Ever, my dear Lydia,
Affectionately yours,
MARIA OLDERSHAW.
CHAPTER II
ALLAN AS A LANDED GENTLEMAN
Early on the morning after his first night’s rest at Thorpe-Ambrose, Allan rose and surveyed the prospect from his bedroom window, lost in the dense mental bewilderment of feeling himself to be a stranger in his own house.
The bedroom looked out over the great front door, with its portico, its terrace and flight of steps beyond, and, farther still, the broad sweep of the well-timbered park to close the view. The morning mist nestled lightly about the distant trees; and the cows were feeding sociably, close to the iron fence which railed off the park from the drive in front of the house. ‘All mine!’ thought Allan, staring in blank amazement at the prospect of his own possessions. ‘Hang me if I can beat it into my head yet. All mine!’
He dressed, left his room, and walked along the corridor which led to the staircase and hall; opening the doors in succession as he passed them. The rooms in this part of the house were bedrooms and dressing-rooms – light, spacious, perfectly furnished; and all empty, except the one bedchamber next to Allan’s, which had been appropriated to Midwinter. He was still sleeping when his friend looked in on him, having sat late into the night writing his letter to Mr Brock. Allan went on to the end of the first corridor, turned at right angles into a second, and, that passed, gained the head of the great staircase. ‘No romance here,’ he said to himself, looking down the handsomely-carpeted stone stairs into the bright modern hall. ‘Nothing to startle Midwinter’s fidgety nerves in this house.’ There was nothing indeed; Allan’s essentially superficial observation had not misled him for once. The mansion of Thorpe-Ambrose (built after the pulling down of the dilapidated old manor-house) was barely fifty years old. Nothing picturesque, nothing in the slightest degree suggestive of mystery and romance, appeared in any part of it. It was a purely conventional country-house – the product of the classical idea filtered judiciously through the commercial English mind. Viewed on the outer side, it presented the spectacle of a modern manufactory trying to look like an ancient temple. Viewed on the inner side, it was a marvel of luxurious comfort in every part of it, from basement to roof. ‘And quite right, too,’ thought Allan, sauntering contentedly down the broad, gently graduated stairs. ‘Deuce take all mystery and romance! Let’s be clean and comfortable – that’s what I say.’
Arrived in the hall, the new master of Thorpe-Ambrose hesitated, and looked about him, uncertain which way to turn next. The four reception-rooms on the ground floor opened into the hall, two on either side. Allan tried the nearest door on his right hand at a venture, and found himself in the drawing-room. Here the first sign of life appeared, under life’s most attractive form. A young girl was in solitary possession of the drawing-room. The duster in her hand appeared to associate her with the domestic duties of the house; but at that particular moment she was occupied in asserting the rights of nature over the obligations of service. In other words, she was attentively contemplating her own face in the glass over the mantelpiece.
‘There! there! don’t let me frighten you,’ said Allan, as the girl started away from the glass, and stared at him in unutterable confusion. ‘I quite agree with you, my dear: your face is well worth looking at. Who are you? – oh, the housemaid. And what’s your name? Susan, eh? Come! I like your name to begin with. Do you know who I am, Susan? I’m your master, though you may not think it. Your character? Oh, yes! Mrs Blanchard gave you a capital character. You shall stop here; don’t be afraid. And you’ll be a good girl, Susan, and wear smart little caps and aprons and bright ribbons, and you’ll look nice and pretty, and dust the furniture, won’t you?’
