come ?’ she inquired.

‘The Duchess,’ alias ‘ Juno,’ alias ‘ Dr. Busby,’ for by all these titles she was known, though never addressed, in the family circle, was generally late for prayers, often for breakfast, but rarely for the postman. Correspondence always interested her, She took a greater interest in the world outside than did her parents or her sister ; but on the present occasion a note of unusual concern pervaded her dulcet tones.

‘Tt is nearly time for them, my dear,’ responded Mrs, Thorne apologetically. ‘Poor Saunders has a long round to make, and the new parcels post, though very convenient, delays him sadly.’

‘He should get a tricy cle,’ observed Clara severely.

‘T wonder that has not struck him,’ remarked the Rector, with sly simplicity. ‘It would not cost him above twelve or thirteen pounds at most.’

‘If there is any difficulty about the cost,’ continued Clara, ‘the Government, of course, would defray it. ,

‘No doubt.’

‘Then why do you not write to the Postmaster-General, papa ?’

This was carrying the war into the enemy’s country, indeed. The Rector had not been able to resist his little sarcasm, at which his wife had shaken her head in disapproval behind the urn, and Lucy had bitten her lip to restrain the tell-tale mirth ; _ and now, without allies he had evoked an adversary with whom he was wholly unequal to deal.

‘But what would Saunders do with his tricycle when he got to the Bridge Hill, my dear Clara?’ he inquired, with gentle conciliation.

‘He would lead it,’ was the uncompromising rejoinder.

To most people who knew the Bridge Hill—it could be seen from the veranda rising very steeply to the height of five hundred feet—and also Saunders, a person of considerable bulk, with bow legs, the suggestion of a tricycle for the postman of Mirbridge would have seemed unpractical ; but ‘the Duchess,’

THE RECTORY. 7 like Buonaparte, had a habit, when she wanted anything done, of cancelling from her dictionary the word ‘impossible.’ If Nature had given her powers in proportion to her will, she would have followed the example of Xerxes and levelled the hill.

A discreet silence followed her last observation, till it was broken by the sharp and cheery sound of the post-horn, There was but one blast of it, for Saunders had no breath to spare for what he prosaically termed ‘tootling ; but the last echo of it had hardly died away among the hills before the maid brought in the bag. |

Not a word was said, though every eye was fixed on it as the Rector fumbled in his pocket for the key. It was said of him by some good-natured friend that nothing was ever in the right place with Percival Thorne except his heart, and it was certainly true that he had a habit of mislaying things. That he was always quite certain that he had not mislaid them, but that they ought to be where they were not, imposed on none of his household. Before he had done protesting, Lucy generally found the missing article; she had the instinct of the divining rod for such mysteries, combined with the swiftness of an Ariél.

On the present occasion the Rector had not lost his key, but only left it upstairs, where Lucy found it, on his dressing-table. In the meantime he passed a bad quarter of a minute, under the concentrated focus of Clara’s majestic eyes. His indignation at the key having got under the lining of his pocket was expressed with less than his usual vigour of conviction ; even his wife he perceived was a Sadducee. On any other morning she would have suggested something helpful ; but, like the rest, she was impatient for the contents of this particular letter-bag. At last it was emptied on the breakfast-table.

‘There it is! cried Lucy, her quick eye lighting on the expected missive. She clapped her hands with excitement.

Clara smiled compassionately, almost contemptuously, as though she would have said, ‘ My dear child, why this enthusiasm? What has the matter to do with you?’ Hven Mrs. Thorne, generally so placidly imperturbable, murmured, ‘ Now we shall know.’

The Rector opened the letter, adjusted bis glasses (brought out from his waistcoat pocket only on great occasions, like the - sword of the Corporation of London), and exclaimed, after one glance at the contents :

‘Good heavens! ‘They are coming this morning !’

8 LHE MYSTERY OF MIRBKIDGE.