The mistress of Lydgate

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Introduction 5

CHAPTER

Introduction

air and scene, and even of the faces round me, was prescribed. I went first to an aunt’s house where I generally felt very much at home and very happy ; but I suppose it must have been the weak state I was in that made the change, for I was perfectly miserable, cried all day long for my mother, and wrote imploring letters to her begging her to take me home.

She came and took me away — but not home. She told me that I must have change, and that she was going to send me to my grandmother at Lydgate, and counselled me firmly and kindly to try and be brave, and not give way to depression and home-sickness.

I implored and entreated in vain to go home. My mother listened kindly, but her purpose was unshaken. Two days later, upon a lovely evening of early summer, I found myself driving alone in my grandmother’s open carriage, along a very lovely road, through most exquisite scenery, to the old, gray, ecclesiastical-looking house, halfway up a wooded hill, and most picturesque both in its surroundings and in its every detail. This house was Lydgate, and my grandmother’s home, where she had been born, and where many years of her life had been passed.

She was standing at the great door to welcome me, an upright and very handsome old lady, with beautiful, soft, dark eyes, still bright and clear,

THE MISTRESS OF LYDGATE.

and a quantity of waving hair white as driven snow. She was dressed in black satin, with some rich old lace yellow with age about her neck and wrists, and a cap upon her white hair. I thought for the moment that 1 had never seen anybody quite so striking or so handsome before, and the impression did not fade with time. Young people have a sort of undefined idea that beauty belongs to them alone, and fades away when youth is gone. I was startled — actually startled — when I looked into my grandmother’s face to see how beautiful it was. The smooth red and white fairness and peach-like bloom had of course left that face ; but the lines traced by the hand of Time had given to it a power, a pathos, a sweetness, and a charm far beyond any tiling that mere richness of coloring, or smoothness of texture, could bestow ; and I looked at my grandmother with undisguised admiration not unmixed with awe.

She received me with a motherly kindness and authority that put me at ease at once. I found that here I had no option what I would do or what I would take. My weakened frame and feeble powers were not taxed by any efforts to think what I wanted, or select for myself which of two courses I should pursue. Everything was settled for me, and a sense of absolute rest and security stole upon me that acted like a charm.

I grew stronger every day. I made a start from

INTRODUCTION , the very first, and my recovery, if not rapid, was steady and satisfactory.

Lydgate was a most delighted house and peculiarly beautiful. The house with its pointed arches and delicate tracery was a perfect feast to the eyes, and the smooth square of sward inclosed was one of my most favorite resting-places. The whole atmosphere of the house seemed to breathe a sort of stately calm and repose, as if the battles of life were over, and the rest of eventide drawing near. It was like nothing I had ever before experienced, and the influence exercised upon me was very great.

I grew, too, to be very fond of my grandmother. This love did not spring up all in a moment, as did my admiration for her undoubted beauty ; for a time I was afraid of her, with that fear that is not unwholesome in the young and has a fascination of its own. I liked to see her come into my room, and was sorry when she left. I liked to watch her from my window as she paced in her stately way to and fro upon the terrace, wondering what she was thinking of — what memories and pictures lay beneath those deep eyes of hers so often fixed in dreamy abstraction upon the purple distance. My grandmother did not now seem old or uninteresting ; I thought about her a great deal ; in fact, she occupied the central position in my fancies just then, and any little story or reminiscence of past

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days that fell from her lips was carefully treasured up in my memory.

One thing that greatly struck me about her was her peculiar goodness — that was the word I used to myself, and yet it hardly conveys my meaning. My grandmother never “ talked good,” as my brothers phrased it. She did not startle one by searching questions or aspirations so very trying to the young, nor did she embarrass the conversation by the sudden introduction of sacred words and names ; or use Bible quotations as arguments in order to silence where she could not convince, as I have heard many well-meaning yet unwise people do. No ; my grandmother was herself a reserved and silent woman ; moreover, she was imbued with a sound and practical common sense that I have never seen equalled, and which gave her a power and discernment rarely to be met with. Every one came to her for advice, as it seemed to me ; and seldom did they go away without having received just such counsel as they most needed. The confidence she inspired was something marvellous, as was also the deep and true veneration with which all regarded her. None but a good woman ever could awaken and hold such feelings as these, and yet, as I have before said, nobody could have been more reticent as to her private religious convictions.

