no more stones at the cattle.”
“Tell your tales, and welcome,” cried Milly. “I wish I was here when you jawed cousin. If Winny was here she’d catch you by the timber toe and put you on your back.”
“Ay, she’ll be a good un yet if she takes arter thee,” retorted the old man with a fierce sneer.
“Drop it, and get away wi’ ye,” cried she, “or maybe I’d call Winny to smash your timber leg for you.”
“A-ha! there’s more on’t. She’s a sweet un. Isn’t she?” he replied sardonically.
“You did not like it last Easter, when Winny broke it with a kick.”
“’Twas the kick o’ a horse,” he growled with a glance at me.
“’Twas no such thing —’twas Winny did it — and he laid on his back for a week while carpenter made him a new one.” And Milly laughed hilariously.
“I’ll fool no more wi’ ye, losing my time; I won’t; but mind ye, I’ll speak wi’ Silas.” And going away he put his hand to his crumpled wide-awake, and said to me with a surly indifference —
“Good evening, Miss Ruthyn — good evening, ma’am — and ye’ll please remember, I did not mean nout to vex thee.”
And so he swaggered away, jerking and waddling over the sward, and was soon lost in the wood.
“It’s well he’s a little bit frightened — I never saw him so angry, I think; he is awful mad.”
“Perhaps he really is not aware how very rude he is,” I suggested.
“I hate him. We were twice as pleasant with poor Tom Driver — he never meddled with any one, and was always in liquor; Old Gin was the name he went by. But this brute — I do hate him — he comes from Wigan, I think, and he’s always spoiling sport — and he whops Meg — that’s Beauty, you know, and I don’t think she’d be half as bad only for him. Listen to him whistlin’.”
“I did hear him whistling at some distance among the trees.”
“I declare if he isn’t callin’ the dogs! Climb up here, I tell ye,” and we climbed up the slanting trunk of a great walnut tree, and strained our eyes in the direction from which we expected the onset of Pegtop’s vicious pack.
But it was a false alarm.
“Well, I don’t think he would do that, after all — hardly; but he is a brute, sure!”
“And that dark girl who would not let us through, is his daughter, is she?”
“Yes, that’s Meg — Beauty, I christened her, when I called him Beast; but I call him Pegtop now, and she’s Beauty still, and that’s the way o’t.”
“Come, sit down now, an’ make your picture,” she resumed so soon as we had dismounted from our position of security.
“I’m afraid I’m hardly in the vein. I don’t think I could draw a straight line. My hand trembles.”
“I wish you could, Maud,” said Milly, with a look so wistful and entreating, that considering the excursion she had made for the pencils, I could not bear to disappoint her.
“Well, Milly, we must only try; and if we fail we can’t help it. Sit you down beside me and I’ll tell you why I begin with one part and not another, and you’ll see how I make trees and the river, and — yes, that pencil, it is hard and answers for the first light lines; but we must begin at the beginning, and learn to copy drawings before we attempt real views like this. And if you wish it, Milly, I’m resolved to teach you everything I know, which, after all, is not a great deal, and we shall have such fun making sketches of the same landscapes, and then comparing.”
And so on, Milly, quite delighted, and longing to begin her course of instruction, sat down beside me in a rapture, and hugged and kissed me so heartily that we were very near rolling together off the stone on which we were seated. Her boisterous delight and good-nature helped to restore me, and both laughing heartily together, I commenced my task.
“Dear me! what’s that?” I exclaimed suddenly, as looking up from by block-book I saw the figure of a slight man in the careless morning-dress of a gentleman, crossing the ruinous bridge in my direction, with considerable caution, upon the precarious footing of the battlement, which alone offered an unbroken passage.
This was a day of apparitions! Milly recognised him instantly. The gentleman was Mr. Carysbroke. He had taken The Grange only for a year. He lived quite by himself, and was very good to the poor, and was the only gentleman, for ever so long, who had visited at Bartram, and oddly enough nowhere else. But he wanted leave to cross through the grounds, and having obtained it, had repeated his visit, partly induced, no doubt, by the fact that Bartram boasted no hospitalities, and that there was no risk of meeting the county folk there.
With a stout walking-stick in his hand, and a short shooting-coat, and a wide-awake hat in much better trim than Zamiel’s, he emerged from the copse that covered the bridge, walking at a quick but easy pace.
“He’ll be goin’ to see old Snoddles, I guess,” said Milly, looking a little frightened and curious; for Milly, I need not say, was a bumpkin, and stood in awe of this gentleman’s good-breeding, though she was as brave as a lion, and would have fought the Philistines at any odds, with the jawbone of an ass.
“‘Appen he won’t see us,” whispered Milly, hopefully.
But he did, and raising his hat, with a cheerful smile, that showed very white teeth, he paused.
“Charming day, Miss Ruthyn.”
I raised my head suddenly as he spoke, from habit appropriating the address; it was so marked that he raised his hat respectfully to me, and then continued to Milly —
“Mr. Ruthyn, I hope, quite well? but I need hardly ask, you seem so happy. Will you kindly tell him, that I expect the book I mentioned in a day or two, and when it comes I’ll either send or bring it to him immediately?”
Milly and I were standing, by this time, but she only stared at him, tongue-tied, her cheeks rather flushed, and her eyes very round, and to facilitate the dialogue, as I suppose, he said again —
“He’s quite well, I hope?”
Still no response from Milly, and I, provoked, though myself a little shy, made answer —
“My uncle, Mr. Ruthyn, is very well, thank you,” and I felt that I blushed as I spoke.
“Ah, pray excuse me, may I take a great liberty? you are Miss Ruthyn, of Knowl? Will you think me very impertinent — I’m afraid you will — if I venture to introduce myself? My name is Carysbroke, and I had the honour of knowing poor Mr. Ruthyn when I was quite a little boy, and he has shown a kindness for me since, and I hope you will pardon the liberty I fear I’ve taken. I think my friend, Lady Knollys, too, is a relation of yours; what a charming person she is!”
“Oh, is not she? such a darling!” I said, and then blushed at my outspoken affection.
But he smiled kindly, as if he liked me for it; and he said —
