Part 1 (2/2)
The men of the party had not yet returned from shooting, and in that calm sunset hour we were alone in the fine old gallery, with its splendid tapestries, its old carved coffers and straight-backed chairs, its rows of antlers and its armour of the dead-and-gone Scarcliffs.
High in the long windows were the rose en soleil of Edward IV, the crown in the hawthorn bush of Henry VII, the wolf's head crowned, the badge of the Scarcliffs, and other armorial devices, while the autumn sunlight slanting in threw coloured reflections upon the oaken floor worn smooth and polished by the feet of generations.
She was dressed in cream serge, a slight, dainty, neat-waisted figure, thrown into relief as she leaned back against the dark old panelling, laughing at my retort.
Her musical voice echoed down the long corridor, that old place that always seemed so far remote from the present day, and where the country folk declared that at night could be heard the footfall of the knight and the rustle of the lady's kirtle.
Ryhall was indeed a magnificent old place, built by Sir Henry Burnet in the Tudor days, and pre-eminent to-day among the historic mansions of England, an architectural triumph that still remained almost the same as it was on the death of its builder. Its great vaulted hall with the wonderful fireplace and carved minstrels' gallery, its fine old tapestries in King James's room, the yellow drawing-room, the red boudoir, and the Baron's hall, full of antique furniture, were all splendid apartments breathing of an age long past and forgotten.
Being something of an antiquary myself, I loved Ryhall, and took a keen delight in exploring its quaint pa.s.sages and discovering its secret doors in picture-frames and panelling. Tibbie, however, who had no love for old things, hated Ryhall. She preferred everything essentially modern, the art nouveau, art colourings, and the electric light of her mother's house in Grosvenor Street. She only came down to Ryhall when absolutely necessary, and then grumbled constantly, even worrying Jack, her brother--now Lord Scarcliff--to ”put some decent new furniture into the place,” and declaring to her mother that the house was full of moths and rats.
”Look!” she suddenly exclaimed at last. ”The boys are coming home!
Can't you see them there, down in the avenue?” and she pointed with her finger. ”Well,” she added, ”you're not a bit entertaining, Wilfrid.
You refuse to become my husband, so I suppose I shall have to marry someone else. The mater says I really must marry somebody.”
”Of course, you must,” I said. ”But who is to be the happy man? Have you decided?”
”M'-well, I don't quite know. Ellice Winsloe is a good fellow, and we're very friendly,” she admitted. ”The mater approves of him, because he's well off.”
”Then she wouldn't approve of me,” I laughed. ”You know I haven't got very much.”
”I've never asked her. Indeed, if you would marry me I shouldn't ask her, I should marry first and ask afterwards.”
”But do you really mean to marry Ellice?” I asked seriously. ”Is he-- well, such a very particular friend?”
”He proposed to me a fortnight ago after the Jardines' dance, and I refused him--I always refuse, you know,” and she smiled again.
She was as gay and merry as usual, yet there was about her face a look of strange anxiety that greatly puzzled me.
”Then you've had other offers?”
”Of course, but mostly from the undesirables. Oh! you would laugh if you could hear them laying open their hearts, as they call it,” she said gaily. ”Why does a man call his love his secret--as though he'd committed some awful crime? It is most amusing, I can a.s.sure you.
Mason and I have some good laughs over it very often.”
”But you surely don't tell your maid such things?” I said, surprised, but knowing well her hoydenish spirit.
”Indeed I do. Mason enjoys the joke just as much as I do.”
”Ah! Tibbie,” I said reproachfully, ”you are a sad breaker of men's hearts! By Jove! you are so good-looking that if I didn't know you I, too, should fall in love with you.”
”Why don't you? That's just what I want. Then we should marry and live happy ever after. It would be so delightful. I'd marry you to-morrow, dear old boy, if you wished,” she declared unblus.h.i.+ngly.
”And regret it the day after,” I laughed. ”Why, Tibbie, you know how horribly badly off the poor old governor left me--a bare thousand a year when all expenses of Netherdene are paid. The place is an absolute white elephant, shabby, worn out, dilapidated--certainly not the house to take a bride to. I haven't been up there for nearly two years. A cotton-spinner in Oldham rents the shoot, and his cheque is always helpful.”
”Yes,” she remarked thoughtfully, gazing down upon the oak floor, ”Netherdene certainly isn't a very cheerful spot. It would make a nice home for incurables, or a lunatic asylum. Why don't you try and form a company, or something in the City, and run it? Other fellows do.”
”What's the use?” I asked. ”I'm no hand at business; I only wish I were. Then I could make money. Now, I only wander about and spend it.”
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