CHAPTER IX.
WHICH INTRODUCES THE READER TO THE SUMMER-HOUSE ON BERNE HILLS, AND
ILLUSTRATES THE TRUTH OF AN OLD PROVERB ABOUT EAVES-DROPPERS.
It was pleasantly situated at the top of Berne Hills. It had originally been a watch-tower, but Mr. Tallant had converted it into what they called the summer-house. There were comfortable seats in it, and a few odd books and pictures. It commanded sixty miles or more of scenery, flat, undulating, and mountainous; wood, water, and pastures; towns, villages, and hamlets.
You might search the country through, and not find a scene more truly English and more perfectly beautiful. In spring, if you journeyed to that summit from Barton Hall, when the sun was shining and the sky serene, you might fancy yourself in the Happy Valley indeed.
The way is over meadows, down lanes, up sloping hill-sides, through woods, and by rippling water-courses. There are violets in the hedgerows, and daffodils in the meadows, and primroses in the woods. Anemones tremble in secluded thickets, and there are fruit-trees in bloom in the distant orchards, that gleam through the faintly green trees.
Phœbe Tallant and Amy Somerton walked up to the summer-house several times in the spring and summer months; sometimes they rode part of the way on rough ponies, but oftener they walked the whole distance, interrupted only by a stray deer from the adjacent park of Montem Castle or a fox from the Berne covers. Only, did I say, by a deer or a fox? Truly; for was not Mr. Phillips a fox, to sketch so continually amongst those Berne Hills?
The day after Amy Somerton had received her brother’s full report about Mr. Hammerton, she proposed a walk to the summer-house, and Miss Tallant gladly accepted the challenge.
Phœbe was always ready for a long ramble; and the spring sunshine on this day was particularly inviting.
Taking their alpine sticks and donning their jauntiest hats, our two fair maidens, arm in arm, passed over the smooth, green lawn, and soon disappeared behind the shrubs and trees.
Luke Somerton, who had been up into the woods for a brace of rabbits, watched them unobserved as they entered the lane near Barton Hall, and an expression of pride lighted up his manly face as he gazed on the supple and graceful form of his daughter Amy.
Richard Tallant spoke truly when he was joking Mr. Shuffleton Gibbs about Somerton’s beautiful daughter. It would have been as much as any man’s life were worth to have insulted Amy Somerton in the knowledge of her father.
“I tell you, Luke Somerton,” said Mrs. S., when Luke entered the house, “that Mr. Hammerton is bent upon no good with regard to Amy.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” said Luke, laying down his rabbits, and putting his gun into a case by the fireplace.
“When you see a fox about the fold-yard, what do you think he is seeking?” asked Mrs. Somerton, sneeringly.
“Foxes be hanged!” said Luke.
“And fools be hanged!” said Mrs. Somerton, banging the door, and leaving her liege lord to his own thoughts.
“By all means,” said Luke, still thinking of the handsome women whom he had seen in the lane.
“And that painter fellow,” said Mrs. Somerton, returning; “he’s in the woods yonder. Old Tallant must have lost the small portion of brains that God gave him to begin with, if he can’t see that his daughter is befooling him.”
“Why, Sarah, you are mad on this point. These girls seem to worry your life out.”
“Mad? You may trust a mother’s eyes, Luke Somerton, to see what’s going on. I tell you, that ugly little blackamoor painter fellow is making love to Miss Tallant, and that the future Lord Verner is sneaking about after our Amy.”
“The future Lord Verner after Amy!—stuff! you’re dreaming, wife,” said Luke.
“Some people’s dreams are as good as the waking thoughts of other people,” Mrs. Somerton replied.
“Well, we shall see—we shall see,” said Luke, carelessly.
“Yes, when it’s too late,” Mrs. Somerton rejoined, with an emphatic nod of her head.
And so the subject dropped. Meanwhile Phœbe and Amy were enjoying the spring sunshine at the top of Berne Hills. The glorious beams shot down upon the landscape from behind little scudding clouds, and made the beech-trees shine like silver.
The river that wound its way from east to west shone out here and there in great white patches.
Hundreds of shifting shadows fell upon hill and dale; lulling sounds came up the hills from the villages round about; the birds sung as they only sing in Avonworth Valley; and everything breathed of peace, content, and happiness.
“And so you think Mr. Hammerton is getting into bad company, Amy?” said Miss Tallant, when the two fair girls had sat down to rest in the summer-house.
“He is, indeed,” said Amy, seriously.
“Gambling?”
“Yes; to a dreadful extent, Paul says.”
“May I see the letter, dear?” Miss Tallant asked, laying her hand affectionately on Amy’s shoulder.
“I tell you candidly, Phœbe dear, I do not like to let you see what Paul says about your brother.”
“Don’t mind that. I have long since believed my brother to be much less noble in his conduct than could be desired,” said Phœbe.
“Have you ever heard of his friend, Mr. Gibbs?”
