By Birth a Lady

“Indeed, no,” said Ella sadly. “I thought I was without a friend, and you came just at that time.”

“No, no, you mustn’t say that,” said Nelly, “because I am not old and sensible enough to be your friend. But it hurt me to see you in such trouble, and I was obliged to come; and now you won’t be miserable any more; and you mustn’t take any notice if Laury is disagreeable – a nasty thing! flirting all day long with my – with Mr Hugh Lingon,” she said, colouring. “But there, I’m not ashamed: Hugh Lingon is my lover, and has been ever since he was fourteen and I was six – when he used to give me sweets, and I loved him, and used to say he was so nice and fat to pinch! And Laury was flirting with him all that afternoon at the show, when Max would hang about – a great stupid! – when I wanted to explain things; for you know she was flirting with Hugh because that dear old Charley Vining wouldn’t take any notice of her. He is such a dear nice fellow! But I do not love him, you know, only like him; and he likes me ever so much. He told me so one day, and gave me half-a-crown to spend in sweets – wasn’t it kind of him? He’ll often carry a basket of strawberries or grapes over for me and the girls, or fill his pockets with apples and pears for us; when, as for old Max, he’d faint at the very sight of a basket, let alone carry it! You will like Charley. He is nice! Laury loves him awful – talks about him in her sleep! But I do not think he cares for her, – and no wonder! But I say, Miss Bedford, how nice and soft your hand is! and, I say, what a little one! Why, mine’s twice as big!”

Ella smiled, and went on smoothing the girl’s rough hair, but hardly heeding what she said – only catching a word here and there.

“I shouldn’t never love Charley Vining,” said Nelly, whose grammar was exceedingly loose, “but I should always like him; and if I don’t marry Hugh Lingon, I mean to be an old maid, and wear stiff caps and pinners, and then – You’re beginning to cry again, and it’s too bad, after all this comforting up!”

“No, indeed, my child,” said Ella, rousing herself. “I was only thinking that when things are at the blackest some little ray of hope will peep out to light our paths.”

“I say,” said Nelly, “is that poetry?”

“No,” said Ella, smiling sadly.

“Ah, I thought it was,” said Nelly. “But then I’m so ignorant and stupid! Mamma says I’m fit for nothing, and I suppose she’s right! But there, I’m making you tired with my talking, and I won’t say another word; only don’t you fidget about Max – only snub him well; and I wouldn’t tell pa or ma, because it might make mischief.”

Hanging as it were in the balance, Ella allowed the advice of the child-woman at her side to have effect, and determined to say nothing – to make no complaints, trusting to her own firmness to keep her persecutor in his place until his visit was at an end. It was, perhaps, a weak resolve; but who is there that always takes the better of two roads? It was, however, her decision – her choice of way – one which led through a cloud of sorrow, misery, and despair so dense, that in after time poor Ella often asked herself was there to be no turning, no byway that should lend once again, if but for a few hours, into the joyous sunshine of life?

Volume One – Chapter Eleven.

Croquet and Roquet

“Bai Jove, seems a strange thing!” said Max Bray at breakfast-time, about a week after the events recorded in the last chapter – “seems a strange thing you women can’t settle anything without showing your teeth!”

“You women, indeed! Max, how can you talk so vulgarly!” exclaimed Laura.

And then there was silence, for Ella Bedford entered the breakfast-room with her charges.

Strange or not, there had been something more than a few words that morning in the breakfast-room between Mrs Bray and her daughter, concerning a croquet-party to come off that afternoon upon the Elms lawn. As for Mr Bray, he had taken no part in the discussion, “shutting-up” – to use his son’s words – “like an old gingham umbrella, bai Jove!”

However, hostilities ceased upon the appearance of Ella with the children; and Mrs Bray, after shrieking for the tea-caddy, sat down to the urn, and the morning meal commenced.

“Of course, mamma,” said Laura suddenly, “you won’t think of having the children on the lawn?”

“O, I daresay, miss!” cried Nelly, firing up. “Just as if we’re to be set aside when there’s anything going on! Charley Vining says I play croquet just twice as well as you can; and I know he’s coming to-day on purpose to see me!” she added maliciously.

Mr Bray shook his head at her, and Ella slightly raised one finger; but as she made a rule of never correcting her charges when father or mother was present, she did not speak.

“Hold your tongue, you pert child!” exclaimed Laura, with a toss of the head. “You’ll let Miss Bedford keep them in the schoolroom, of course, mamma?”

“Indeed, I don’t see why they should not have a game as well as their sister!” shrieked Mrs Bray, from behind the urn; for after the hostilities of that morning mamma would not budge an inch.

The breakfast ended, Nelly ran round to give Mrs Bray a sounding kiss, and then danced after her sisters and their governess into the schoolroom.

“There, hooray! Beaten her!” shouted Nelly, clapping her hands. “I knew what she meant, Miss Bedford. She didn’t want you to be on the lawn and come and play; and now she’s beaten, and serve her right too! She’s afraid Charley Vining will take more notice of you than he does of her, and I shall tell him.”

“My dear Nelly!” exclaimed Ella, with a look of pain on her countenance; when her wild young charge dropped demurely into a seat, and began to devour French irregular verbs at a tremendous rate, working at them thoroughly hard, and, having a very retentive memory, making some progress.

These were Ella’s happiest moments; for, in spite of their roughness, the three girls in her charge, one and all, evinced a liking for her; and save at times, when she broke out into a thorough childish fit, Nelly grew hourly more and more womanly under her care. But Ella was somewhat troubled respecting the afternoon’s meeting, and would gladly have spent the time in solitude, for it was plain enough that she was to be present solely out of opposition to Laura; and in spite of all her efforts, it seemed that she was to grow daily more distasteful to the dark beauty, who openly showed her dislike before Ella had been in the house a week.

