CHAPTER IV

SHE

Behold me installed in Dayton Manor House, and brought here for the

express purpose (so Charles has written me word) of my being studied,

that it may be seen whether I am worthy to be, on some august future

occasion--possibly--a member (Oh, so much to mumble!) of this

great family. Had I known it when I was leaving home, I should have

countermanded the cording of my boxes. If you please, I do the packing,

and not the cording. I must practise being polite, or I shall be

horrifying these good people.

I am mortally offended. I am very very angry. I shall show temper.

Indeed, I have shown it. Mr. Pollingray must and does think me a goose.

Dear sir, and I think you are justified. If any one pretends to guess

how, I have names to suit that person. I am a ninny, an ape, and mind

I call myself these bad things because I deserve worse. I am flighty,

I believe I am heartless. Charles is away, and I suffer no pangs. The

truth is, I fancied myself so exceedingly penetrating, and it was my

vanity looking in a glass. I saw something that answered to my nods and

howd’ye-do’s and--but I am ashamed, and so penitent I might begin making

a collection of beetles. I cannot lift up my head.

Mr. Pollingray is such a different man from the one I had imagined! What

that one was, I have now quite forgotten. I remember too clearly what

the wretched guesser was. I have been three weeks at Dayton, and if

my sisters know me when I return to the vicarage, they are not foolish

virgins. For my part, I know that I shall always hate Mrs. Romer

Pattlecombe, and that I am unjust to the good woman, but I do hate her,

and I think the stories shocking, and wonder intensely what it was that

I could have found in them to laugh at. I shall never laugh again for

many years. Perhaps, when I am an old woman, I may. I wish the time had

come. All young people seem to me so helplessly silly. I am one of them

for the present, and have no hope that I can appear to be anything else.

The young are a crowd--a shoal of small fry. Their elders are the select

of the world.

On the morning of the day when I was to leave home for Dayton, a

distance of eight miles, I looked out of my window while dressing--as

early as halfpast seven--and I saw Mr. Pollingray’s groom on horseback,

leading up and down the walk a darling little, round, plump, black cob

that made my heart leap with an immense bound of longing to be on it and

away across the downs. And then the maid came to my door with a letter:

‘Mr. Pollingray, in return for her considerate good behaviour and

saving of trouble to him officially, begs his goddaughter to accept

the accompanying little animal: height 14 h., age 31 years; hunts, is

sure-footed, and likely to be the best jumper in the county.’

I flew downstairs. I rushed out of the house and up to my treasure, and

kissed his nose and stroked his mane. I could not get my fingers away

from him. Horses are so like the very best and beautifullest of women

when you caress them. They show their pleasure so at being petted. They

curve their necks, and paw, and look proud. They take your flattery

like sunshine and are lovely in it. I kissed my beauty, peering at his

black-mottled skin, which is like Allingborough Heath in the twilight.

The smell of his new saddle and bridle-leather was sweeter than a garden

to me. The man handed me a large riding-whip mounted with silver. I

longed to jump up and ride till midnight.

Then mama and papa came out and read the note and looked, at my darling

little cob, and my sisters saw him and kissed me, for they are not

envious girls. The most distressing thing was that we had not a

riding-habit in the family. I was ready to wear any sort. I would have

ridden as a guy rather than not ride at all. But mama gave me a promise

that in two days a riding-habit should be sent on to Dayton, and I had

to let my pet be led back from where he came. I had no life till I was

following him. I could have believed him to be a fairy prince who had

charmed me. I called him Prince Leboo, because he was black and good. I

forgive anybody who talks about first love after what my experience has

been with Prince Leboo.

What papa thought of the present I do not know, but I know very well

what mama thought: and for my part I thought everything, not distinctly

including that, for I could not suppose such selfishness in one so

generous as Mr. Pollingray. But I came to Dayton in a state of arrogant

pride, that gave assurance if not ease to my manners. I thanked Mr.

Pollingray warmly, but in a way to let him see it was the matter of a

horse between us. ‘You give, I register thanks, and there’s an end.’

‘He thinks me a fool! a fool!

‘My habit,’ I said, ‘comes after me. I hope we shall have some rides

together.’

‘Many,’ replied Mr. Pollingray, and his bow inflated me with ideas of my

condescension.

And because Miss Pollingray (Queen Elizabeth he calls her) looked half

sad, I read it--! I do not write what I read it to be.

Behold the uttermost fool of all female creation led over the house by

Mr. Pollingray. He showed me the family pictures.

‘I am no judge of pictures, Mr. Pollingray.’

‘You will learn to see the merits of these.’

‘I’m afraid not, though I were to study them for years.’

‘You may have that opportunity.’

‘Oh! that is more than I can expect.’

‘You will develop intelligence on such subjects by and by.’

