Thereby Hangs a Tale Part 19

"Poor youth!" said Pratt, and stopped to mop his forehead. "How low-spirited you must feel to be the owner of such a place. It's lovely. Nature's made it very beautiful; but no wonder--see what practice she has had."

Trevor laughed, and Humphrey smiled, saying--

"If you come a bit farther this way, sir, there's a capital view of the house."

Pratt followed the man; and there, at about half a mile distance, on the slope of a steep hill, was the rugged, granite-built seat--Penreife-- half ancient, half modern; full of b.u.t.tresses, gables, awkward chimney-stacks, and windows of all shapes, with the ivy cl.u.s.tering over it greenly, and a general look of picturesque comfort that no trimly-built piece of architecture could display. The house stood at the end of one of the steep valleys running up from the sea, which shone in the autumn sun about another half-mile farther, with grey cottages cl.u.s.tering on the cliff, and a little granite-built harbour, sheltering some half a dozen duck-shaped luggers and a couple of yachts.

"Ah," said Pratt, "that's pretty! Beats Ludgate Hill and Fleet Street all to fits. Is that your master's yacht?"

"The big 'un is, sir--the _Sea Launce_," said Humphrey; "the little 'un's Mr Mervyn's--the _Swallow_."

"By the way, who is this Mr Mervyn?" said Trevor, who had sauntered up.

"Well, sir," said Humphrey, taking off his hat and rubbing his brown curls, "I don't kinder know what he is. He's been in the navy, I think, for he's a capital sailor; but he's quite the gentleman, and wonderful kind to the poor people, and he lives in that little white house the other side of the cliff."

"I can't see any white house," said Pratt.

"No, sir, you can't see it, 'cause it's the other side of the cliff; but that's his flagstaff rigged up, as you can see, with the weatherc.o.c.k on it, and--Here, hi! you, sir, come out of that! Here, Juno, la.s.s, come along."

"Has he gone mad?" cried Pratt.

For Humphrey had suddenly set off down a steep slope towards a meadow, and went on shouting with all his might.

"No," said Trevor, shading his eyes, "there's a man--two men with billhooks there--labourers, I should think. Come along, or perhaps there'll be a quarrel; and I can't have that."

Volume 1, Chapter XI.

THE LION AT HOME.

Sir Hampton Rea was out that morning, and very busy.

He had been round to the stables and seen the four horses that had arrived the night before, and bullied the coachman because he had said that one of them had a splinter in its leg, and that the mare meant for Miss Rea had rather a nasty look about the eye.

"You're an a.s.s, Thomas," he said.

The man touched his hat, and Sir Hampton walked half across the stable-yard.

"Er-rum!" he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, half turning; and the coachman came up, obsequiously touching his hat again.

"Those horses, Thomas, were examined by a veterinary surgeon."

"Yes, sir," said the man.

"Er-rum! And I chose them and examined them myself."

"Yes, sir."

"You've made a mistake, Thomas."

"Very like, sir," said the man. "Very sorry, sir."

Sir Hampton did not respond, but gave a sharp glance round the very new-looking stable-yard and buildings, saw nothing to find fault about; and then, clearing his throat, went into the garden as the coachman winked at the groom, and the groom raised a wen upon his cheek by the internal application of his tongue.

"Er-rum!--Sanders!" cried the knight.

And something that had worn the aspect of a huge boa constrictor in cord trousers, crawling into a melon-frame, slowly drew itself back, stood upright, and revealed a yellow-faced man with a scarlet head and whiskers.

Perhaps it is giving too decided a colour to the freckles which covered Mr Sanders's face to say they were yellow, and to his hair to say it was scarlet; but they certainly approached those hues, "Er-rum!

Sanders, come here," said Sir Hampton.

Sanders leisurely closed the melon-frame and raised the light a few inches with a piece of wood, and then slowly approached his master, to stop in front of him and sc.r.a.pe his feet upon a spade.

"Er-rum! I'm going to inspect the grounds this morning, Sanders," said Sir Hampton.

Sanders, head gardener, nodded; for he was a man so accustomed to deal with silent objects that he seldom spoke, if he could possibly help it; but here he was obliged.

"Shall I want a spade?"

"No; certainly not."

"Nor a barrow?"

"No!" sharply.

"Maybe ye'll like me to bring a billhook?"

"Er-rum! No. Yes; bring a billhook."

The gardener went slowly off to his tool-house, and returned as leisurely; Sir Hampton the while fiercely poking vegetables about with his stick--stirring up cabbages, as if angry because they did not grow-- beet, for having too much top-onions, for not swelling more satisfactorily--and ending with a vicious cut at a wasp bent on a feast of nectarine beneath the great, new, red-brick wall.

Wasp did not like it. Ignorant of any doctrine concerning _meum_ and _tuum_, he looked upon all fruit as _pro bono publico_, as far as the insect world was concerned. The nectarines might be choicely named varieties, planted by Sir Hampton's order, after having been obtained at considerable expense--the wall having been built for their use; but fruit was fruit to the wasp, so long as it was ripe, and he resented interference. Pugnacity was crammed to excess in his small, yellow body, and prevented from bursting it by a series of strong black rings; so it was not surprising that the insect showed fight, and span round the new magistrate's head with a fierce buzz.

"Css! Get out! Sh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sir Hampton; and he struck at the wasp again and again. But the little insect was no respecter of persons. He had been insulted, and, watching his opportunity, he dashed in, and stung the knight in the tender red mark where his stiffly starched cravat frayed his neck, gave a triumphant buzz, and went over the wall like a yellow streak.

"Confound! Ugh!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the knight; and then, seeing Sanders coming slowly back, he played Spartan, and preserved outward composure, though there was a volcano of wrath smouldering within.

He strutted off, with the gardener behind, fired a couple of shots at gardeners two and three, who were sweeping the lawn, and then entered into a general inspection of the garden.

"How--Er-rum!--how is it that bed is not in flower, Sanders?" "Done blooming," said Sanders, gruffly.

"Done blooming, Sir Hampton!" exclaimed the knight, facing round.

"Done blooming, Sir Hampton," said the gardener, slowly; and he looked as expressionless as a big sunflower.

"Take off that branch," said the knight, pointing to an overhanging bough; and it was solemnly lopped off.

"Er-rum!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the knight, when they had gone a little farther.

"How is it that patch of lawn is brown?"