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Mrs. Lancaster’s Rival

Chapter III. Pensand Castle

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Chapter III. Pensand Castle.

It says something for the beauty of St. Denys that Mabel Ashley forgot all her troubles, her shyness, and her dislike of General Hawke, and exclaimed enthusiastically several times as they drove from the station.

From the top of the hill there was the view of the broad Mora with its varied banks, and the background of blue and purple hills. Then there were the lanes going down and down, twisting round in strange curves, ferns drooping from their high rocky banks, among a tender embroidery of red wild geranium leaves, and blue and purple and yellow flowers bending forward on their slight stems, while the hedges up above were bright with wild roses and honeysuckle, roses of so deep a pink that they looked to Mabel’s uneducated eyes like some rarity of the garden.

The General smiled at her exclamations; he was not otherwise than pleased to see his ward’s grave eyes light up, and a faint flush of colour come into her sallow cheeks. The drive was too short; hardly two miles from the station, and they were at the foot of the last hill, in Pensand Combe. Here the small old cottages, some whitewashed, others rough gray stone, nestled each in its corner under the hill, surrounded and overgrown with flowers. They were everywhere, from the gay stonecrop on the walls and roof to the great red fuchsia overhanging the gate. By an old stone bridge of several arches, the carriage crossed the head of a little salt-water creek, from which the tide was now going down, leaving a bed page 19 of mud and stones and blackened logs, among which some amphibious-looking children were playing.

They turned up a lane, past a gray old mill, whose wheel was now silent, and began at once to mount up under the deep shade of trees, till they came to a lodge and gate, and entered an avenue which seemed to skirt the hill.

Nearly all through the drive, looking out of the window, Mabel had seen this hill in front of them, covered with trees to the summit, where a row of gray battlements looked out above their heads. Now, as the carriage wound slowly up the hill, in the deep mysterious shade of the oak and chestnut woods, with great ferns growing about their feet, and hanging over the edges of the road, with here and there, as they went up, a glimpse of a glade full of roses, and then the crumbling old wall of a garden on the slope, where there were peeps of raspberry and currant bushes, and a scent of strawberries in the air, Mabel began to think that all this was rather pleasant, that it might not be so bad, after all, to live in such a romantic old place and such a smiling country.

She had been silent for some time, but now she looked up at the General with a little more confidence, and asked,

‘Is this Pensand?’

‘This is Pensand,’ said the General graciously. ‘A lonely spot, you see.’

‘It is beautiful,’ said Mabel. ‘The gentleman who was in the carriage with us told me it was built by the ancient Britons.’

‘Impossible! The aborigines lived in caves,’ said Mabel’s schoolmistress, who had been keeping up a conversation with the General while her charge looked about, and trying to hide her terror at the steepness of the hills.

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‘The early Cornish castles were without doubt of British origin,’ said the General, stroking his moustache. ‘But I myself know nothing about it, and should like the place just as well without its ruins. If you are fond of antiquities,’ he went on, looking at Mabel, ‘I must introduce a neighbour of mine to you, who is really learned in those subjects. Pensand is the idol he worships, so you can study it together. But as to my friend Dick Northcote, I would not advise you to put much faith in him.’

‘I know nothing at all about antiquities,’ said Mabel, colouring slightly.

‘Dick had the honour of escorting you all the way, then?’ General Hawke went on.

‘From Paddington,’ said the elder lady, with some irritation in her tone. ‘It was a great vexation to me, but what could I do? I must say that he and Miss Ashley made a little more acquaintance than was necessary, under the circumstances. I thought him a rather forward young man.’

‘Well, we must not be hard on young people,’ said the General, looking at Mabel with a smile, which made her blush a good deal more. ‘Not on young ladies, at least. They never mean to do wrong themselves, and so of course never suspect any one else. But young men are generally rascals, and we can’t be too severe on them. Dick is a forward fellow, I have no doubt. He has been roughing it in New Zealand, too, and knows nothing of the ways of society. Yes. His aunt is a charming person, and I hoped you would see a good deal of her. But I don’t know, now that Dick has made his appearance. I have not much confidence in him.’