A dull sort of distant blow struck me in this remark; but I paid no heed

to it.

He led me over the gardens and the grounds. The Great John Methlyn

Pollingray planted those trees, and designed the house, and the

flower-garden still speaks of his task; but he is not my master, and

consequently I could not share his three great-grandsons’ veneration

for him. There are high fir-woods and beech woods, and a long ascending

narrow meadow between them, through which a brook falls in continual

cascades. It is the sort of scene I love, for it has a woodland grandeur

and seclusion that leads, me to think, and makes a better girl of me.

But what I said was: ‘Yes, it is the place of all others to come and

settle in for the evening of one’s days.’

‘You could not take to it now?’ said Mr. Pollingray.

‘Now?’ my expression of face must have been a picture.

‘You feel called upon to decline such a residence in the morning of your

days?’

He persisted in looking at me as he spoke, and I felt like something

withering scarlet.

I am convinced he saw through me, while his face was polished brass.

My self-possession returned, for my pride was not to be dispersed

immediately.

‘Please, take me to the stables,’ I entreated; and there I was at home.

There I saw my Prince Leboo, and gave him a thousand caresses.’

‘He knows me already,’ I said.

Then he is some degrees in advance of me,’ said Mr. Pollingray.

Is not cold dissection of one’s character a cruel proceeding? And I

think, too, that a form of hospitality like this by which I am invited

to be analysed at leisure, is both mean and base. I have been kindly

treated and I am grateful, but I do still say (even though I may have

improved under it) it is unfair.

To proceed: the dinner hour arrived. The atmosphere of his own house

seems to favour Mr. Pollingray as certain soils and sites favour others.

He walked into the dining-room between us with his hands behind him,

talking to us both so easily and smoothly cheerfully--naturally and

pleasantly--inimitable by any young man! You hardly feel the change

of room. We were but three at table, but there was no lack of

entertainment. Mr. Pollingray is an admirable host; he talks just enough

himself and helps you to talk. What does comfort me is that it gives

him real pleasure to see a hearty appetite. Young men, I know it for

a certainty, never quite like us to be so human. Ah! which is right? I

would not miss the faith in our nobler essence which Charles has.

But, if it nobler? One who has lived longer in the world ought to know

better, and Mr. Pollingray approves of naturalness in everything. I have

now seen through Charles’s eyes for several months; so implicitly that

I am timid when I dream of trusting to another’s judgement. It is,

however, a fact that I am not quite natural with Charles.

Every day Mr. Pollingray puts on evening dress out of deference to his

sister. If young men had these good habits they would gain our respect,

and lose their own self-esteem less early.

After dinner I sang. Then Mr. Pollingray read an amusing essay to us,

and retired to his library. Miss Pollingray sat and talked to me of

her brother, and of her nephew--for whom it is that Mr. Pollingray

is beginning to receive company, and is going into society. Charles’s

subsequently received letter explained the ‘receive company.’ I could

not comprehend it at the time.

‘The house has been shut up for years, or rarely inhabited by us for

more than a month in the year. Mr. Pollingray prefers France. All his

associations, I may say his sympathies, are in France. Latterly he seems

to have changed a little; but from Normandy to Touraine and Dauphiny--we

had a triangular home over there. Indeed, we have it still. I am never

certain of my brother.’

While Miss Pollingray was speaking, my eyes were fixed on a Vidal crayon

drawing, faintly coloured with chalks, of a foreign lady--I could have

sworn to her being French--young, quite girlish, I doubt if her age was

more than mine.

She is pretty, is she not?’ said Miss Pollingray.

She is almost beautiful,’ I exclaimed, and Miss Pollingray, seeing my

curiosity, was kind enough not to keep me in suspense.

‘That is the Marquise de Mazardouin--nee Louise de Riverolles. You will

see other portraits of her in the house. This is the most youthful of

them, if I except one representing a baby, and bearing her initials.’

I remembered having noticed a similarity of feature in some of the

portraits in the different rooms. My longing to look at them again was

like a sudden jet of flame within me. There was no chance of seeing them

till morning; so, promising myself to dream of the face before me, I

dozed through a conversation with my hostess, until I had got the French

lady’s eyes and hair and general outline stamped accurately, as I hoped,

on my mind. I was no sooner on my way to bed than all had faded. The

torment of trying to conjure up that face was inconceivable. I lay, and

tossed, and turned to right and to left, and scattered my sleep; but by

and by my thoughts reverted to Mr. Pollingray, and then like sympathetic

ink held to the heat, I beheld her again; but vividly, as she must have

been when she was sitting to the artist. The hair was naturally crisped,

waving thrice over the forehead and brushed clean from the temples,

showing the small ears, and tied in a knot loosely behind. Her eyebrows

were thick and dark, but soft; flowing eyebrows; far lovelier, to my

thinking, than any pencilled arch. Dark eyes, and full, not prominent.

