Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 56, No. 346, August, 1844

"I'll come over and judge for myself. I will not disappoint you on any account. So you may be quite easy."

And the same thing he said to Mr Williams, with the slight variation of an enquiry whether his governess squinted; for he had another theory that squinting people had a peculiar faculty for speaking French.

"I'll tell you what, Frank Edwards," I said to my young guest when we were about to separate, "I was an old friend of your father's, and I wish to show my regard to his memory by kindness to you; and as I don't think you have formed the best acquaintance in the world in the person of your companion, Mr Marvale, I wish you would give me an hour to-morrow at Bandvale, and I will offer you a little advice."

He shook my hand very warmly, and thanked me; and I agreed to be with him at one o'clock.

"I'll save the poor fellow from that harpy, at any rate; and have him back to Bandvale in half a year."

"You must get him married first," said my wife, "or his life will be miserable."

"How?"

"Why, there are three Miss Smiths, two Lamberts, and seven or eight others. They will set on him like a swarm of bees; and as they can't all make honey of him"—

"They will sting him to death. I see—I see."

CHAPTER III

Next day I trotted over to the Hall. Mr Percy Marvale was busy putting the finishing stroke to his Demon of the Waste, in which the interesting incident of the murder in the shooting-box is introduced; and Frank and I had a long and confidential conversation in the garden. Miss Sibylla Smith and the students of three-volume novels were for once very nearly right in their guesses on the subject of his tutor's daughter. He certainly was in love, if not engaged, but not exactly in the way they had imagined; and it struck me that, in spite of his declaration of constancy and firmness, there was still a very reasonable chance of there being an opening for some of the bees alluded to by my wife. For my own part, I am no believer in sentiment and romance, and could not enter into Frank's feelings at all.

Not far from Frank's guardian's house, in Leicestershire, there was a small white-walled villa, surrounded by pretty pleasure grounds, and inhabited by the most enchanting family in the world. The father, a clergyman, too much of an invalid to hold a living, and only rich enough to struggle on in the quietest possible way, with a wife and a daughter. The wife, of course, was all that was amiable and wise; and the daughter, Alice, endowed with every possible perfection. As to her beauty, it was above description, and her disinterestedness almost incredible. Every week, and at least every day of every week, Frank found himself at the fireside of the Reverend Mr Elstree, and no mother and sister could be so affectionate to him as Mrs Elstree and Alice. He was only fourteen, to be sure, when the acquaintance began, and the girl nine or ten; so that when he was twenty-one, he could not recall by what means, or on what occasion, he had told Alice he was devoted to her; nor could he even recollect what method she had taken to tell him she was delighted to hear it; but the case was, nevertheless, as complete a case of engagement, and true love, as if he had made formal propositions on his knees, or signed a bond on parchment. By this time he was at Cambridge, and considered himself as much a man as undergraduates always consider themselves—and wrote twice a-week to Alice—and heard twice a-week in return—and looked at her portrait, which he kept in a secret drawer of his desk, about twenty times a-day; and (which was the only thing about it that made me think it a real instance of true love) he never mentioned her name to one of his companions. Yet Cambridge has its temptations even to people as constant as Amadis de Gaul. Frank was a gay young fellow, with a good allowance—had his father's seat on horseback, and sported a red coat whenever the hounds came within twenty miles. He was blessed also with a capacious appetite, both for solids and fluids, and occasionally astonished the waiter at the Eagle and Child, by ordering in an extra basket of magnums; but, in the main, he was steady—and looked at the little portrait with undiminished admiration. All this time poor Mr Elstree knew nothing of the engagement, but looked on Frank more as a son than as a mere acquaintance, without any thought of its being in his power to attain in reality to that degree of relationship by means of the beautiful Miss Alice. If Frank believed this, I will be bound Miss Sibylla Smith would not have given him credit for such stupidity. But there are innocent minded people in the world, and poor Elstree was one of them. The visits to the white-walled villa were continued all the vacation; love went on increasing; and nothing could be more delightful than the description Frank gave of the happiness of that youthful time. But black days were in store for them. He left Cambridge, and went to London—the great trial for country affections. The affections, by his account, continued exactly the same; but the ideas altered—he saw other people, he mixed with the world—he overlaid the passion that lay snug and powerful at the bottom of his heart, with a score or two of flirtations; but, so far from burying it, they only kept it warm. In the mean time, however, the correspondence was not so regular as before—and perhaps the expressions on both sides not quite so tender; for it is impossible for a man in the Clarendon, with a carriage at the door to carry him down to Ascot, to write about flames and arrows, which come so naturally when musing on the Cam or Isis. And in the midst of this London career—during all which, he assured me, he liked her better than ever—he was startled by hearing that Mr Elstree was very ill. He hurried down to Leicestershire, but found he was too late. The good man had died, after having learned from his daughter the secret of her engagement, and having refused his consent to it, not on the ground that he was too good a match for Alice—which would be almost as vulgar a reason as if he had been too poor—but on the ground that he was young, giddy, thoughtless, and the wasting health and wan cheek of his daughter had told him that he was fickle too. People in the country make so little allowance for young men during their first season in town; and mother and daughter, in spite of all his protestations, in spite of all the vows he made to Alice, which she believed in her heart—were firm in breaking off the connexion, and would see him no more. And this resolution seemed to be formed on the maturest deliberation, and in spite of every inducement to the contrary they kept it. He had not seen them for nearly a year. Their income, at all times small, had been annihilated by the father's death; they left the white-walled villa, and after bidding him farewell for ever in a letter, and thanking him for his friendship to her father, and some few tender recollections on her own account, Alice had begged him to forget her! And Frank thought of her, of course, every hour of his life—tried every means to find out where they had gone, that he might resume his suit, and to offer them the fortune of which he had now come into full possession—but all in vain. His friend, Mr Percy Marvale, had undertaken to find them out within six months if they were still on the habitable globe, and thought he had discovered that the scene of their retirement was in our county; and with a knowledge of nature drawn from melodramas, French and English, he had laid it down as a rule, that as they were reduced in circumstances, Alice had gone out as a governess— which accounted for his theories about squints and red hair. It was a curious story; but there was perfect sincerity in all he said; and instead of trying to dissuade him, I could not help offering my services to discover the vanished pleiad—if she twinkled in any part of our Worcestershire heavens.