With this summary of a housemaid’s duties, Allan sauntered back into the hall, and found more signs of life in that quarter. A manservant appeared on this occasion, and bowed, as became a vassal in a linen jacket, before his liege lord in a wide-awake hat.1
‘And who may you be?’ asked Allan. ‘Not the man who let us in last night? Ah, I thought not. The second footman, eh? Character? Oh, yes; capital character. Stop here, of course. You can valet me, can you? Bother valeting me! I like to put on my own clothes, and brush them, too, when they are on; and, if I only knew how to black my own boots, by George I should like to do it! What room’s this? Morning-room, eh? And here’s the dining-room, of course. Good heavens, what a table! it’s as long as my yacht, and longer. I say – by-the-by, what’s your name? Richard, is it? – well, Richard, the vessel I sail in is a vessel of my own building. What do you think of that? You look to me just the right sort of man to be my steward on board. If you’re not sick at sea – oh, you are sick at sea? Well, then, we’ll say nothing more about it. And what room is this? Ah, yes; the library, of course – more in Mr Midwinter’s way than mine. Mr Midwinter is the gentleman who came here with me last night; and mind this, Richard, you’re all to show him as much attention as you show me. Where are we now? What’s this door at the back? Billiard-room and smoking-room, eh? Jolly. Another door! and more stairs! Where do they go to? and who’s this coming up? Take your time, ma’am; you’re not quite so young as you were once – take your time.’
The object of Allan’s humane caution was a corpulent elderly woman, of the type called ‘motherly’. Fourteen stairs were all that separated her from the master of the house: she ascended them with fourteen stoppages and fourteen sighs. Nature, various in all things, is infinitely various in the female sex. There are some women whose personal qualities reveal the Loves and the Graces; and there are other women whose personal qualities suggest the Perquisites and the Grease Pot. This was one of the other women.
‘Glad to see you looking so well, ma’am,’ said Allan, when the cook, in the majesty of her office, stood proclaimed before him. ‘Your name is Gripper, is it? I consider you, Mrs Gripper, the most valuable person in the house. For this reason, that nobody in the house eats a heartier dinner every day than I do. Directions? Oh, no; I’ve no directions to give. I leave all that to you. Lots of strong soup, and joints done with the gravy in them – there’s my notion of good feeding, in two words. Steady! Here’s somebody else. Oh, to be sure – the butler! Another valuable person. We’ll go right through all the wine in the cellar, Mr butler; and if I can’t give you a sound opinion after that, we’ll persevere boldly, and go right through it again. Talking of wine – hullo! here are more of them coming upstairs. There! there! don’t trouble yourselves. You’ve all got capital characters, and you shall all stop here along with me. What was I saying just now? Something about wine; so it was. I’ll tell you what, Mr butler, it isn’t every day that a new master comes to Thorpe-Ambrose; and it’s my wish that we should all start together on the best possible terms. Let the servants have a grand jollification downstairs, to celebrate my arrival; and give them what they like to drink my health in. It’s a poor heart, Mrs Gripper, that never rejoices, isn’t it? No; I won’t look at the cellar now: I want to go out, and get a breath of fresh air before breakfast. Where’s Richard? I say, have I got a garden here? Which side of the house is it! That side, eh? You needn’t show me round. I’ll go alone, Richard, and lose myself, if I can, in my own property.’
With those words Allan descended the terrace-steps in front of the house, whistling cheerfully. He had met the serious responsibility of settling his domestic establishment to his own entire satisfaction. ‘People talk of the difficulty of managing their servants,’ thought Allan. ‘What on earth do they mean? I don’t see any difficulty at all.’ He opened an ornamental gate leading out of the drive at the side of the house; and, following the footman’s directions, entered the shrubbery that sheltered the Thorpe-Ambrose gardens. ‘Nice shady sort of place for a cigar,’ said Allan, as he sauntered along, with his hands in his pockets. ‘I wish I could beat it into my head that it really belongs to me.’
The shrubbery opened on the broad expanse of a flower-garden, flooded bright in its summer glory by the light o
f the morning sun. On one side an archway, broken through a wall, led into the fruit-garden. On the other, a terrace of turf led to ground on a lower level, laid out as an Italian garden. Wandering past the fountains and statues, Allan reached another shrubbery, winding its way apparently to some remote part of the grounds. Thus far, not a human creature had been visible or audible anywhere; but, as he approached the end of the second shrubbery, it struck him that he heard something on the other side of the foliage. He stopped and listened. There were two voices speaking distinctly – an old voice that sounded very obstinate, and a young voice that sounded very angry.
‘It’s no use, Miss,’ said the old voice. ‘I mustn’t allow it, and I won’t allow it. What would Mr Armadale say?’
‘If Mr Armadale is the gentleman I take him for, you old brute!’ replied the young voice, ‘he would say, “Come into my garden, Miss Milroy, as often as you like, and take as many nosegays as you please.”’