I find little expression of inward sentiment in very prominent eyes. On

the contrary they seem to have a fish-like dependency of gaze on what is

without, and show fishy depths, if any. For instance, my eyes are rather

prominent, and I am just the little fool--but the French lady is my

theme. Madame la Marquise, your eyes are sweeter to me than celestial.

I never saw such candour and unaffected innocence in eyes before. Accept

the compliment of the pauvre Anglaise. Did you do mischief with them?

Did Vidal’s delicate sketch do justice to you? Your lips and chin and

your throat all repose in such girlish grace, that if ever it is my good

fortune to see you, you will not be aged to me!

I slept and dreamed of her.

In the morning, I felt certain that she had often said: ‘Mon cher

Gilbert,’ to Mr. Pollingray. Had he ever said: ‘Ma chere Louise?’ He

might have said: ‘Ma bien aimee!’ for it was a face to be loved.

My change of feeling towards him dates from that morning. He had

previously seemed to me a man so much older. I perceived in him now a

youthfulness beyond mere vigour of frame. I could not detach him from my

dreams of the night. He insists upon addressing me by the terms of

our ‘official’ relationship, as if he made it a principle of our

intercourse.

‘Well, and is your godpapa to congratulate you on your having had a

quiet rest?’ was his greeting.

I answered stupidly: ‘Oh, yes, thank you,’ and would have given worlds

for the courage to reply in French, but I distrusted my accent. At

breakfast, the opportunity or rather the excuse for an attempt, was

offered. His French valet, Francois, waits on him at breakfast. Mr.

Pollingray and his sister asked for things in the French tongue, and,

as if fearing some breach of civility, Mr. Pollingray asked me if I knew

French.

Yes, I know it; that is, I understand it,’ I stuttered. Allons, nous

parlerons francais,’ said he. But I shook my head, and remained like a

silly mute.

I was induced towards the close of the meal to come out with a few

French words. I was utterly shamefaced. Mr. Pollingray has got the

French manner of protesting that one is all but perfect in one’s

speaking. I know how absurd it must have sounded. But I felt his

kindness, and in my heart I thanked him humbly. I believe now that a

residence in France does not deteriorate an Englishman. Mr. Pollingray,

when in his own house, has the best qualities of the two countries. He

is gay, and, yes, while he makes a study of me, I am making a study of

him. Which of us two will know the other first? He was papa’s college

friend--papa’s junior, of course, and infinitely more papa’s junior now.

I observe that weakness in him, I mean, his clinging to youthfulness,

less and less; but I do see it, I cannot be quite in error. The truth

is, I begin to feel that I cannot venture to mistrust my infallible

judgement, or I shall have no confidence in myself at all.

After breakfast, I was handed over to Miss Pollingray, with the

intimation that I should not see him till dinner.

‘Gilbert is anxious to cultivate the society of his English neighbours,

now that he has, as he supposes, really settled among them,’ she

remarked to me. ‘At his time of life, the desire to be useful is

almost a malady. But, he cherishes the poor, and that is more than an

occupation, it is a virtue.’

Her speech has become occasionally French in the construction of the

sentences.

‘Mais oui,’ I said shyly, and being alone with her, I was not rebuffed

by her smile, especially as she encouraged me on.

I am, she told me, to see a monde of French people here in September.

So, the story of me is to be completer, or continued in September. I

could not get Miss Pollingray to tell me distinctly whether Madame la

Marquise will be one of the guests. But I know that she is not a widow.

In that case, she has a husband. In that case, what is the story of her

relations towards Mr. Pollingray? There must be some story. He would not

surely have so many portraits of her about the house (and they travel

with him wherever he goes) if she were but a lovely face to him. I

cannot understand it. They were frequent, constant visitors to one

another’s estates in France; always together. Perhaps a man of Mr.

Pollingray’s age, or perhaps M. le Marquis--and here I lose myself.

French habits are so different from ours. One thing I am certain of: no

charge can be brought against my Englishman. I read perfect rectitude

in his face. I would cast anchor by him. He must have had a dreadful

unhappiness.

Mama kept her promise by sending my riding habit and hat punctually, but

I had run far ahead of all the wishes I had formed when I left home,

and I half feared my ride out with Mr. Pollingray. That was before I had

received Charles’s letter, letting me know the object of my invitation

here. I require at times a morbid pride to keep me up to the work.

I suppose I rode befittingly, for Mr. Pollingray praised my seat on

horseback. I know I can ride, or feel the ‘blast of a horse like my

own’--as he calls it. Yet he never could have had a duller companion.