However, the schoolroom studies made very little progress that morning; for before long Mrs Bray entered to give orders respecting dress, sending Nelly into ecstasies as she cast her book aside; and at three o’clock that afternoon, as Laura swept across the lawn to meet some of the coming guests, there was a look of annoyance upon her countenance that was ill-concealed by the smile she wore.

“So absurd!” she had just found time to say to Mrs Bray, “bringing those children and their governess out upon the croquet-ground as if on purpose to annoy people, who are made to give way to humour their schoolroom whims!”

Mrs Bray’s reply was a toss of the head, as she turned off to meet her hopeful son Max, who, after pains that deserved a better recompense, now made his appearance dressed for the occasion.

“Just in time, bai Jove!” he drawled; and then he started slightly, for, making a survey of the lawn, he suddenly became aware that Ella Bedford was seated within a few yards with her pupils. “O, here’s Miss Bedford!” he exclaimed; “and, let’s see, there’s Laura; and who are those with her? O, the Ellis people. They don’t play. I want to make up a set at once – want another gentleman. Why, there’s Charley Vining just coming out of the stable-yard; rode over, I suppose. Perhaps he’ll play.”

Ella shrank back, and sent an appealing look towards Mrs Bray; but as Max had said Miss Bedford was to play, there was no appeal.

“Perhaps Miss Nelly here would like to take my place?” said Ella.

“O, dear me, no, Miss Bedford! Mr Maximilian selected you as one of the set, and I should not like him to be disappointed,” said Mamma Bray.

“You’ll play, Vining?” drawled Max.

“Well, no; I don’t care about it,” said Charley good-humouredly. “I’ll make room for some one else.”

“Ya-a-as, but we haven’t enough without you,” said Max. “You might take a mallet, you know, till some one else comes.”

“O, very good,” said Charley, who had just caught sight of Ella with a mallet in her hand. “I’m ready.”

“Then we’ll have a game at once before any one else comes. Now then, Laura, here’s Charley Vining breaking his heart because you don’t come and play on his side. I daresay, though, Miss Bedford and I can get the better of you.”

But Max Bray’s arrangement for a snug parti of four was upset by fresh arrivals – Hugh Lingon, looking very stout, pink, and warm, with a couple of sisters, both stouter, pinker, and warmer, and a very slim young curate from a neighbouring village, arriving just at the same time.

Then followed a little manoeuvring and arranging; but in spite of brother and sister playing into each other’s hands, the game commenced with Max Bray upon the same side as Laura, one of the stout Miss Lingons, and the slim curate; while Charley Vining had Ella under his wing.

Croquet is a very nice amusement: not that there is much in the game itself, which is, if anything, rather tame; but it serves as a means for bringing people together – as a vehicle for chatting, flirting, and above all, carrying off the ennui so fond of making its way into social fashionable life. You can help the trusting friend so nicely through hoop after hoop, receiving all the while such prettily-spoken thanks and such sweet smiles; there is such a fine opportunity too, whilst assuming the leadership and directing, for enabling the young lady to properly hold her mallet for the next blow – arranging the little fingers, and pressing them inadvertently more tightly to the stick; and we have known very enthusiastic amateurs go so far as to kneel down before a lady, and raise one delicate bottine, placing it on the player’s ball, and holding it firmly while the enemy is croque’d. Apropos of enemies, too, how they can be punished! How a rival can be ignominiously driven here and there, and into all sorts of uncomfortable places – under bushes and behind trees, wired and pegged, and treated in the most cruel manner!

And so it was at the Elms croquet-party. Looking black almost as night, Laura struck at the balls viciously – a prime new set of Jaques’s best – chipping the edge of her mallet, bruising the balls, and driving Ella Bedford’s “Number 1, blue,” at times right off the croquet-ground. Not that it mattered in the least; for in spite of his self-depreciation, Charley Vining was an admirable player, making long shots, and fetching up Ella’s unfortunate ball, taking it with him through hoop after hoop, till Laura’s eyes flashed, and Max declared, “bai Jove!” he never saw anything like it; when Charley would catch a glimpse of Ella’s troubled look, recollect himself, and perform the same acts of kindness for the plump Miss Lingon, to receive in return numberless “O, thank you’s!” and “O, how clever’s!” and “So much obliged, Mr Vining!” while “that governess,” as Laura called her, never once uttered a word of thanks. As for Hugh Lingon, he was always nowhere; and as he missed his aim again and again, he grew more and more divided in his opinions.

First he declared that the ground was not level; but seeing the good strokes made by others, he retracted that observation, and waited awhile.

“I don’t think my ball is quite round, Vining,” he exclaimed, after another bad stroke.

“Pooh! nonsense!” laughed Charley. “You didn’t try; it was because you didn’t want to hit Miss Bray.”

“No – no! ’Pon my word, no – ’pon my word!” exclaimed Hugh, protesting as he grew more and more pink.

“Did his best, I’d swear – bai Jove, he did!” drawled Max, playing, and sending poor Lingon off the ground.

Then, after a time, Lingon had his turn once more.

“It’s not the ball, it’s this mallet – it is indeed!” he exclaimed, after an atrocious blow. “Just you look here, Vining: the handle’s all on one side.”

“Never mind! Try again, my boy,” laughed Charley; and soon after he had to bring both his lady partners up again to their hoop, sending Laura’s ball away to make room for them, and on the whole treating it rather harshly, Laura’s eyes flashing the while with vexation.

“I like croquet for some things,” said Laura’s partner, the thin curate, after vainly trying to render her a service; “I but it’s a very unchristian-like sort of game – one seems to give all one’s love to one’s friends, and to keep none for one’s enemies.”