Allan’s bright blue eyes twinkled mischievously. Inspired by a sudden idea, he stole softly to the end of the shrubbery, darted round the corner of it, and, vaulting over a low ring-fence, found himself in a trim little paddock, crossed by a gravel walk. At a short distance down the walk stood a young lady, with her back towards him, trying to force her way past an impenetrable old man, with a rake in his hand, who stood obstinately in front of her, shaking his head.
‘Come into my garden, Miss Milroy, as often as you like, and take as many nosegays as you please,’ cried Allan, remorselessly repeating her own words.
The young lady turned round, with a scream; her muslin dress, which she was holding up in front, dropped from her hand, and a prodigious lapful of flowers rolled out on the gravel walk.
Before another word could be said, the impenetrable old man stepped forward, with the utmost composure, and entered on the question of his own personal interests, as if nothing whatever had happened, and nobody was present but his new master and himself.
‘I bid you humbly welcome to Thorpe-Ambrose, sir,’ said this ancient of the gardens. ‘My name is Abraham Sage. I’ve been employed in the grounds for more than forty years; and I hope you’ll be pleased to continue me in my place.’
So, with vision inexorably limited to the horizon of his own prospects, spoke the gardener – and spoke in vain. Allan was down on his knees on the gravel walk, collecting the fallen flowers, and forming his first impressions of Miss Milroy from the feet upwards. She was pretty; she was not pretty – she charmed, she disappointed, she charmed again. Tried by recognized line and rule, she was too short, and too well-developed for her age. And yet few men’s eyes would have wished her figure other than it was. Her hands were so prettily plump and dimpled, that it was hard to see how red they were with the blessed exuberance of youth and health. Her feet apologized gracefully for her old and ill-fitting shoes; and her shoulders made ample amends for the misdemeanor in muslin which covered them in the shape of a dress. Her dark grey eyes were lovely in their clear softness of colour, in their spirit, tenderness, and sweet good humour of expression; and her hair (where a shabby old garden hat allowed it to be seen) was of just that lighter shade of brown which gave value by contrast to the darker beauty of her eyes. But these attractions passed, the little attendant blemishes and imperfections of this self-contradictory girl began again. Her nose was too short, her mouth was too large, her face was too round, and too rosy. The dreadful justice of photography would have had no mercy on her;2 and the sculptors of classical Greece would have bowed her regretfully out of their studios. Admitting all this, and more, the girdle round Miss Milroy’s waist was the girdle of Venus, nevertheless – and the pass-key that opens the general heart was the key she carried, if ever a girl possessed it yet. Before Allan had picked up his second handful of flowers, Allan was in love with her.
‘Don’t! pray don’t, Mr Armadale!’ she said, receiving the flowers under protest, as Allan vigorously showered them back into the lap of her dress. ‘I am so ashamed! I didn’t mean to invite myself in that bold way into your garden; my tongue ran away with me – it did indeed! What can I say to excuse myself? Oh, Mr Armadale, what must you think of me!’
Allan suddenly saw his way to a compliment, and tossed it up to her forthwith, with the third handful of flowers.
‘I’ll tell you what I think, Miss Milroy,’ he said, in his blunt, boyish way. ‘I think the luckiest walk I ever took in my life was the walk this morning that brought me here.’
He looked eager and handsome. He was not addressing a woman worn out with admiration, but a girl just beginning a woman’s life – and it did him no harm, at any rate, to speak in the character of master of Thorpe-Ambrose. The penitential expression on Miss Milroy’s face gently melted away: she looked down, demure and smiling, at the flowers in her lap.
‘I deserve a good scolding,’ she said. ‘I don’t deserve compliments, Mr Armadale – least of all from you.’
‘Oh, yes, you do!’ cried the headlong Allan, getting briskly on his legs. ‘Besides, it isn’t a compliment; it’s true. You are the prettiest – I beg your pardon, Miss Milroy! my tongue ran away with me that time.’
Among the heavy burdens that are laid on female human nature, perhaps the heaviest, at the age of sixteen, is the burden of gravity. Miss Milroy struggled – tittered – struggled again – and composed herself for the time being.