The General smiled so kindly as he said this, looking at Mabel all the time, that her fear of him melted away fast, and she began to feel quite happy and natural. He evidently understood her so much better than Miss page 21 Wrench, who sat there frowning, as if her pupil had committed some deadly sin in talking to a pleasant fellow-traveller.

‘I thought he was very polite and nice, and not at all forward,’ she said, looking bravely up at the General.

‘My dear, your ignorance—’ began Miss Wrench; but the General made her a little bow, which seemed gently and courteously to remind her that he ought to be heard first, in right of his white hairs.

‘It was very natural that you should like him, Mabel,’ he said, with frank paternal kindness, and yet a shade of gravity. ‘He always was a pleasant fellow to talk to. I like him myself. But before he went out to New Zealand he was not at all a good boy; and I must be convinced that he has changed very much before I can encourage him here. That is all I have to say about him.’

Miss Wrench nodded approval. Mabel looked rather downcast, but recovered herself immediately, and forget Dick, in the delight of going under the archway of an old gate-tower nearly covered with ivy. A little way off, high up on a mound of its own, at the very top of the hill, the ruined keep of the castle frowned down upon them, over a wilderness of roses and flowering shrubs, through which a minute more brought them to the door of a long, low, quaint house, not to be seen from beneath.

The carriage stopped; General Hawke got out nimbly, and helped the ladies out, with a pressure of Mabel’s hand and ‘Welcome to Pensand.’

There was a stiff old-fashioned dignity about the house and its furniture, which seemed to show that it was a long time since a lady had ruled there. Still, the drawing-room, into which they went through the hall and library, had an air of comfort, partly owing to the number of large armchairs with ancient chintz covers page 22 and cushions. General Hawke put his ward into one of these, and stood looking at her with a complacent smile. Here she was, quite safe, and very small and odd she looked among all the large pieces of furniture, the great heavy tables and cabinets, the dark stately portraits of soldiers and statesmen who gazed at her from the walls. Mabel gave one glance round, and was not attracted by any of them. The next moment her eyes and thoughts were gone out of the window, where the evening sun was shining across the lawn, on the gay terrace wall that bounded it, the scarlet geraniums, the roses, and beyond them a blue gleam very far away, suggesting all sorts of loveliness to be seen from the lawn itself. She appealed to the General, more by look than words,—might she go out?

‘Better not now, I think,’ said he. ‘You are tired. The housekeeper shall show you your rooms. Dinner will be ready in three-quarters of an hour. And please remember that I am a punctual man.’

‘Ah! don’t forget that, my dear,’ said Miss Wrench, shaking her head at Mabel, who looked vexed, but made no answer. The General’s smile reassured her again, and sent her up-stairs tolerably cheerful.

She did not like her room much; it looked out to the side, over the shrubberies, and towards the keep, which was itself hidden by trees. As soon as she was ready she made her way down-stairs again, not without a little difficulty among various narrow passages and small flights of steps.

A gray-haired butler looked out of the dining-room, and saw her coming down the slippery oak staircase slowly and unevenly. He came forward and opened the library door, with a bow to the little lady, and she passed on between the sober-looking bookcases into the drawing-room, and stood at the open window with her hands clasped, looking out across the lawn.

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She was a very small girl, and in her long black evening dress she looked still smaller. As she stood still, it was a pretty graceful little figure, and there was a certain distinction about the small head, the large peculiar eyes, and the bright dark hair which seemed inclined to curl in tiny rings, and was brushed back and kept in order with difficulty. But no one could admire the pinched pained look in her face, and all the grace of her figure vanished when she moved. She herself seemed to suffer so acutely from the awkwardness of being lame, that those about her felt and noticed it all the more.