During this long communication we had left the garden, and were lounging slowly by the side of the river that runs through the park. We were both engaged in the narrative, and I was no little surprised, on looking to the other side, to see my magisterial friend, Old Smith, and his two daughters, busy with fishing-rods. The girls were tastefully dressed— but more to catch admiration than fish; two very showy handsome girls they were and I could not help thinking in my secret soul that there were not much odds to be risked on the late favourite Alice, against such a spanker as Monimia Smith. As for Sibylla, she despised gold and acres in comparison with genius and mustaches; and therefore, I concluded, she intended to be the second horse to her sister, and keep out the rest of the field. A clever, dashing, creature Monimia certainly, with such a pretence at childishness that nobody felt any wonder at any thing she did. And that same childishness is a very captivating quality till a girl is rising twenty or thereabouts; but after that time it does not take. At the same time, it is only a show qualification after all, and may do for a ball-room, but has no chance any where else. We looked at them without making any remark, and all three pretended to be so busy watching, their floats, that they had no idea—not they, poor souls!—that Frank Edwards of Bandvale Hall was within a mile of them. Sibylla occasionally glanced towards the house, in hopes, I suppose, of seeing Mr Percy Marvale emerge from his literary labours; but Monimia, looking under her long beautiful eyelashes, saw very well where we were, and threw herself into twenty attitudes of expectation, hope, and disappointment, ad ran through the whole gamut of a fisher's passions, in a way that would have done for a recitation of Collins's ode; and graceful, playful, and beautiful the attitudes were— and I saw in a moment that Frank's attention was caught. He was silent all of a sudden, and said no more about Alice Elstree. Monimia had it all her own way; but when she saw that her bait had taken, she determined to play the trout a little longer. She cast herself into finer and more captivating attitudes than ever, threw back her bonnet till it hung at her back—her beautiful hair broke loose—and in her hurry to pull up her hook, though I am ready to declare the float had never moved, she pressed so vehemently on poor Old Smith, who was deep in a contention with the root of a tree, which had held his hook prisoner for half an hour, that he lost his footing and fell plump into the water. If Monimia's motions were astonishing, her screams were appalling; and though I feel sure she had no intention of drowning her father, she had put him into tremendous hazard. The water was deep—he could not swim a stroke—the banks were steep; and there stood Monimia wringing her hands, while Sibylla had taken the quieter method of showing her agitation by falling into a faint upon the grass. In a moment Frank had left my side, dashed into the stream, and half forced, half supported Old Smith to the side, with my assistance, brought him safe on dry land. The girls hurried round by the bridge, and came upon us like a charge of Cossacks, while we were attending to the half-drowned parent on the bank.

