Chapter 2

The village of Hendred, of which Mr. Ives was the parson, lay about two miles beyond Wancote, in a low valley nestling under a great wave of the downs. Behind the village a chalk cliff rose white and dazzling, and the warm red brick of the houses, the gleaming chalk, the bright tender green of the herbage, formed one of those sunny pictures of which Berkshire is full.

In the centre of the village rose the little church, with its square grey tower, over which grew a magnificent creeper with crimson leaves glowing with a wondrous richness of colour.

A stone's throw back from the road, in a high-walled garden, stood the parsonage. The garden was rich with orchard trees and wall fruit, and boasted in particular one golden plum that was the parson's boast and pride. He had imported rich soil from the valleys, and in each corner of the garden gathered little hills of leaf-mould. Mr. Ives was a notable gardener.

Those who would see Betty Ives at her best should see her at home--at least, so said young Mr. Robins, the rich yeoman's son, who sighed in vain for her good graces. He was a domestic man, much given to superintending himself, duties which were looked upon as women's gear--"A womanish man," said the women.

On the other hand young Thornton, eldest son of Squire Thornton of Thornton Beeches, in the neighbourhood of Wancote, gave out that to see Mistress Betty at her best, was to see her in the hunting-field, for she rode like a bird, and was bright and ready as a pike-staff! There was a confusion of metaphor, but words always failed the young fellow when he spoke of the lady who had already three times refused to be his wife.

Then Dr. Glebe, the good doctor of Wancote, in a grey bag-wig and hunting-boots, would take a whole handful of snuff, while he swore that Mistress Betty was only at her best by a sick-bed.

The parson laughed, and exclaimed with a tear in his eye that such a woman as his daughter was always at her best in whatever she put her hand to do; and the old groom Isaac assented with a chuckle, vowing that his young lady was good all round.

The autumn was beginning, and the crimson creepers on church and wall were at the height of their glow. Betty Ives was strolling in the parsonage garden gathering plums from the wall.

The garden-door was on the latch, it needed but to raise it, and Mistress Mary Jones walked in. Betty went eagerly forward to meet her with out-stretched hands. No welcome could be more cordial than that which Betty Ives gave to her friends.

"I am so glad to see you, Mary? and are you well? Have you lost your headache?"

Miss Mary sank into a garden-seat and sighed, still retaining the hand of her friend.

"I am better, sweet Bet," she said; "but my nerves will not recover the shock for years! No, no! do not shake your head and smile; if you had the crawlings up the back that I experience, and the creepings down the spine, and the shaking of knees, the twittering of the lips, and quivering of the eyelids--"

"Enough, enough!" cried Betty. "Thank Heaven, I am not tormented thus! My dear Mary, how can you survive such a multitude of ailments?"

"I have survived worse!" she answered, shuddering. "I survived the shock itself."

"Were you very much frightened?" asked Betty in a tone of interest.

"Frightened! I was terrified. I have not nerve like yours. The dark, the shot! the dark faces, the loud voices, the ... ah!"

Seeing Mary's chest beginning to heave, Betty thought it high time to change the subject. "We will not recall it," she said hastily. "Let us think on more agreeable topics. My father rode into Wancote this morning, to stroll about the marketplace and hear the news."

"And why did you not go?"

"Because," answered Betty, "I have been making preserves the livelong day. Up at six this morning, for Dame Martha told me that, owing to my putting it off so long, the fruit was beginning to rot, so there was no time to lose."

"I leave preserving to my woman," said Mary. "The hanging over the fire is ruin to the finest skin."

"Yes, my face is scorched and heated," answered Betty, turning a cheek like a peach to her friend. "But after all, to so weather-beaten a maid as myself, up and out in all seasons, a scorched cheek, more or less, signifies not; and Dame Martha works hard."

"And had your father any news from Wancote?"

"Yes, news indeed--Belton has been taken!"

"Taken?"

"Hired or purchased by a gentleman of the name of Johnstone, whose arrival is expected hourly."

"This is news indeed! None but a rich man could have paid the price asked."

"His horses have arrived," went on Betty. "Only four of them as yet, but each one of the four of surpassing beauty. One of them, Mr. Barnes told my father, looked worth a king's ransom."

