We stood at the white gate talking to each other, my Charlotte and I. The old red-tiled roof which I had seen in the distance sheltered the girl I love. The solitary farm-house which it had been my whim to examine was the house in which my dear love made her home. It was here, to this untrodden hillside, that my darling had come from the prim modern villa at Bayswater. Ah, what happiness to find her here, far away from all those stockbroking surroundings — here, where our hearts expanded beneath the divine influence of Nature!
I fear that I was coxcomb enough to fancy myself beloved that day we parted in Kensington-gardens. A look, a tone — too subtle for definition — thrilled me with a sudden hope so bright, that I would not trust myself to believe it could be realised.
“She is a coquette,” I said to myself. “Coquetry is one of the graces which Nature bestows upon these bewitching creatures. That little conscious look, which stirred this weak heart so tumultuously, is no doubt common to her when she knows herself beloved and admired, and has no meaning that can flatter my foolish hopes.” This is how I had reasoned with myself again and again during the dreary interval in which Miss Halliday and I had been separated. But, O, what a hardy perennial blossom hope must be! The tender buds were not to be crushed by the pelting hailstones of hard common sense. They had survived all my philosophical reflections, and burst into sudden flower to-day at sight of Charlotte’s face. She loved me, and she was delighted to see me. That was what her radiant face told me; and could I do less than believe the sweet confession? For the first few moments we could scarcely speak to each other, and then we began to converse in the usual commonplace strain.
She told me of her astonishment on seeing me in that remote spot. I could hardly confess to having business at Huxter’s Cross, so I was fain to tell my dear love a falsehood, and declare that I was taking a holiday “up at the hills.”
“And how did you come to choose Huxter’s Cross for your holiday?” she asked na?vely.
I told her that I had heard the place spoken of by a person in the city — my simple-minded Sparsfield to wit.
“And you could not have come to a better place,” she cried, “though people do call it the very dullest spot in the world. This was my dear aunt Mary’s house — papa’s sister, you know. Grandpapa Halliday had two farms. This was one, and Hyley the other. Hyley was much larger and better than this, you know, and was left to poor papa, who sold it just before he died.”
Her face clouded as she spoke of her father’s death. “I can’t speak about that without pain even now,” she said softly, “though I was only nine years old when it happened. But one can suffer a great deal at nine years old.”
And then, after a little pause, she went on to speak of her Yorkshire home.
“My aunt and uncle Mercer are so kind to me; and yet they are neither of them really related to me. My aunt Mary died very young, when her first baby was born, and the poor little baby died too: and uncle Mercer inherited the property from his wife, you see. He married again after two years, and his second wife is the dearest, kindest creature in the world. I always call her aunt, for I don’t remember poor papa’s sister at all; and no aunt that ever lived could be kinder to me than aunt Dorothy. I am always so happy here,” she said; “and it seems such a treat to get away from the Lawn — of course I am sorry to leave mamma, you know,” she added, parenthetically —“and the stiff breakfasts, and Mr. Sheldon’s newspapers that crackle, crackle, crackle so shockingly all breakfast-time; and the stiff dinners, with a prim parlor-maid staring at one all the time, and bringing one vegetables that one doesn’t want if one only ventures to breathe a little louder than usual. Here it is Liberty Hall. Uncle Joe — he is aunt Dorothy’s husband — is the kindest creature in the world, just the very reverse of Mr. Sheldon in everything. I don’t mean that my stepfather is unkind, you know. O, no, he has always been very good to me — much kinder than I have deserved that he should be. But uncle Joe’s ways are so different. I am sure you will like him; and I am sure he will like you, for he likes everybody, dear thing. And you must come and see us very often, please, for Newhall farm is open house, you know, and the stranger within the gates is always welcome.”
Now my duty to my Sheldon demanded that I should scamper back to Huxter’s Cross as fast as my legs would carry me, in order to be in time for the hybrid vehicle that was to convey me to Hidling station; and here was this dear girl inviting me to linger, and promising me a welcome to the house which was made a paradise by her presence.
I looked at my watch. It would have been impossible for me to reach Huxter’s Cross in time for the vehicle. Conscience whispered that I could hire my landlord’s dog-cart, and a boy to drive me to Hidling; but the whispers of conscience are very faint; and love cried aloud, “Stay with Charlotte: supreme happiness is offered to you for the first time in your life. Fool that would reject so rare a gift!”
It was to this latter counsellor I gave my ear. My Sheldon’s interests went overboard; and I stayed by the white gate, talking to Charlotte, till it was quite too late to heed the reproachful grumblings of conscience about that dog-cart.
My Charlotte — yes, I boldly call her mine now — my dear is great in agriculture. She enlightened my cockney mind on the subject of upland farms, telling me how uncle and aunt Mercer’s land is poor and sandy, requiring very little in the way of draining, but producing by no means luxuriant crops. It is a very picturesque place, and has a certain gentlemanlike air with it pleasing to my snobbish taste. The house lies in a tract of open grass-land, dotted here and there by trees, and altogether of a park-like appearance. True that the mild and useful sheep rather than the stately stag browses on that greensward, and few carriages roll along the winding gravel road that leads to the house.
I felt a rapturous thirst for agricultural knowledge as I listened to my Charlotte. Was there a vacancy for hind or herdsman on Newhall farm, I wondered. What is the office so humble I would not fill for her dear sake? O, how I sighed for the days of Jacob, that first distinguished usurer, so that I might serve seven years and again seven years for my darling!
I stayed by the white gate, abandoning all thought of my employer’s behests, unconscious of time — unconscious of everything except that I was with Charlotte Halliday, and would not have resigned my position to be made Lord Chancellor of England.
Anon came uncle Joe, with a pleasant rubicund visage beaming under a felt hat, to tell Lotta that dinner was ready. To him I was immediately presented.
“Mr. Mercer, my dear uncle Joseph — Mr. Hawkehurst, a friend of my stepfather’s,” said Charlotte.
Two or three minutes afterwards we were all three walking across the park-like sward to the hospitable farm-house; for the idea of my departing before dinner seemed utterly preposterous to this friendly farmer.
Considered apart from the glamour that for my eyes must needs shine over any dwelling inhabited by Charlotte Halliday, I will venture to say that Newhall farm-house is the dearest old place in the world. Such delightful old rooms, with the deepest window-seats, the highest mantelpieces, the widest fireplaces possible in domestic architecture; such mysterious closets and uncanny passages; such pitfalls in the way of unexpected flights of stairs; such antiquated glazed corner-cupboa............