The gardener, who still stood where he had stood from the first, immovably waiting for his next opportunity, saw it now, and gently pushed his personal interests into the first gap of silence that had opened within his reach since Allan’s appearance on the scene.
‘I humbly bid you welcome to Thorpe-Ambrose, sir,’ said Abraham Sage; beginning obstinately with his little introductory speech for the second time. ‘My name—’
Before he could deliver himself of his name, Miss Milroy looked accidentally in the horticulturist’s pertinacious face – and instantly lost her hold on her gravity beyond recall. Allan, never backward in following a boisterous example of any sort, joined in her laughter with right goodwill. The wise man of the gardens showed no surprise, and took no offence. He waited for another gap of silence, and walked in again gently with his personal interests, the moment the two young people stopped to take breath.
‘I have been employed in the grounds,’ proceeded Abraham Sage, irrepressibly, ‘for more than forty years—’
‘You shall be employed in the grounds for forty more, if you’ll only hold your tongue and take yourself off!’ cried Allan, as soon as he could speak.
‘Thank you kindly, sir,’ said the gardener, with the utmost politeness, but with no present signs either of holding his tongue or of taking himself off.
‘Well?’ said Allan.
Abraham Sage carefully cleared his throat, and shifted his rake from one hand to the other. He looked down the length of his own invaluable implement, with a grave interest and attention; seeing apparently, not the long handle of a rake, but the long perspective of a vista, with a supplementary personal interest established at the end of it. ‘When more convenient, sir,’ resumed this immovable man, ‘I should wish respectfully to speak to you about my son. Perhaps it may be more convenient in the course of the day? My humble duty, sir, and my best thanks. My son is strictly sober. He is accustomed to the stables, and he belongs to the Church of England – without encumbrances.’ Having thus planted his offspring provisionally in his master’s estimation, Abraham Sage shouldered his invaluable rake, and hobbled slowly out of view.
‘If that’s a specimen of a trustworthy old servant,’ said Allan, ‘I think I’d rather take my chance of being cheated by a new one. You shall not be troubled with him again, Miss Milroy, at any rate. All the flowerbeds in the garden are at your disposal – and all the fruit in the fruit-season, if you’ll only come here and eat it.’
‘Oh, Mr Armadale, how very, very kind you are. How can I thank you?’
Allan saw his way to another compliment – an elaborate compliment, in the shape
of a trap, this time.
‘You can do me the greatest possible favour,’ he said. ‘You can assist me in forming an agreeable impression of my own grounds.’
‘Dear me! how?’ asked Miss Milroy, innocently.
Allan judiciously closed the trap on the spot in these words: ‘By taking me with you, Miss Milroy, on your morning walk.’ He spoke – smiled – and offered his arm.
She saw the way, on her side, to a little flirtation. She rested her hand on his arm – blushed – hesitated – and suddenly took it away again.
‘I don’t think it’s quite right, Mr Armadale,’ she said, devoting herself with the deepest attention to her collection of flowers. ‘Oughtn’t we to have some old lady here? Isn’t it improper to take your arm until I know you a little better than I do now? I am obliged to ask; I have had so little instruction; I have seen so little of society – and one of papa’s friends once said my manners were too bold for my age. What do you think?’
‘I think it’s a very good thing your papa’s friend is not here now,’ answered the outspoken Allan; ‘I should quarrel with him to a dead certainty. As for society, Miss Milroy, nobody knows less about it than I do; but if we had an old lady here, I must say, myself, I think she would be uncommonly in the way. Won’t you?’ concluded Allan, imploringly offering his arm for the second time. ‘Do!’
Miss Milroy looked up at him sidelong from her flowers. ‘You are as bad as the gardener, Mr Armadale!’ She looked down again in a flutter of indecision. ‘I’m sure it’s wrong,’ she said, and took his arm the instant afterwards, without the slightest hesitation.
They moved away together over the daisied turf of the paddock, young and bright and happy, with the sunlight of the summer morning shining cloudless over their flowery path.
‘And where are we going to, now?’ asked Allan. ‘Into another garden?’