Presently, as nobody came, she turned away from the window, and made a slow pilgrimage round the room. The cabinets were full of handsome old china and Indian curiosities, at which she peeped in for a moment, but saw nothing that interested her much. At the further end a door was standing half open, and Mabel looked into a small room, with another door into the hall, which was shut. The evening sun made his way into this room round some corner, and it was full of low yellow light, making it all the brighter in contrast with the larger room beyond. This might have belonged to a lady; there were little tables and low chairs and looking-glasses, some pretty water-colours on the walls, modern china and books, flowers here and there.

Mabel advanced a step or two, and thought it the prettiest little room she had ever seen. She wondered if the General would let her spend her time here. There was a photograph book lying unclasped on a table near the door, and she opened it at the first page, on which there were two portraits. One was of a dark young-looking man, whose expression was anything but pleasant, though his features were handsome. Mabel turned her eyes away from him. But the other she thought charming. It was of a lady, very much dressed, with frills and necklaces and bracelets. She was leaning page 24 her head on her hand, her lace sleeve falling back from a very pretty arm. Perhaps people more experienced in faces than Mabel might not have felt quite sure about this one, attractive as it was. But she admired it thoroughly, and thought it a sweet face, frank and pleasant and almost beautiful. The lady was looking full at her with a slight smile, and yet a great deal of earnestness. Her hair was cut across her forehead, a fashion which Mabel admired, having never been allowed to adopt it herself. She stood bending over the photograph till General Hawke came along the drawing-room and joined her, having caught a glimpse of her gown through the door.

‘You are quite right: this room is more cheerful than the other,’ he said. ‘And what have you got there?’

Mabel held up the book.

‘I don’t know who they are,’ she said; ‘but how pretty she is!’

‘Ah!’ said the General, putting up his eyeglass. ‘That is my son, and a very funny fellow he is. Not by any means the kill-joy he looks there. As to the lady—I don’t know what brings her into that prominent place. She lives at St. Denys. And that is not a faithful portrait of her either. I never saw her look so happy, or so well dressed—poor thing!’

‘Is she poor—really poor, I mean?’ asked Mabel, with eager sympathy.

‘No—her people ought to be pretty well off. But her life has not been altogether a lucky one. She is a widow, and her marriage was not happy. Dick Northcote—well, he ought to have come back and married her. She was half engaged to him before he went out. But perhaps she thought herself well rid of him, for I believe two or three other young ladies could have preferred the same claim.’

Mabel looked up horrified; she could hardly believe him.

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‘The world is not so good as you think it, I am afraid,’ said the General, smiling. ‘If Mrs. Lancaster ever had your illusions, she has lost them long ago. I forget what your exact age is,’ he went on, after a moment’s pause.

‘I am nearly nineteen.’

‘That is a charming age. Well, now, before your good governess comes down, I want to ask you one or two things. Do you think you will be able to make yourself happy here at Pensand, with me?’

The General was a handsome old man, and pleasant-looking too, when he chose; his eyes were still bright, and his manners left nothing to be desired. Certain frowning lines in his forehead might have warned a physiognomist to doubt his temper, but at present these were smoothed away. Mabel looked at him, withdrew the last remains of her prejudice, and answered, after a moment’s hesitation:

‘Yes; if you really like to have me.’

‘That’s right,’ said the General. ‘I am glad to hear you say so.’

He took a chair close to the table where Mabel was standing with the photograph-book, and held out his hand to her. She put hers into it; he held it, and looked at it curiously.

‘London air makes people thin,’ he said. ‘Now you must grow fat, and treat me as your grandfather; those are my two wishes. Another thing I had to suggest. Can we do without Miss Wrench, or a counterpart of her? You don’t want to learn any lessons at nineteen. And however one may respect a person of that kind, she becomes a gêne—a bore, in fact. But you may be lonely?’

Mabel shook her head emphatically.

‘I have been at school so long,’ she said, ‘I shall be only too glad to be free.’

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The General glanced at her rather oddly; he was wondering, perhaps, what this helpless creature meant by freedom, and what she would do with it if she had it.

‘Hush, there she is,’ he whispered, as Miss Wrench came with a stiff rustle into the other room.

When dinner was over, and the ladies had come back into the drawing-room, Mabel left her companion resting in an armchair, and walked off across the lawn to enjoy the view by herself.

