Under the Mendips Part 18

His mother had seated herself by his side, on a bench which stood in the verandah or balcony.

"It can't be thought of yet," he said; "she is Falconer's sister! He never told me he had a sister, or, rather, I should say, _such_ a sister. How should he be able to see what she is? I don't want to talk sentiment, mother, but I will say I did not know how beautiful and simple hearted she was, and how her beauty was supreme with no fine dress, till I saw Gratian just now."

His mother laid her hand on his. "What is her name, Gilbert?"

"Joyce: it suits her as no other name could. Joyce!" he repeated. "Joy, Sunshine, Birdie; they call her all these names at Fair Acres. Some day, when we are settled at Bristol, will you ask her to visit you, mother?

and when you see her you will love her."

"I shall love her for your sake," his mother said, gently.

They had been all in all to each other for twenty-three years; and though Mrs. Arundel had told herself a hundred times that she desired nothing so much for Gilbert as the love of a true hearted woman, still she was conscious of a little thrill of pain; for she must, in the natural course of things, be _second_ now.

"I could not describe her if I tried," he went on, with lover-like enthusiasm. "Then there is such strength in her as well as sweetness.

Last night we were attacked by a ruffian whom her father, who is a magistrate, had offended, and her presence of mind and calmness were wonderful. The man knocked me down, and I returned the compliment, which is the cause of my stupidity to-day."

His mother scanned his face anxiously. "Have you told her of your love?"

"Not formally; but I feel she must know it."

"One word more, Gilbert, has she the _real_ spring of all beauty and goodness within. Has she chosen the right path, following her Master?"

Gilbert was silent for a minute.

"It is not a religious household," he said. "They have no prayers, except on Sundays. It is a miserable church, with an old drone of a parson, who gallops through the service; but, I think, Joyce is ready to follow, if led in the right way."

"And you are strong enough to lead, Gilbert?"

"I hope so," he said earnestly; and then mother and son were silent for a few minutes. Afterwards they began to speak of Melville, and all the past, in which Gilbert had borne such a n.o.ble part.

"I have separated him from Maythorne, and at least that is a step in the right direction; but he is so weak. How he came to be her brother, I can't imagine; he is crazed on the subject of t.i.tles, and will roll off a list of intimate friends, when he thinks I am not listening, to whom he never spoke ten words in his life. I dined at the palace, and the bishop sent you his love, and so did his son, who lives with him--two courteous gentlemen, with well-turned compliments at their tongue's end.

The bishop said I was like you, and that I had followed in the lines of one of the most beautiful women he ever met."

"What bare-faced flattery!" Mrs. Arundel said, laughing. "I never was a beauty. Your good looks come from the other side of the house."

"Who is flattering now?" Gilbert asked; "but seriously, mother, you shall accept an invitation to the Wells Palace, you must promise to do so. The bishop said something about November, if you did not mind the falling leaves."

"I shall wait till I am asked," Mrs. Arundel said. "If his lordship has buried me in the dust of years--out of sight and out of mind--I don't see why he should unearth me now."

"And yet you sent your son to call you to mind; now that is unfair, mother. You urged me to go to the Palace at Wells, and now you won't take advantage of what is growing out of it. But to go back to Falconer; a stout, middle-aged gentleman, of small means and weak chest, wants to travel for a year. The bishop suggested Mr. Falconer should give him his son to lead about, as he had previously washed several black sheep to a very fair whiteness, paying expenses, but no further remuneration. If Melville can be got off under such auspices, it will be a grand step in the right direction. Poor fellow! he has got into his head the absolute necessity of seeing the world, and I, who know him pretty well, think that there would be less danger of mischief if he were allowed to follow his bent, than if he were to be forced to follow the pursuits of a country life at Fair Acres, which he thinks it grand to despise. He talks with amazing coolness of all he shall do when he _does_ come, and till he has learned a lesson, he would be a frightful nuisance to them all. The airs he gives himself to the poor old steward are preposterous; but the worst thing about him is the way he speaks to his mother."

