CHAPTER XXIV.

DORIS'S "KNIGHT OF THE WOODS."

It is a lovely, warm day at the beginning of June, and Doris, having made the beds in conjunction with Molly, and afterwards drifted round the rooms with a duster in a desultory sort of fashion which, had she seen her, would have driven energetic Honor well-nigh crazy, presents herself in the kitchen where her sister is engaged in certain culinary matters.

"That soup smells good!" she remarks, as Honor, pepper-caster in hand, gives a final stir round the saucepan over which she is bending, and turns to confront her sister.

"There is not much in it besides the pea-flour, and a flavouring of carrots and onions--oh, and the bacon bone, which has been stewing ever since the early morning. But it's cheap," Honor winds up with a sigh; "and really Dick's and Bobby's appetites seem to grow larger every day, to say nothing of Becky's!"

"Well, I came to tell you that I can not stay indoors any longer on such a lovely morning as this. I know it's no use asking you to come too, because you would be certain to find some very good reason against it. So, as Molly is going to the vicarage to give Dolly Bolton her lesson, I shall just take my book and go and sit in Lord What's-his-name's woods for a time."

"He is not a lord, I tell you," says Honor rather testily, "any more than you or I. He is only a baronet.--Sir Something Somebody, I forget what now. It was only the other day that Mr. Edward Talboys was pointing out the house (The Court, I think he called it) to me, and he said that the owner was nearly always abroad, and that it had been shut up for years in consequence."

"All the better for us," remarks Doris. "Well, I'm off. Good-bye, Honor; if I find any flowers worth having, I'll bring you some."

Walking briskly along, Vic bounding forward in advance, elated at the idea of a prolonged hunt, Doris and she soon come to the woods, and climbing over a little stile, strike off down a path to the right which they both seem to be familiar with. Following this for some distance, Doris turns suddenly to the left, and in another instant is in the most lovely little glade imaginable. The girls have named it their "parlour," for it is carpeted with a rich emerald turf, which is dotted over at intervals with numberless wild flowers of the woods. Several trees have been felled at this spot, and the moss-covered stumps afford capital resting-places, especially one stump, which has two straggling sort of boughs behind it, thus forming quite an inviting arm-chair.

Opposite this is a curiously-shaped tree, which when once climbed into makes a luxurious lounge for anyone who is lazily inclined.

There being no one to embarrass Doris on this particular occasion by watching her ascent into the tree, she is established there in a very few seconds, and ordering Vic (greatly to the animal's surprise and indignation) to "lie down," she opens her book and leans back comfortably in her leafy couch. The minutes fly quickly, and the book being an interesting one, Doris hardly raises her eyes from it until a whole hour has sped away. Not till then does she become aware that Vic has entirely disappeared from view, and is not to be heard any more than seen. Doris sits up and looks round, with no satisfactory result, however; and she is just screwing up her mouth to whistle, when she is startled by a shrill cry away in the distance, followed by a shout in a man's voice of "Drop it, drop it, you brute!"

Then in another moment Vic, with a young rabbit in her strong jaws, bursts through the thicket to the right, runs across the glade, and is at once out of sight again. She is closely followed by a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, who, while making one last abortive attempt to rescue the unfortunate rabbit from its captor, catches his foot in a straggling briar and measures his length on the soft turf, almost at Doris's feet.

"Now or never!" thinks the girl to herself, preparing to descend--for with an exclamation which would doubtless have been suppressed had he guessed his close proximity to a lady, the young man commences to pick up first himself and then his hat.

With a desperate jump Doris alights safely on the stump below; but, as with a little less caution she prepares to leave that also, an unkind branch above hitches itself into one of the bows of her hat and whisks the whole erection off her head, so that when the young man suddenly turns round he finds himself confronted by a hatless young lady, who has apparently sprung from nowhere! They both look up at the hat, then they look at each other, and burst into a merry laugh.

Lifting his hat, which he has just replaced on his head, the young fellow says, "Really I must apologize for my very abrupt appearance. I had not the least idea that anyone was here. I hope I did not startle you very much. May I be permitted to inquire if you have dropped from the clouds?"

Doris indicates with a wave of her hand the place from which she has descended, and without paying attention to the words addressed to her says, "O, I wish you had been a little quicker! Do you think the poor thing was dead?"

His manner changes the moment he sees the genuine anxiety in the young face looking up at him, and he answers gently, "O, yes, I think so, certainly; and even if not then, I am very sure it must be dead now. I wish too that I could have been quicker, though for my own personal comfort I was rather disastrously so. I am afraid it is no use going after them now. It is a game little dog: does it belong to you?"