My conversation was all yes and no, as if it went on a pair of crutches

like a miserable cripple. I was humiliated and vexed. All the while I

was trying to lead up to the French lady, and I could not commence with

a single question. He appears to, have really cancelled the past in

every respect save his calling me his goddaughter. His talk was of the

English poor, and vegetation, and papa’s goodness to his old dames in

Ickleworth parish, and defects in my education acknowledged by me, but

not likely to restore me in my depressed state. The ride was beautiful.

We went the length of a twelve-mile ridge between Ickleworth and

Hillford, over high commons, with immense views on both sides, and

through beech-woods, oakwoods, and furzy dells and downs spotted with

juniper and yewtrees--old picnic haunts of mine, but Mr. Pollingray’s

fresh delight in the landscape made them seem new and strange. Home

through the valley.

The next day Miss Pollingray joined us, wearing a feutre gris and green

plume, which looked exceedingly odd until you became accustomed to it.

Her hair has decided gray streaks, and that, and the Queen Elizabeth

nose, and the feutre gris!--but she is so kind, I could not even smile

in my heart. It is singular that Mr. Pollingray, who’s but three years

her junior, should look at least twenty years younger--at the very

least. His moustache and beard are of the colour of a corn sheaf, and

his blue eyes shining over them remind me of summer. That describes him.

He is summer, and has not fallen into his autumn yet. Miss Pollingray

helped me to talk a little. She tried to check her brother’s enthusiasm

for our scenery, and extolled the French paysage. He laughed at her, for

when they were in France it was she who used to say, ‘There is nothing

here like England!’ Miss Fool rode between them attentive to the

jingling of the bells in her cap: ‘Yes’ and ‘No’ at anybody’s command,

in and out of season.

Thank you, Charles, for your letter! I was beginning to think my

invitation to Dayton inexplicable, when that letter arrived. I cannot

but deem it an unworthy baseness to entrap a girl to study her without

a warning to her. I went up to my room after I had read it, and wrote

in reply till the breakfast-bell rang. I resumed my occupation an hour

later, and wrote till one o’clock. In all, fifteen pages of writing,

which I carefully folded and addressed to Charles; sealed the envelope,

stamped it, and destroyed it. I went to bed. ‘No, I won’t ride out

to-day, I have a headache!’ I repeated this about half-a-dozen times to

nobody’s knocking on the door, and when at last somebody knocked I

tried to repeat it once, but having the message that Mr. Pollingray

particularly wished to have my company in a ride, I rose submissively

and cried. This humiliation made my temper ferocious. Mr. Pollingray

observed my face, and put it down in his notebook. ‘A savage

disposition,’ or, no, ‘An untamed little rebel’; for he has hopes of me.

He had the cruelty to say so.

‘What I am, I shall remain,’ said I.

He informed me that it was perfectly natural for me to think it; and

on my replying that persons ought to know themselves best: ‘At my age,

perhaps,’ he said, and added, ‘I cannot speak very confidently of my

knowledge of myself.’

‘Then you make us out to be nothing better than puppets, Mr.

Pollingray.’

‘If we have missed an early apprenticeship to the habit of self-command,

ma filleule.’

‘Merci, mon parrain.’

He laughed. My French, I suppose.

I determined that, if he wanted to study me, I would help him.

‘I can command myself when I choose, but it is only when I choose.’

This seemed to me quite a reasonable speech, until I found him looking

for something to follow, in explanation, and on coming to sift my

meaning, I saw that it was temper, and getting more angry, continued:

‘The sort of young people who have such wonderful command of themselves

are not the pleasantest.’

‘No,’ he said; ‘they disappoint us. We expect folly from the young.’

I shut my lips. Prince Leboo knew that he must go, and a good gallop

reconciled me to circumstances. Then I was put to jumping little furzes

and ditches, which one cannot pretend to do without a fair appearance

of gaiety; for, while you are running the risk of a tumble, you are

compelled to look cheerful and gay, at least, I am. To fall frowning

will never do. I had no fall. My gallant Leboo made my heart leap with

love of him, though mill-stones were tied to it. I may be vexed when I

begin, but I soon ride out a bad temper. And he is mine! I am certainly

inconstant to Charles, for I think of Leboo fifty times more. Besides,

there is no engagement as yet between Charles and me. I have first to be

approved worthy by Mr. and Miss Pollingray: two pairs of eyes and ears,

over which I see a solemnly downy owl sitting, conning their reports of

me. It is a very unkind ordeal to subject any inexperienced young woman

to. It was harshly conceived and it is being remorselessly executed. I

would complain more loudly--in shrieks--if I could say I was unhappy;

but every night I look out of my window before going to bed and see the

long falls of the infant river through the meadow, and the dark woods

seeming to enclose the house from harm: I dream of the old inhabitant,

his ancestors, and the numbers and numbers of springs when the

wildflowers have flourished in those woods and the nightingales have

sung there. And I feel there will never be a home to me like Dayton.