The matter lay just here ; my grandmother

INTRODUCTION.

6 walked with God ’ — she lived so near to Him that it seemed as if the light of His countenance shone upon her. There was no need for her to talk. She won all hearts by the beauty of her life. I sometimes looked at her with awe, and wondered how she had attained this lofty height.

I paid a long visit, I learned to know and to love my grandmother well. Her reserve and my shyness melted gradually, as we grew nearer to one another. She loved me in time, I think, as dearly as I loved her, and the memory of those days we passed together is one of the sweetest and most sacred of my past life.

In time, of course, I learned many leading facts regarding that long life which had already lasted as long as the present century (my grandmother was born in 1800) ; but for some time I was ignorant of many connecting links and of much of the earlyhistory of that life, and I felt as if I should like the picture more defined and more complete.

“ Tell me about yourself, grandmother,” I used often to say, in those days, as we sat out in the fragrant garden or in the cool shady rooms.

Then grandmother would smile and answer, “ More about myself, you insatiable child ? I should have thought you had heard more than enough already about an old woman like me.”

And one day, having learned already a great deal, my request took a new form.

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“ Tell it me all from the beginning, grandmother, please. I want it in a long story, and then I can fit in all the little pieces that I know already.”

Grandmother smiled, and a far-away look dawned in her eyes.

44 From the very beginning ? ” she questioned softly ; 44 nearly eighty years of sunshine and shadow.”

44 You do not mind telling me, do you? ” I asked, looking up at her. 44 1 know you have had a great many troubles ; but you do not mind talking of them now, do you ? ”

The beautiful old face put on a look which in its strange, sweet softness and brightness I can never forget.

“My dear,” she said, 46 when we have climbed the hill of life so nearly to its summit that the pearly gates seem very near, and the dark, shadowy valleys below so very far away, no backward glances can be very painful. Our dear ones, who are not lost but gone before, are nearer to us perchance, waiting for us in the great eternal home, than if we had left them toiling up behind us through the desert we have traversed ourselves. No, my dear, it does not hurt me now to talk of the past. You shall have the story from the beginning.”

I shall try to give it in her own words. I know that I shall lamentably fall short of the charm of

INTRODUCTION .

narration with which she indued her history, but I shall do m} r best. If I fail in telling a tale well worth the hearing, the fault will be mine, not hers.

This then is the story of my grandmother’s life.

Chapter I. Miss Lovel

WAS an only child; and I was born in Lydgate, of which, as I grew up, I was taught to consider myself the mistress.

My father died when I was five, and I only retain of him the most dim and distant recollection. My mother w r as a beautiful and delicate woman, little better than a chronic invalid, whom I loved with a protecting and caressing love, hardly natural, and certainly not usual from child to mother.

Under the terms of my father’s will, Lydgate and all the Lovel property passed straight to his only child. My mother had her own property and the jointure under her marriage settlement, and the estate was left entirely to me, with the stipulation that my mother should have the right to live

MISS LOVEL .

at Lydgate so long as I remained unmarried. She was also sole guardian. and executor.

Some people told me that it was a curious will, and treated me more like a son than a daughter ; but I was too young to heed or to understand very much what they meant, and I gloried in the possession of my beautiful house, and in the adulation and admiration it insured for me.

As a child this feeling of pride and vanity might not have hurt me much ; but unhappily it was not a mere childish dream 'that filled me with a sense of my own importance, but a solid conviction that grew with my growth and became a part of my very nature. Everything tended to feed and develop this master passion. The old servants could not make enough of me. I was a fine, high-spirited child, with a strong will and a good temper — a combination that generally contrives to win favor and hold hearts in thrall. I was told of my beauty, my wealth, my high position, from the day I began to understand or notice what was said, and my father’s death turned me into a little queen to whom all seemed ready to do homage.

When I rode my spirited pony beyond the park gates, the tenants would come to their doors and curtsy or touch their forelocks to the little mistress, and bless her bonnie face. When I bestowed upon the sick and aged the gifts it had cost me nothing to tender, not even the price of a thought, I was

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called a “ little angel ” and made to believe myself a true Lady Bountiful. The gentry round made a fuss over me every time I went to their houses. I was praised for my beautiful dark eyes and my wealth of nut-brown hair. I was told I should make hearts ache some day, and the peculiar style of my beauty was plainly discussed and praised. My long minority, they said, would make the estate of double its present value, and although a great deal of what I heard was quite unintelligible, I learned enough to be convinced that I was a person of the very first importance, and that great triumphs were before me in the future, and I gloried in this knowledge.