"May the owner be worthy of his cattle," said Mary Jones. "And were there no coach-horses, no carriages? No symptoms of a lady to dispense the hospitalities of Belton?"

"Mr. Johnstone is said to be unmarried," answered Betty gravely. "I am sorry for it, a new neighbour would have been an agreeable addition to our society."

There was a click of the garden-gate, then a smart rap, as if by the knob of a hunting-whip.

"Someone is at the gate," said Miss Mary with curiosity.

"Yes," answered Betty, "and I must needs answer it myself, for the bell is broken, as doubtless our visitor has discovered, and he may knock till doomsday ere the sound reach the ears of Dame Martha or Isaac, both of whom are engaged in quarrelling in the kitchen. So so! how impatient it is!"

For another succession of knocks fell on the panel.

"I entreat you, do not open the door yourself, Betty," cried Mary in a tone of alarm. "Who knows who may be there?"

"Certainly not Wild Jack," answered Betty smiling, and disengaging herself from her friend's arm she went forward and opened the gate.

"Does Mr. Ives live here?" asked a loud, clear voice, which, however, suddenly changed in tone when the opening door disclosed the radiant vision of the parson's lovely daughter.

A feathered hat was doffed, a gentleman sprang from his horse and, bowing low, asked if he had the honour of addressing one of the family of Mr. Ives.

"His only daughter, sir," answered Betty courteously. "If you wish to see my father, I will beg you to come in and wait, as he will be in shortly," Mary Jones advanced, her eyes took in at a glance the whole distinguished appearance of the visitor, from the fine cut of his suit of claret-coloured cloth, to the well-shaped boot with shining spurs, and she gave a little sign of approval.

Betty summoned old Isaac and bade him take charge of the horse, and then led the way into the garden.

"We are primitive folk here," she said. "But I find most people prefer our garden-seats to entering the house."

Mary was somewhat scandalised, she thought these easy out-door seats a breach of etiquette in themselves, but she could make no remonstrance beyond a little tweak at her friend's sleeve.

Betty sat down and, inviting her visitor to do likewise, she said:

"In my character as mistress of the house, I would wish to introduce you, sir, to my friend Mistress Mary Jones, of Elm Cottage close by, but have not the honour of being acquainted actually with your name, albeit I have conjectured."

"My name is John Johnstone, madam," he replied. "I have but now become the possessor of Belton, near Wancote."

"Our new neighbour," cried Mary.

"Yes, I claim that honour," continued Mr. Johnstone.

"We are vastly pleased to make your acquaintance," said Mary, thinking with some pride that she could boast to her friends of already knowing the newcomer.

Mr. Johnstone acknowledged the compliment courteously, but he never took his eyes off his young hostess, who appeared in them a miracle of grace and beauty.

With the skill of a man of the world, he drew her into animated conversation, gathering from her information respecting the country round, the different meets of the hounds, the neighbours, the tradespeople, the horses. Time slipped away almost unperceived, and neither lady knew how it had sped, when Mr. Ives, mounted on his handsome bay cob, rode up to the door.

Mr. Ives beheld with some surprise his daughter and her friend in full converse with a stranger.

The scene was worthy of a Watteau's brush--the sun just sinking behind the orchard trees gilding the edge of each leaf, shone on the dark red of John Johnstone's dress, warmed the sombre hue of fair Betty's lincoln green, and played on the blue and primrose of Mistress Mary's flower-like costume. It was a fair picture, and no eye could rest on a goodlier couple than the tall lithe young man, and the noble maiden.

"It was courteous of him to pay us one of the first, nay, _the_ first of his neighbourly visits," said the good parson, exchanging his tie-wig for a comfortable flannel night-cap, when he was once more alone with his daughter.

"Next time he comes I will reward him with some of our golden plums," said Betty gaily as she fixed her white teeth in the tender skin of one that was lusciously ripe.

Mistress Mary to her maid described the newcomer thus:

"He is tall, Deborah, very tall; slight, but with shoulders of great breadth, and a square neck--one would say that his strength was herculean. His eyes are dark blue, his nose a trifle arched, brows thick and square, a sweet mouth--a very sweet mouth--but wondrous stern all the same. But his manners, Deborah, and his curling dark hair, just slightly dashed with powder--his manners are perfect! his hair is divine! Heigh-ho, Deborah!"