“No, dear. Who is he?”
“Oh, a dreadful man, I believe; unfit altogether for the society of your brother.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Richard Tallant, in a whisper, as he stood quietly smoking a cigar near the open doorway of the summer-house. “The conversation becomes interesting.”
“In what respect?” asked Phœbe.
“Why, dear, Paul has made every possible inquiry, and he pronounces him to be no better than a swindler; and he says many men have been transported and hanged who have done nothing worse than Mr. Gibbs has done,” said Amy, with animation.
“Those are strong words, Amy,” said Miss Tallant.
“They are, by Jove!” said her brother to himself; “but true, I believe, by my soul!”
“Not too strong, I fear, Miss Tallant,” Amy went on; “and——but I would rather not show you the letter.”
“Now you are getting angry, Miss Somerton,” said Amy, kissing her companion’s cheek.
“Forgive me, dear Phœbe; I did not mean to use that odious word, ‘Miss.’”
And then the two girls kissed each other, and Amy handed Paul’s letter to Miss Tallant without more ado.
“By Jove!” said Richard Tallant to himself, “that sister of mine is a perfect fool. The bailiff’s daughter is fairly master of her; and, egad, I don’t wonder at it.”
“This is indeed dreadful. Your brother has certainly been indefatigable. Richard the associate of gamblers and the loosest men in town, and sanctioning a plot to ruin Mr. Hammerton! This truly is sad news,” said Miss Tallant, reading Paul’s letter, and commenting upon it as she read.
“Yes, by Jove!” said Mr. Richard Tallant, dropping the remains of his cigar, and crushing it under his heel. “So-ho, Master Sneak! I’ll be even with you, my fine fellow. A devilish nice thing to be tracked about by a junior clerk, set on by his sister, the daughter of my father’s bailiff. We’ll see about this. Shall I play the eaves-dropper any longer?”
“And what have you said in reply?” Phœbe asked, folding the letter, and returning it to Amy.
“I have told Paul he must warn Mr. Hammerton in some way; that he must take means to let him know that he is being duped.”
“You are putting too much on the boy’s shoulders, I think,” said Phœbe.
“Oh! I wish I were a man for one month—just for a month, Phœbe,” said Miss Somerton, starting from her seat, her eyes sparkling, and her little mouth pursed up. “But, alas! I am only a woman, and a vain, weak, silly creature, I fear,” she continued, re-seating herself and sighing.
“Weak and silly!” said Phœbe, quietly. “Why weak and silly?” Then dropping her voice and putting her arm round Amy’s waist, she asked: “Do I know why you call yourself weak and silly?”
Amy started and blushed, and bent her head, spirited and full of mettle as she appeared to be a moment previously.
“Don’t blush, Amy dear. Do I know why you blush?” and Phœbe kissed her companion’s forehead.
“I am a vain, silly, stupid creature, Phœbe; and you must despise me.”
Phœbe only pressed her friend’s hand in reply.
“You must easily have read all my heart to-day,” Amy went on, trembling at her own temerity. “Paul’s letter, my hasty words this morning, my interest in his doings, my——”
“Of course, of course,” said Phœbe, quite in a reassuring, comforting way: “you love Mr. Hammerton. There, don’t start, my dearest, like that. I know you do, and why should you not?”
Pale and trembling Amy looked for a moment at her friend, and the tears started into her eyes.
“You must think me mad,” she said.
“Indeed I do not, my pet,” said Phœbe, quite cheerfully, and kissing Amy again. “It is natural to love a fine, dashing fellow like Mr. Hammerton; quite natural in a high-spirited girl like you.”
“It is madness, vanity, and everything that is weak,” said Amy.
“Nonsense, nonsense, child!” Phœbe replied. “You are worthy the love of the finest gentleman in England.”
“Ah, Phœbe! you and I know but little of the world. Mr. Hammerton is as far above me as a prince is above a peasant. I am foolish, wickedly foolish, to have permitted my liking to have got the better of my judgment.”
“Why, I could almost venture to say Mr. Hammerton is in love with you as much as you are in love with him,” said Phœbe, cheerily.
Amy shook her head sadly, as she thought of the difference between them in rank and station.
“Bless me!” said Phœbe, divining her thoughts; “princes have married peasant-girls before now, and shall not an earl’s son—and only a younger son, remember—be proud of the love of a true and noble heart like yours?”
Phœbe grew quite eloquent and enthusiastic. “Consult your favourite poet when we return, Amy, and read about King Cophetua.”
“I need not ask you never to breathe a word of my silly confession to anyone at any time?” said Amy, now a little more like her former self.
“Trust me,” said Phœbe, as she gathered up her hat and cloak, which had lain upon the table.
“My feelings overcame me; but it is a relief now, even to have confided my weakness and vanity to you,” said Amy; and then the two impulsive beauties embraced each other again.
“Humph!” said Mr. Richard Tallant, “I must have a hand in this pretty little business.”