My mother, who, had she been a stronger or a more experienced woman, might have stopped a great deal of the foolish talk that went on, or at any rate have been a counterbalancing influence to the impression produced, was too much the invalid, too much weakened in body and mind, to understand fully the harm that was being done me by all this adulation, or to take any active steps to counteract it.

She had drooped visibly since my father’s death, and grew more languid and more fragile with each succeeding year. She always lay upon a couch, surrounded by every luxury that taste could desire and wealth procure. I can see her yet — pale, lovely, frail, and gentle — a mother to be tended,

MISS LOVEL.

caressed, adored ; but not one to whom a self-willed girl would look for counsel or help, nor one who would be likely to see when a check was needed or endeavor to enforce it.

My mother idolized me and could not see my faults. She gloried in my high spirits and exuberant strength and vitality. She had such confidence in my powers that even my wildest exploits hardly alarmed her. In common with the whole household she believed that no harm could befall any one so dashing and brilliant as I was in the days of my early youth.

So I went on my own way, unchecked and unheeding, finding life all roses, and never dreaming of the thorns that hide themselves beneath. I enjoyed every day and every hour of my life with an intensity only possible to certain temperaments and in certain surrroundings, and I told myself in thought, if not in word, that trouble could never touch me.

I grew up in this wayward, heedless fashion until I was seventeen, and my education was said to be completed and I ready to make my appearance, in society. •

I had before this enjoyed so much liberty that the period of emancipation did not present the same contrast to my former life that it does to many young girls released from the schoolroom.

I had spent each year a fortnight with my

18 THE MISTI! ESS OF LYDGATE.

mother’s sister, Mrs. Otway, whose husband was a general in the army, and who saw a great deal of military society. During these visits I was never kept in the background, but was made much of by every one, flattered, caressed, praised; and I went about everywhere with my cousin Geraldine, who was almost as much the spoilt child of fortune as myself.

Still I was aware that I had been heretofore looked upon as the child rather than the woman, and indeed I was but a child in mind and heart as well as in externals. But when my seventeenth birthday had passed, and I was dressed, according to the fashion of the day, as a stylish young lady, instead of a great schoolgirl, then I began to study my appearance with great interest, and mightily pleased was I with my new dresses and costly ornaments.

I felt a sense of power rise within me, and I believed that great triumphs lay before me. I was at heart a child still; but I believed myself a woman now, and some of the woman’s power and knowledge began to awake within me.

“ Kate,” said my mother to me one day at this time, “ Mrs. Baskerville and her son are coming to stay here for a few weeks.”

Now I had seen Mrs. Baskerville once or twice, for she gen really came to stay with my mother when I visited Mrs. Otway, and occasionally she

MISS LOVEL.

remained a few days at Lydgate after my return. My mother was very fond of her, but I do not think I was. I thought her a tiresome, straitlaced old lady, and was extremely indignant, sometimes, at the criticisms she made upon me and my conduct. Nobody else in the world ever dared to cast a shadow of reproach upon me, and I considered it an unpardonable affront. Still, as my mother was fond of her* and as she was a connection of my dead father, I tried to be civil to her when we did meet.

I was not, however, particularly pleased to hear of this prospective visit.

“ Am I going to my Aunt Otway’s, then ? ” I asked.

“No, dear. I want you at home.”

My mother’s delicate color flew up as she spoke these words. I could read her face like a book, and I saw at once that she had something on her mind.

“ What is it, mother ? ”

“ Why, nothing, dear Kate. What should it be ? You see I shall want your help with two guests. I am not fit to entertain a young man. You have heard of Thomas Baskerville, have you not ? ”

“ Oh, yes ! Mrs. Baskerville does not let anybody remain in ignorance long of dear Thomas’s virtues ! I don’t think I like young men who stay at home with mamma and have their praises sung forever by her ! ”

THE MISTRESS OF LYDGATE .

My mother smiled, but shook her head with a look of gentle reproach.