"What is she like?"

"She is a very good woman, rather priding herself on setting aside all conventionality, and bustling about the house, and keeping everyone up to their duty but her son! Is it not extraordinary? She has ruined him with stupid indulgence, and yet she is strict enough with the rest--even with----"

"Joyce!" His mother supplied the word with a smile.

"Yes, even with Joyce," he rejoined; but starting up, with an exclamation of dismay:

"Did you know Maythorne was in Clifton, mother?"

Mrs. Arundel followed the direction of her son's eyes, and there on the broken, uneven slopes which lay before Sion Hill, came Gratian, chatting gaily to a man of some six-and-thirty or forty, who answered very well to the description a poet gave some years after of "the dandy despot, the jewelled ma.s.s of millinery, oiled and curled, and smelling of musk and insolence."

"I am very sorry he has come to Clifton," Mrs. Arundel said quickly. "I suppose he is at the hotel."

"Gratian looks satisfied. I hope I shan't get very savage with him, mother. When we last parted it was the night when I--but I need not talk about it--he got that weak, foolish boy into his hands, and I helped to get him out, so he bears me a grudge."

"Never mind that, my dear son; and, Gilbert, remember an old watchword: 'He that ruleth his spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.'"

"I know I do flare out at Maythorne sometimes; but then was there not a cause?"

"Ah! Gilbert, there is never a cause or an excuse for wrath indulged; indignation against _wrong_ is one thing, rage against the wrong-doer another."

And now steps were heard in the hall, and Gratian's laugh. She threw open the door and said in a half-mocking tone:

"My Lord Maythorne."

Mrs. Arundel advanced to meet her brother, and greeted him kindly, but with no profession of extreme delight.

"Well, my dear sister," Lord Maythorne said, "I have taken Clifton _en route_ to Plymouth, and wandering aimlessly on the Downs I met your fair visitor, my kinswoman, Gratian. What a quaint little snuggery you have got, Annabella, upon my word; and Gratian tells me my hopeful nephew is here, looking after his future prospects, eh? A little Methodism mixed with law, eh?" And Lord Maythorne produced an elegant gold snuff-box, tapped the lid, and took a delicate pinch between his forefinger and thumb, in the most approved fashion of the time.

"Ha! Gilbert, how do? Where is your cub, that you were leading about with such good intentions. Have you brought him to introduce to your mother, eh?" Waiting for no answer, and just touching Gilbert's hand with his finger tips, he went on:

"Have you dined, Annabella?"

"Long ago; we keep early hours."

"Well then, I'll return to my hotel to dine, and Gilbert shall accompany me."

"No thank you," Gilbert said, "I shall sup with my mother, and go early to bed."

"You had better accept the invitation, Gilbert. Our supper will not be very recherche," Gratian said; "we do not sit down to a royal feast here, we live above such vanities."

"I dare say he will not be fastidious after his farmhouse life," said Lord Maythorne, scornfully. "How was your charge; is he walking without leading strings yet?"

Gilbert bit his lip and struggled for composure; but his mother watched him anxiously. Lord Maythorne's irony was hard for her to bear sometimes, and she never knew how Gilbert would take it.

"My dear boy, there is a wise proverb which in English sounds a little harsh, scarcely courteous; in French it is less abrupt: _'Chargez de vos affaires.'_ There are other renderings: 'Don't put your fingers into other people's pies.'"

Poor Gilbert sprang forward and raising his voice said:

"I will not submit to your impertinence. What right have you to treat me like this? I saw you, a man almost double my age--"

"Gently, gently my dear boy, not _double_; nay, nay--"

"I say, I saw you trying to ruin a poor, weak fellow, who, weak as he was, trusted you, and I tried to save him. I wonder you are not ashamed to speak thus; you are--"

The fierce torrent of angry words suddenly stopped. His mother laid her hand upon his arm, and with a great effort he regained his composure.

"I beg your pardon, mother, for brawling here, in your presence, and in yours, Gratian, also; it is very unseemly."