"Where is my papa?" exclaimed Monimia—"my dear papa!"—and threw herself beside him on the turf, showing her figure, I must say, to the very best advantage. "And you," she cried, "his saviour—his preserver!" —and here she actually flung herself into poor Frank's arms, and laid her head upon his shoulder, in one of the most becoming faints I ever saw. There being no other person worth fainting for, Sibylla retained her composure; and as Monimia continued insensible, and Old Smith was really chilled, and might catch his death of cold, we conveyed them both, as carefully as we could, to the house; gave Monimia in charge to the gardener's wife and her sister, and installed Old Smith in Frank's own bed. I sent off a labourer on my pony for the doctor, and went to make enquiries after Miss Monimia. She was very ill, but Sibylla hoped she would soon be well enough to attend upon her father. Mr Percy Marvale made a multitude of quotations from some of his own melodramas apropos to the occasion, and Sibylla replied in the same high-flown style. It was evident they were quite used to such incidents in the Surrey, and I left them to entertain each other. On the doctor's arrival, he pronounced it improper to remove Mr Smith after his system had undergone such a shock; and the same judgment, very nearly, was past on Miss Monimia.

"I told mamma before I left home," whispered that young lady to her sister, as she lay gracefully on the outside of the bed, "that I would make an impression on Mr Edwards, if I could. I think this will do it, if any thing will; for we sha'n't let papa be well enough to move for a week. He is a delightful, fascinating man, and we have him all to ourselves."

CHAPTER IV

Have you?—poor girl, you never heard of Alice Elstree! But Frank, to be sure, has not heard of her for a year—and you're certainly pretty, and he's young—and has an eye for the sublime and beautiful. The betting grows nearly even. All the skill of the gardener's wife, and as many other women as could be pressed into the service, was put into requisition to prepare a dinner for such unexpected guests; but as if by some half miraculous foreknowledge of events, preparations seemed to have been made on a great scale at Howkey; and on hearing of the accident, the good-natured Mrs Smith had despatched a light luggage cart filled with cold pies, preserved soups, and joints of meat, as if in anticipation of a blockade—in this respect imitating the good French marshal who besieged Gibraltar, and supplied old Elliot with provisions. But even after dinner was provided, how were the invalids, in addition to the original garrison, to be lodged for the night? Frank and his friend would not hear of coming over to me, and it was finally arranged that they should take up their quarters at the Rose and Crown. Old Smith kept his bed, but, for an invalid, performed wonders on the veal-pies; and also, by way of recruiting his exhausted strength, and showing his regard for Lord Cardigan at the same time, kindly made a crystal decanter of his throat, and decanted a black bottle of port into it with astonishing skill. Monimia was not so weak as to be kept in her apartment, and joined us—for I stayed to see how matters would end in the dining-room—and, I am bound to say, that gratitude for a father's safety was never shown in a more captivating manner than by that pale and interesting young lady, both in words and glances, during the whole evening. Sibylla and Mr Percy Marvale were equally pleased with the unlooked-for incident that threw them together; and I could not help thinking that the spy for Mr Frank Marvale's interest had an eye kept pretty open for his own; but watching the proceedings of people who would be fifty times better pleased if the race of Paul Prys were extinct, is very tiresome, and I soon took leave. The ladies betook themselves to their room at the same time, and the young men walked alongside of my pony down to the village inn. As we went, Mr Percy Marvale was loud in his praises of all the inhabitants of Howkey—from the half-drowned sire to the youngest of the children; so it is not to be supposed that Sibylla and Monimia were omitted in his eulogies. I remarked that he made no allusion to red hair or squinting, and that Frank himself said nothing against his extravagant laudations of Monimia's beauty. As little did he say any thing in corroboration. Was silence a tribute to his old love, or the ominous commencement of a new? One whole day he had been with her—a week, perhaps, was before him, of constant association. How difficult for a young fellow to continue deaf and blind to soft tones and softer glances, that spoke in reality of herself, though professedly they were all about her father!

Next day Monimia was still further recovered, and her venerated governor not yet fit to be moved. It was so bright and sunny that it would have been a shame to stay in doors, and Frank accompanied the lively Monimia into the garden. Oh! the running to and fro, the reaching up of the white arm, and standing on tiptoe to get at the fruit-trees on the wall—the merry laugh, the conscious looks, the blushing cheek—if Frank isn't made of stone, he'll yield to a certainty. She trips over all the beds with a wicker-basket on her arm to gather flowers, and clips them off so gracefully, and arranges them so tastefully, and all to be presented to the gallant deliverer of her papa. She is already on her way back, having achieved a nosegay of surpassing sweetness, when Mr Percy Marvale hurries out of the library window with a letter in his hand.

"We've found her at last! I told you, if she was in England, I would ferret her out in no time."

Frank seized the letter, tore open the seal—a flush passed over his cheek—he devoured the words—read the over again—and did not even look up, when Monimia dropt her basket and picked it up again, with the grace of Taglioni.