“ Mr. Baskerville remains at home to take care of the property, which is a very fine one. Some day I hope you will visit the Mount and see it for yourself. Mr. Thomas Baskerville is a very rich man, besides being a good and dutiful son.”

I tossed my head somewhat scornfully. “ Well, he is nothing to me in any case, and I do not know why he should come here.”

My mother’s sensitive color again rose, and I became assured that something was meant by this visit more than at first appeared.

“ You have a secret,” I said, curiously andcoaxingly. “ Now that isn’t fair, for I never have secrets from you. Do tell me, mother, what it is.”

My mother’s color still continued to rise.

“ My dear child, you do get hold of very odd ideas. What should make you think I have a secret ? If I have, it is a very small one. Only this, that your dear father asked me before his death to wait until you had both grown up, and then make you and Mr. Thomas Baskerville acquainted. That is all — it is nothing very wonderful, you see.”

Nothing very wonderful, perhaps ; but my mind at once reached the right conclusion. Some people will tell you that it is the modern fiction of the day that opens the eyes of young girls to matters which they have no need to know ; but I doubt if this can be an exhaustive explanation of the matter.

Certainly I had had access to but few works of fiction. My mind had not been precociously developed by the attractions of a circulating library, and yet I knew perfectly well what was the significance of my dead father’s wish.

I had enough of the woman in me to leap at once to a right conclusion, enough of the child, to speak out my thought without the least hesitation.

“ You mean that my father wished me to marry Mr. Thomas Baskerville ? ”

My poor mother flushed more hotly than ever.

“ Dear Kate ! How can you say such things ? ”

But I knew I had guessed right, and only laughed.

“ I shan’t marry him unless I like him very much, and I’m pretty sure I shan’t do that” I cried.

“ My love, be careful how you speak and think on such matters ; believe me, we desire nothing save your greatest good. You know, Kate — at least you do not know, but you may some day have to learn — that the world is not the bright place you have always thought it, and that a rich woman is very helpless and often in danger, unless she has a good husband to help and guide her.”

I jumped up from my seat and kissed my mother, but I was laughing all the time.

“Do you know,” I began with mock gravity.

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“ that I really do feel equal to taking care of myself and my affairs without the worshipful help of Mr. Thomas Baskerville ? ”

And then I ran away, laughing, and ordered my horse, and took a grand gallop over the common.

It was a pity that my gentle mother had so innocently betrayed her secret. Girls at seventeen, whether or not they have steeped themselves in fiction, are full of romantic thoughts and aspirations. There is more romance in real life and in the pages of history than in all the novels that ever were penned, and I was as determined as most girls are that there should be nothing little or mean or sordid in my life and in my love. I myself had wealth enough for one household. He who came to woo me had no need to have a rent-roll in his hand nor a balance at his bank. I would wed for love alone ; and many pictures did my fancy draw of the nameless, knightly stranger who should whisper vows of love in my ear and be rewarded with my heart and with my hand.

The idea of a possible lover in this solid man of wealth, this virtuous and dutiful Thomas Baskerville, filled me with a sort of mirthful scorn not by any means nnpleasing to my vanity.

I knew that I was beautiful and winning; and I was soused to the knowledge that it hardly stirred me now ; but it gave to me a sense of power that was very much to my liking.

MISS LOVEL.

The thought that I was to be the central figure of a little family romance amused me very much. I was acute enough to be pretty certain that this prospective marriage had been arranged for Kate Lovel and Thomas Baskerville by the united forethought of the heads of both houses, and I had little doubt of Thomas’s readiness to fulfil his share of the compact — modesty was not my besetting sin, you will perceive.

But as for Kate — ah! that was a different matter altogether.

As I galloped my horse over the breezy common I pictured many amusing scenes — how my conduct would be watched, my words treasured, my looks examined, and my every action discussed and pondered over. I pictured how the fat Thomas (I had made up my mind that he was fat) would sit and gaze upon me, how he would plead his cause in awkward fashion, and how I should lead him on and then laugh at him. Not very profitable reflections, you will say ; no, by no means ; but they show the attitude of mind I was prepared to take up. I felt an added dignity in the thought that I was about to crush a cherished family scheme, and assert myself with a new sense of dignity. I quite longed for the Baskervilles to, come, that I might show them my power and my pride.

