Chapter 4 A Lady Of The Olden Time

A RETROSPECTIVE glance at the antecedents of fair Mistress Hazelwood peeps into her old-fashioned, hospitable home at Daisy-Meade, where she fulfilled the mission of one of the bright spirits that seem sent into the world to round off sharp corners, pad rough edges, fit in curious angles, and sheath drawn swords. Quick to observe without seeming to detect, prompt to act without attracting notice, her influence worked just where it was wanted, and her word was spoken just when it would have weight.

People often wondered how certain good things came about, and possibly congratulated themselves on their own wisdom and foresight, when, if truth had appeared from behind the scenes, it was Miss Dorothy's wise suggestion, or gentle hint, or kindly act, or invisible influence that wrought round the circumstances, and shaped them into acceptable form.

Her father was "a fine old English gentleman of the olden time;" a little obstinate, perhaps, as such old gentlemen are said to have been, but having excellent common sense, devout belief in God and the Bible, and whether or not he read "the whole duty of man," he did it, so far as he saw it, with consistency and decision. He had the usual country tastes and occupations, with unusual refinement of mind and tenderness of feeling, which were invaluable to his children when bereft of their mother's care.

His notions of female character and duty and position were derived partly from their illustration in the life of his own much loved wife, and also from an old record of principles which they studied together, in one of the books of their scanty library. It is to be found in most libraries still; but in modern book-seeking days, when people are more interested about wrong roots of things speculative and imaginary, than right ones real and trustworthy, it is left to be regarded more as a curious relic which has seen its best days, than an authority that "lives and abides for ever."

Howbeit the Squire of Daisy-Meade thought and said, and endeavoured to enforce his idea, that woman's endowments, both by nature and grace, are to be exercised in private life, and felt in the blessedness of home; not armed to the teeth for strife and debate, or fussy and famous before the world, which mocks while it applauds, and sneers while it submits to the intrusion of things out of place.

And Miss Dorothy had so wonderfully impersonated his views, that he inconsistently shrank from one of their consequences, and petulantly denounced the covetous spirit of certain young squires who hovered about the sweetest flower in Daisy-Mead, wanting to transplant it for the home "help-meet" it had bloomed to be.

"Dorothy, my dear," he said one day as he was settling himself in the great chair for his afternoon nap, "can't you be a little more disagreeable? Talk loud and fast, be self-willed, or extravagant, or something; perhaps if you would make a dash on Silvertail at a five-barred gate, or be in at the death at the next hunt, or appear at church in some fantastical mopsey gear, it might do. Nobody shall send you to Bedlam for it."

Dorothy opened her merry eyes at her father and laughed.

"Aye, you may laugh, you puss, but I really am at my wits' end. Here's another thief come reconnoitering my unfortunate premises, and I don't know what to do."

"Let him know there is nothing worth stealing here, father," said the young lady, carelessly.

"But you see, he is not of that opinion, Dorothy, and doesn't regard mine, being evidently desirous to manage his own affairs."

"Then say there is nothing that will allow of a theft, your property is too well guarded."

"So be it, my dear. What should I do without thee?"

"You can't part with me, father, and until you can, I shall never go; so please take your nap. And, father, I'll practise for the five-barred gate, and surprise the hunt next opportunity."

The Squire smiled, and drew a silk handkerchief over his face, and dozed; while Dorothy went on with her work, kept the dogs quiet on the rug, and prevented the logs from scuttling down with crackle and thump on the hearth as they burned away.

Suddenly the silk handkerchief was withdrawn, and the Squire awoke from a dream about thieves and good little daughters.

"But, Dorothy," said he, doubtfully, "if you wanted to go, if some booby that you liked came prowling, what then?"

"Dear father, I shan't like a booby," said Dorothy, with her silvery little laugh; "you are very complimentary in the anticipation of such a monstrous choice."

"Well, well, there's no wisdom in meeting trouble half way; only, my girl, I couldn't tell what you might say to young Hazelwood, if he should dare to tell you what he told me this morning; but I'm glad it's all right, and now I'll finish my nap;" and the handkerchief was drawn over his head again.

Poor Miss Dorothy! The needle had dropped from her fingers, the merry light faded from her eyes, the colour came and went on her cheek. What! Could it be possible?—The handsome, gallant young squire of Hazel Copse, the admired of all the ladies round, the generous, warm-hearted, pitiful young master who excused old Wilks his rent when he fell ill and couldn't work; forgave poor Slade for poaching, and refused to prosecute; saved Widow Crane's boy from drowning, and took care of them all, until Wilks got well, and Slade got honest employment, and the boy came through the fever;—the best huntsman in the field, Captain in the Militia, and the possible choice of the county at the next election;—and more and better than all, the most regular and apparently sincere worshipper in the parish church, and the best helper the vicar had in whatever good he proposed to do. Amazing!