"Yes, the wretched little creature! Who would have thought of her going off hunting like that? I told her to lie down too."

An amused twinkle comes into the young man's eyes. "You could hardly expect her to do that, I think," he says, "especially in a place like this. It would not be in dog's nature to do it, you know. Have you been here long?"

"Well, yes, I suppose I have," says Doris, glancing furtively at her hat, which is wholly out of her reach. "My book was interesting, and I forgot all about time and Vic too. I suppose it _was_ hardly reasonable to expect her to keep quiet all that time."

"I think so," says her companion with a smile. "Let me put in a word for her and intreat your pardon on her behalf. But dear me, how thoughtlessly I am behaving! allowing you to stand bareheaded in the sun and never making an attempt to recover your hat for you."

"It _is_ rather hot," remarks Doris somewhat reproachfully. "The sun penetrates even this shady nook after a time;" and then she watches with keen interest the jumps and snatches which are being made at the refractory hat. "We call this our 'parlour,'" the girl goes on. "Isn't it pretty here? But I really think you had better get up on one of those stumps. I don't think you will ever get it down with your stick."

This advice being followed, the hat is captured in due course of time and handed to its owner. Then jumping down he says, "O, your 'parlour' you call it? Well, I am sure it is a very lovely one. How beautiful those shadows are! Do you know these woods well? do you often come here?"

"Yes, pretty often," replies the girl briskly. "Have _you_ ever been here before?"

"O yes, I know the place well; in fact I spent a good part of my boyhood here. Will you think me very unpardonably curious if I ask your name, and how long you have been living in Edendale? I know Sir Charles Ferrars, and I don't remember his having ever spoken of any new arrivals; and he generally keeps himself _au courant_ with the affairs of the neighbourhood, though he seldom honours it with his presence. That is why I ask."

"No, I don't suppose he _would_ have spoken of us even if he had been at the Court when we came here," says Doris a little bitterly. "We didn't arrive here with a flourish of trumpets exactly. But I am not paying attention to your questions. My name is Doris Merivale, and we have been here, let me see, rather more than four months, or _about_ four, I think. Now, I think you ought to tell me _your_ name. One good turn deserves another, you know."

"Exactly. My name is Ferrars--Lancelot Ferrars," he says carelessly and a little absently. "In fact I am a distant relation of Sir Charles."

"Oh," says Doris, and subsides into silence.

"Merivale!" repeats Mr. Ferrars softly to himself. "Have you an aunt living in London, Miss Merivale, by name Lady Woodhouse? I am sure I have seen your face somewhere before, and I can only think that it was in a frame on one of her tables."

"Very likely," remarks the girl sadly. "She used to be rather fond of talking about her eldest niece, who was to have been presented at the first drawing-room this season. Yes, she is our aunt. And so you know her? Did she tell you of our come-down in the world?"

"She told me," says Mr. Ferrars, looking kindly at the flushed face, which showed the girl's bitter thoughts and emotions, "of the sudden misfortunes of a sister and her family--not of any _come-down_, as you express it. One need not necessarily come down with adversity, you know."

Doris looks gratefully at him, then swallowing the lump in her throat she says, trying to smile, "No, perhaps not; but it makes one very cross and discontented, I think."

"Does it? You do not look either the one or the other, so far as I can see."

"O, you don't know what I am at home," says the girl shaking her head gloomily. "Now, although I have certainly enjoyed my morning out here, I have an uncomfortable sort of feeling (conscience, I suppose) that I ought to be at home domesticating. But I am not above confessing that I cordially _hate_ anything of the kind; and so I was wicked and played truant and left poor Honor to do all the work by herself."

"Honor!--what a pretty name!" says Mr. Ferrars, while he industriously peels off the bark from a little stick. "Is she your domestic?"

Doris breaks into a rippling laugh. "Honor is my sister," she says, "and the dearest old girl in the world."

"Is she much older than you?"

"Older?---she is _younger_ than I am!" exclaims Doris, fairly laughing out this time.

"I beg your pardon," begins Mr. Ferrars, looking a little vexed, "but I thought I understood you to say 'old girl' in reference to your sister just now."