My mother made no further allusions to. the

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secret I had so ruthlessly dragged out and discussed; and although she still colored vividly whenever the approaching visit of the Baskervilles was mentioned, I refrained from adding to her discomfiture by appearing to notice it.

I spent a good deal of time with my maid, altering, re-making, and adorning my various gowns and mantles, for I was determined to make a very grand appearance, and show Mr. Baskerville once and for all that Miss Lovel was not a person to be trifled with.

I will not describe to you the dress I donned to receive these guests at our six o’clock dinner, which was an extraordinarily late hour for those days. It would sound to you painfully oldfashioned and dowdy ; but in those days it was the height of stylish elegance. I had purposely kept out of the way during the bustle of arriving, in order to show myself to the very best.

I took one long and satisfactory look in the long mirror, smiled at my own blooming reflection, and sailed majestically towards the drawing-room.

Chapter II

MR. BASKERYILLE.

j]HERE was a murmur of voices as I approached the door, which told me that our guests were with my mother in the drawing-room.

I opened the door and entered, and saw that I had not been mistaken. Without casting a single glance at a tall figure outlined against a distant window, I went forward and greeted Mrs. Baskerviile, and when the son was introduced I merely bowed, hardly so much as favoring him with a glance.

At the dinner that speedily followed, however, I had leisure and opportunity to study my righthand neighbor. He did not speak much to me nor I to him, so that it was not difficult to steal glances at him from time to time, without any great danger of detection.

I hardly knew whether I was pleased or displeased with the result of my scrutiny, but I was forced to admit that Thomas Baskerville was very different from the man I had pictured.

He was very tall and spare — that I had observed when we went in to dinner — but even when sitting he showed indications of height and powerful build. His hair was dark, his brow square and massive, and his features were good and clearly cut. He was not, withal, a handsome man, nor one to take the fancy of a young girl. There was no fire, no dash, none of that gallant grace of bearing and manner that attracts the eye and heart of youth, for Thomas Baskerville, at five-and twenty, was grave and thoughtful beyond his years, a silent man, who felt more than he spoke, and was more likely to be popular with men and women older than himself, than with the young, the giddy, and the gay.

Nevertheless, his was a face that commanded respect and a certain half-reluctant liking. I felt that I could not make this man look the foolish and ridiculous object that the fat Thomas Baskerville of my thoughts had often been made to appear. I was half vexed and half pleased to find this man so different from the one I had pictured.

After dinner I played and sang, and he stood by the harp and watched me. He was fond of music, lie told me gravely, but he could not p£r-

MR. BASKERVILLE.

form himself. I tried to make him sing, but he would not, so then I offered to show him the garden, if he liked, as it was summer time and quite light and warm.

This offer he accepted, and we wandered about together a good while. I was so well used to liberty of action, so accustomed to do just what I fancied at the moment, that I had no idea there could be anything marked in wandering though a sweet, old garden in the twilight with any one, be it man or woman. I enjoyed myself and talked a great deal, and he enjoyed himself and said very little, and it was quite an hour before we found our way back to the drawing-room.

Next day we rode out together, and as he rode well and understood horses, we got on very pleasantly. I sang for him again in the evening, and we walked in the garden ; again I talked to my heart’s content — and I never was tired of talking — and he watched me and listened to me, as I afterwards found, with an ever-increasing pleasure, but I did not know that then, nor should I have cared if I had done so.

So day after day slipped by in the same quiet fashion, and days had merged into weeks before I had begun to wonder how the time had passed, or how long our guests would stay.

I had found the society of this young kinsman a pleasant variety in my lonely life. I had not

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been accustomed to companionship in my daily; walks and rides and light labors in the garden, and as all change is pleasant to the young, so was this change to me which constituted Thomas Baskerville my protector and friend.

But with me the matter ended there. I liked him. I liked to have a listener when I talked. I liked to feel that I was watched and admired and looked after by some one more interesting than the old servants and friends who had surrounded me from infancy. He gave food to my vanity and love of admiration, and I liked him ; but that was all. With me things went no deeper than that, and of his feelings I never troubled to think.

It seemed to me that it was his business to look after himself as I looked after myself, and I had no consideration to spare for him.

But a day came when I was forced to give this matter some thought, however little I might care to do so.