Could this gentleman really have thought of her, the little daisy of the Meade, as some of the silly old people called her? And her father had called him a booby, and she had coolly assented! What a miserable mistake!

But, after all, what did it matter? She could not and would not leave her dear, kind father for any squire in Christendom, so there was an end of that. And Miss Dorothy calmed down, and picked up her fallen needle, and a very soft little sigh escaped as she resumed her work.

The kind old gentleman was not so sleepy as he seemed, and out of the corner of an eye, and a convenient little hole in his India-silk handkerchief, he had carefully watched his child; noting the start, the colour, the expressive mouth as she sat thinking, and his quick ear caught the little sigh. So, after a suitable make-believe sleep, he pretended to awake, shook himself, whistled to his dogs, and went out, thinking hard about what he would have to do next. The simple fatherly heart had no thought of hindering the happiness of others for his own; and feeling in a strange maze upon the subject, he stumbled against the cause of his disquietude.

"Ah, I thought so, sir; you couldn't wait a whole day, it seems, before coming to know whether you may rob an old man of his best and sweetest. Look you, sir, ask my best horse, my finest field, or biggest barn with all its fresh-gathered store, and you shall be welcome; but Dorothy, my singing-bird, my home-sunshine, I don't know how to part with her yet."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Hazelwood, frankly, "I do feel very like some house-breaker in your presence, and my dismissal will pain no one but myself; but I have strictly obeyed your command of a week ago to abstain from any attempt to plead my own cause, and now you must give me your decision."

"All fair and straightforward for a thief, I admit," said Dorothy's father. "I honestly tell you that I took the week since you broached the subject to make searching inquiries about you, and I took the last few hours to fathom my Daisy's mind, if I could. If you won't give me any more time, you must just find it out for yourself."

"Sir, if your daughter cannot willingly and happily become my wife after I have convinced her of my affection, I will never again distress you with my suit."

"Well, well, likely story; you don't believe in disappointment, not you," thought the old man; "it's all up if I give him the chance he asks. I wish he'd broke—no, no I don't,—selfish old fool!

"Well, sir, I can't help myself, it seems; wherever she goes, her father's heart and blessing go with her. She's in there at some woman's work you may be sure," pointing back through the hall: "but I'm just going down to look at the hop-ground; you can come too if you care for the crops this year," he added, drily.

Mr. Hazelwood seized his hand with a right earnest grasp.

"The hops must wait this time, sir, and I thank you with all my heart." And darting away, he left the good father to contemplate the painful loneliness of his closing years.

It was not a cheerful walk, and so prolonged that Dorothy was anxiously watching for him in the path from the hop-grounds.

"Well, my child, is it settled?" he asked, drawing her within his arm.

"Yes, sir," said Dorothy, demurely, "if you please."

"Humph, you have forgotten that you don't like boobies. How soon must I give you up?"

"Not before seven years, father, and another seven to that if it would make you sad to do it."

"Ah! A Jacob and Rachel sort of business, is it? But they say Hazel Copse wants a mistress now."

"I can't help that, father. Daisy-Meade wants a mistress too, and I am queen here until you choose to dethrone me."

"Well, well, my child, who knows but I may be—"

Dorothy's hand was on his lips, before what might be, could be spoken.

And if Mr. Hazelwood could have seen the mingled love and pain that were depicted on each face for the moment, he ought to have felt some compunction for the disturbance he had made.

"But what must be must, and should be faced manfully," the old Squire said. And he set about plans for furthering the hopes of his son-in-law elect, who had rashly quoted the patient patriarch in deference to the filial affection of his ladye love.

Before a year expired, he resigned his farm and its business into the hands of his son, who had qualified himself for the responsibility, and at the earnest desire of Mr. Hazelwood, took up his chief residence at Hazel Copse, where he could watch and be tended by his transplanted flower, and see her bloom into matronly beauty, the light of another home.

Such was the lady who paid her momentary visit to Mrs. Falconer at the carriage door, and whose thoughts as she moved about in her new and spacious home continually reverted to the banished ones, possibly shut up in some dingy house of the city street.