High above the rocky banks and cliffs clothed with wood, she looked down on them over the tops of the Castle trees, which quite shut out the Combe at her feet. St. Denys was hidden by the high ground, but following the Penyr as it spread away to her left, she saw the meeting of the two great streams, and then their course together down to the sea. The water gleamed silver in the twilight, and the woods were dark and solemn; the distance was full of the flashing lights of the ships and of Morebay. Overhead the sky was blue and deep, with stars shining, and a faint yellow glow in the west. It would be no darker than this all night long.

Mabel stood quite still, a small black figure in the foreground of the view. She was listening, but there was nothing to be heard, except the bark of a dog now and then in the Combe, and the plashing of oars, as some late boatman rowed home down the Penyr. The flowers had it all their own way now, and the air was filled with the sweet scents that it pleased them to send out into the night. A magnolia, climbing up outside the wall, pushed its strong leaves and great white flowers within two yards of where the girl stood, and breathed its sweetness into her face. No doubt they all had a great deal to say to Mabel, if she had understood them, but at present she was hardly aware that she wanted any sympathy. It was nothing new to her to be alone. page 27 She did not remember her mother. Her father had spent his life in India, and died there two years ago; she had not seen him since she was a child.

Her shy odd nature, too proud to ask for affection, easily prejudiced, contemptuous of the small ways she saw about her in the London school where she had spent nearly all her life, yet only too sensitive and grateful for kindness, was not that of a very happy person. Her schoolfellows laughed at her; her mistresses were old-fashioned people, whose chief idea was discipline, which Mabel did not like. None of them ever encouraged her confidence, or tried to draw her out, so it happened that the years went on and she made no friends. Yet she never thought herself unhappy, and underneath her melancholy appearance there was a spring of enthusiasm, of girlish fun, even of adventurousness, which, till now, had hardly found its way out, except into dreams.

Dick Northcote in the railway carriage had soon discovered it. I believe, though it may seem almost incredible, he was the first young man Mabel had ever talked to. The variety was so great that it quite took her out of herself, the more that he was thoroughly good-natured and natural, and had a real feeling of kindness and pity for the forlorn schoolgirl. Mabel was sorry to find that she was not to like him or think about him, after all. She never thought for a moment of doubting what the General had said.

While she stood there on the lawn, her guardian came into the drawing-room, and finding Miss Wrench there alone, began to talk to her about her pupil, and to tell her his plans for the future. Miss Wrench was just, though severe. She admitted that Mabel had many good qualities, that she was truthful, honourable, and thoroughly ladylike in mind. But she thought her a troublesome girl, and said so. She was careless of rules, proud, obstinate, and at times passionate. She required page 28 a strict hand over her, Miss Wrench said, and she was afraid that General Hawke would not find it answer to free her from all supervision.

The General smiled quietly to himself.

‘There is one difference between your view of Mabel and mine,’ he said. ‘You look upon her as a child; I, as a woman. She is a woman—though I can’t wonder at your forgetting it; nothing more natural. She is beyond being fastened down by rules; she is old enough to guide her life for herself. Or, if there is guidance, it must be invisible; she must be unconscious of it. My idea is, that she and I will do best alone together.’

Miss Wrench shook her head. ‘You may be right,’ she said. ‘I hope you are. But awkwardness will arise, I am very much afraid. Mabel ought to be grown up, of course, at nineteen. But she has the mind of a child.’

‘But she has been in your charge for some years,’ said the General very gently. ‘You have had the forming of her mind. You did not imagine that she was to stay at school till five-and-twenty?’

‘No,’ said Miss Wrench, colouring slightly. ‘But with our establishment of young people—I really do not know what more we could have done. It is impossible to devote ourselves entirely to one; it would be unjust to the others. Girls must do a good deal for themselves. Under the present circumstances, I daresay Mabel may develop more quickly.’

‘Just now she is running a great risk of rheumatism,’ said the General, and Mabel’s twilight dream was broken in upon by her guardian’s voice, calling across the lawn.