"O, yes, I daresay I did," replies Doris checking her laughter; "but that is a way we all have of speaking of her. She seems like a little mother to us all, and appears to take a delight in all those things which _I_ hate. Honor has always been the industrious one of the family, and it was just the same in the school-room. Miss Denny (our late governess) used to complain dreadfully of my laziness over my lessons; and although I was supposed to be 'finished,' and was going up to town for my first season, I am _sure_ I couldn't speak a whole sentence in French without at least two mistakes. I used to tell them all not to bother about me, because I had made up my mind to marry a duke after I was presented and had 'come out;' then, you see, I could have done just as I liked, and should always have had everything done for me."

"You couldn't have had French spoken for you though," objects Mr. Ferrars smiling up at the girl, who is seated in state in the arm-chair; "and I fancy even a duchess would sometimes be called upon to speak another language than her own. Would _nothing_ less than a duke do?"

Doris shakes her head solemnly.

"I had _quite_ made up mind to be a duchess, nothing more nor less. But that is all at an end now," she adds with a little sigh. "I suppose I shall remain plain Doris Merivale to the end of my days."

"O, I don't know; why should you?"

"Well, you see, all chance of a duke or anybody of that sort is quite at an end now, and no ordinary person would care to have me."

"Why not?"

"Because I am such a useless sort of girl. Now, Honor, and even Molly (Molly is another of my sisters), would I think make good wives for poor men, because they seem to be able to turn their hands to anything, whereas every single thing I undertake, no matter what it is, is bound to fail. No, it's no use. I must make a good marriage or live and die an old maid. Aunt says that is all I am fit for, and she ought to know."

"Which, a good marriage or an old maid?" the young man inquires mischievously.

Doris suddenly stops and laughs.

"What dreadful nonsense I am talking!" she says half apologetically, and blushing a little. "I never can stop myself when I once begin, and I get dreadfully scolded at home for it. It is really quite an event to have someone to talk to though, out of the family I mean; and we are so horribly dull at home. I hope you don't think me dreadfully silly?"

"Silly! why should I?" says Mr. Ferrars kindly. "On the contrary I like to hear anyone talking naturally, and I assure you I have been very much interested in all that you have told me. Are you fond of pictures?"

"Yes; that is, I like looking at them _very_ much, but I don't understand them in the least. Honor is the one for that sort of thing."

"Does your sister paint, then?"

"Yes, she really paints well, I believe; and just before poor father died, and we became so horribly poor, she was going to have lessons from some good artist. But of course it all came to nothing. Poor Honor was bitterly disappointed."

"I am _sure_ she must have been," says Mr. Ferrars feelingly. "I know what I would have felt under the circumstances."

"Why, do _you_ paint, then?" inquires Doris, opening wide her bright blue eyes.

"Yes, oh yes; I paint a little," he answers smiling.

"Then you are an artist, I am sure!" exclaims the girl eagerly. "I was trying to settle in my own mind whether you were in the army or an artist. I was sure it was one of the two. Ah, you wretched little creature, here you are at last!"

This last remark is addressed to Vic, who with depressed tail and ears has suddenly appeared before them, looking guilty to the last degree.

"Don't scold her now, poor creature!" says Mr. Ferrars, stroking the dog's head encouragingly. "You promised to let her off, don't you remember?"

"Very well," says Doris, "I'll forgive her this time. Good gracious!" she exclaims after a little pause, "just look where the sun has got to. Why it must be one o'clock or more!"

"It is a quarter past," says Mr. Ferrars consulting his watch; "and that reminds me if I don't put my best foot foremost I'll not catch my train."

"Are you leaving Edendale then?"

"Yes, I am only passing through the place; but I could not resist taking a walk in the woods on this lovely morning. Are you in a hurry too?"

"My goodness, yes!" exclaims Doris excitedly, "I ought to have been home ages ago."

"I am so sorry," says Mr. Ferrars holding out his hand, "that I cannot accompany you home; but I fear it is impossible. I shall hope to meet you, however, some day at your aunt's. Good-bye, and thank you for the pleasant hour's talk we have had, and which I have thoroughly enjoyed." And first stooping to pick up Doris's book from the grass, on which it has been lying unnoticed ever since it fell there, he lifts his hat and walks away at a brisk pace, looking back once, before he turns off the path, to smile and wave his hand to her.

"A nice unaffected little girl," thinks Lancelot Ferrars to himself as he walks quickly towards the station. "I hope I shall see her again some day, poor child!"

And Doris, as she calls Vic to follow her, says softly to herself, "Lancelot! Lancelot Ferrars! What a pretty name! And what a nice, gentlemanly fellow he seems. Just the sort of man poor father would have liked, I think. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. I suppose not."