Everywhere she traced the graceful tastes of the late mistress of the Moat, everywhere she heard regrets for her departure, and praises of her character; and the desire grew strong within her to prove sympathy and respect in some substantial manner.

But Mistress Hazelwood's instinctive practise was to hide her own loving impulses behind her husband's actions, and to claim for him the tribute, while she shared with him the pure pleasure of generous and useful deeds.

She knew well how a little suggestion expanded in his mind, and often went beyond all her expectations. Presently he would certainly perceive some way to benefit those who had been suddenly deprived of so much that he and his were now enjoying.

In the meantime, there must be no grasping at a shadow and losing the substance; no craving for future usefulness in some congenial form, while duty ready to her heart and hand lay before her in God's appointment.

Those closed doors in the village had chilled her, and must be opened somehow; she must try to supply Mrs. Falconer's place. Her devout and humble manner as she took her place in the great family pew at church on Sunday was particularly approved by the clerk, who commented thereon to the good old gardener, who had not yet required the epitaph.

But of Miss Hazelwood, he could not so favourably report; for she had looked about her, and stared in a peculiar manner at him when he delivered his first "Amen," which he had meant to render unusually impressive, and she did not seem impressed at all,—at least, not respectfully so.

"But she is but a young thing, and must be taught better. Hazel Copse was but an outlandish sort of place, and maybe young Miss had never heard before an 'Amen' as it should be. As for the Squire, he was certainly a pleasant gentleman enough, and not too proud to shake hands with an honest poor man. He had himself looked in at the gardener's cottage with a bunch of grapes for the invalid, which was a good sign; and he would have power to do a deal more than Mrs. Falconer could do in the way of gifts; so perhaps when they came to be known, and the pert little Miss had mended her manners, things might not go so badly after all."

Mr. Herbert heard opinions and remarks, and wisely left matters to take their course. The turn of feeling in the village would be all the stronger when resulting from personal experience, than if constrained by any pressure of advice or suggestion from him.

In honourable sympathy with the general feeling which attended the transfer by purchase of an old family estate, there were no rejoicings at the Moat; and the chief changes to be noticed were the presence of a master and manager of his own affairs, with a bright cheerful little lady for his help-mate, instead of the calm pale face of the widow in her suit of undeviating black, and instead of the poor young heir and his graceful sister, only the one radiant presence of the butterfly heiress, whom nobody could ever resolve to correct or punish. She bounded about like a ball, dived into things serious and comic, resolutely refused to mount the black pony, which she learned had been Guy's, and most irreverently mimicked Mr. Spadeley's impressive "Amen" in his own place of dignity, when exploring the church.

But in the churchyard, she conquered him quite; listened to his tales of the heroes of the Falconers' line; gleaned wonders of village lore from names and dates and epitaphs; trod softly round the tomb beneath the cedars; made him lift her high enough to read the record on the marble slab, and before tripping away,—

"Thank you," she said, gravely. "I wish Mrs. Falconer and the children had not gone away from the Moat; there is plenty of room for us all, and I can't see why they should go; can you, Mr. Spadeley?"

Mr. Spadeley pushed back his hat and rubbed his shining head meditatively.

"Well, Miss, you see, people don't like staying in their troubles where they've seen better days; and the Moat's bought from right over their heads you know."

"Is it? I didn't know; I thought they sold it to my father because they wanted some money."

"Aye, more shame for them that did it that's in a foreign land; but there's no blame for it to them, or to your father, little Miss, so don't put the cap on the wrong head; it's got a thorn or two in it, depend upon that."

"I see," said Miss Evelyn, looking very profound. "And tell you what, Mr. Spadeley, they shall come back again and be happy here, or else I'm not Evelyn Hazelwood; you'll see, Mr. Spadeley; good morning to you, you'll see." And shaking her little head as she looked back at him, she darted off with a new light in her mind.

"I'll see!" repeated Mr. Spadeley in immense admiration. "I shan't see anything prettier nor you one while. Bless your little heart, it's a pity you can't do all you'd like to."

And leaning over the handle of his spade, the worthy sexton made a long meditation. Then suddenly lifting himself up, he struck it vigorously under a weed.

"I have it!" he exclaimed. "That 'll do! And, my little lady, as you say, we'll see,—yes, yes, we'll see what we shall see, and be right glad and satisfied, after all's said and done!"

What vision brightened the end of the vista through which he had been mentally looking, possibly his daughter Jane and the landlord of the "Falconers' Arms" might know soon, but there was no one near to whom to tell it at that moment.