"Glorious—glorious!" he said, and nearly kissed the scarcely legible scrawl. "I will go this moment—it can't be far."

"Are you going, Mr Edwards?" said Monimia, holding the nosegay in her hand. "I hope you will soon return."

"Perhaps I may—but, pray, make my excuses to your father—my friend, Mr Marvale, will do the honours of the house."

"And you go away so suddenly?" she said, and pouted.

"I can't help it—business—sudden intelligence. Can you tell me where the village of Wibbelton is?"

"No," said the young lady, and laid the nosegay very quietly in her basket.

"If I should not return before Mr Smith is well enough to go home, will you present my compliments to your sister, and assure her"—

"Oh! she will he very sorry, I dare say," said Miss Monimia tartly, tying the strings of her bonnet, which had again fallen back and shown her beautiful ringlets.

"I wish the flowers were better," continued Frank; "and at some future time, I trust"—

"Oh, the flowers are good enough!" said the young lady. "I think the moss rose is Charles Lambert's favourite, so I have gathered this bunch for him."

You would scarcely have known the cold-voiced, calm-eyed Miss Monimia, to be the playful, graceful hoyden of five minutes before. She made Frank a stately curtsy, and, without farther parley, he hurried down to the village, and ordered the solitary post-chaise of which the Rose and Crown could boast.

"Stay you here," he said to Mr Percy Marvale, "and I will join you in two days if any thing occurs. We may be disappointed again, though the present intelligence seems authentic."

The intelligence which so suddenly altered the destination of Miss Monimia Smith's nosegay, was from one of Frank's Leicestershire correspondents; and was to the effect, that Alice had gone into a situation in the little village of Wibbleton, where she had been securely hidden from all her lover's pursuits for half a year. Wibbelton, he found, was fifteen miles from Bandvale, on the Birmingham road, and merrily away he trotted as fast as the two posters could go.

The news, the air, the motion, that had such an exhilirating effect on Frank Edwards, seemed to be equally efficacious in the case of my old friend Smith. He felt so well on being told of his host's departure, that he was able to move at once; and, without waiting for consultation with the doctor, or even for his carriage, he accompanied his daughter and the indefatigable Percy Marvale across the fields to Howkey on foot.

Meanwhile the hopeful lover drew near the hamlet of Wibbelton. He drove to the inn as the likeliest place where he could get information, and entered the common parlour, a neat little whitewashed room, with clean sanded floor, that looked out upon the village green. At a little table by the window sat a gentleman reading the newspaper, and occasionally relieving the dryness of the parliamentary debates by a sip at a little tankard of beer. He was a neatly dressed old man, with his thin long hair tied behind in a cue, a bright blue coat buttoned close up to the throat, stocking-thread pantaloons, and high Hessian boots. His upright carriage and projecting chest pointed him out at once as a military man; and the bow he had made, on Frank entering the room, showed at once he was a man of the old school—very formal and ceremonious—but was indicative of good-nature at the same time.

"A stranger in Wibbelton?" he said, laying down the paper. "Ha! I thought so—never remarked you before, though I keep my eye on any new face that appears in our parish."

"There are not many strangers, I presume, who find their way to this out-of-the-way village," replied Frank.

"I beg your pardon, my young friend. Many do. It is just the place for strangers to come to. A more complete retirement is not to be found in England."

"But every one is not enamoured of retirement," answered Frank.

"Then they have never been in active life. As for my step-son and me, who have been pushed about the world all our days, we find no place like Wibbelton."

"A soldier, I presume?" enquired Frank.

The old militaire bowed. "A soldier, sir, not quite unknown to fame, if I may be allowed to say so. My step-son also."

"And both reside here?"

"My step-son's house is the large white manorial mansion you see on the other side of the green. It is the noblest house in the county. Ah! there is nothing equal to the fine residences of our venerable agricultural nobility. My step-son is chief of the family; and though I had the misfortune to lose his mother in a very few years after our marriage, I always look upon him as a son. He looks on me as a father. We fight our battles over again, and only feel the want of a little addition to our pleasing intelligent society."

Frank looked towards the mansion described as one of the noblest in England, and saw a tolerably sized square house, with a range of white palings before the door, and a vine trailing over the front, but with no appearance of grandeur more than the very ordinary houses by its side.

"It would perhaps destroy the charm of the retirement you spoke of, if too many were admitted to share it," said Frank. "Has your step-son a family?"

"Four blooming girls, and an equal number of boys, not quite old enough yet to be treated as companions."

"Still at school?"

"Oh, no! My step-son hates public education. He brings them up beneath his own roof."

"With the help of a tutor, I suppose?"