CHAPTER I.—COUNTRY LIFE.
The century was much younger, but it had passed its stormy infancy. Just as after a stormy night we take down the shutters and let in the light and rejoice in the calm of the dawn, so the country was beginning to breathe freely after the long years of agitation it had known. Peace was turning men's thoughts homewards, and there were even spirits daring enough to suggest that the very constitution of England itself needed patching up, or perhaps entirely renovating; scientific men were talking of the wonderful power of steam; but meantime ordinary mortals were content with the road, and were very proud of their 'High-flyers.' People were not so used to novelties then as we are now, and 'newfangled' was frequently the verdict on them, given with severity and even distrust. The far-spreading ocean of Time rubs off points and sharp corners, and leaves them smooth and rounded, and ready to fit in. But the eddies had scarcely yet stirred our far-off west county village. Once a week indeed, the Squire had a newspaper, which he lent to the Rector, who gave the benefit of it to some of his parishioners in his calls before passing it on to the doctor; and so news slowly circulated. It was such a quiet spot; the Parsonage and the Hall nestled lovingly together, with the Church like a link between; a small apology for a village was tucked close under the hill; and a few farms and homesteads scattered here and there completed the parish. But such a wealth of broad fair meadows and laden orchards lay around! The upland fields were bleaker and more stubborn, but the growth of purple heather covered many deficiencies, at least to the eye of the lover of beauty; and the all-bountiful Hand that planted the earth had crowned the ridges of hills with trees. Such trees, so grand and calm and stately in their growth! Winter had the hardest possible fight to rob them of their last robes; even November, whose sky is proverbially 'chill and drear'—November, whose 'leaf is red and sear,' found them in a perfect sunset glory, from gold to deepest purple.
'I do not believe there are any trees like ours,' exclaimed Dorothy Linley; and I think she ought to know, for she had lived with them all her life—not that it was a very long life either when our, or rather her story begins. She had scarcely seen a score of years; but things look bright and sharply defined seen through the clear atmosphere of youth. It was no wonder that she thought so on this afternoon as she stood at the open window, looking up the long avenue of pink-and-white horse-chestnuts, while the air was fragrant with the May from the tree on the lawn. It was not a mere afternoon tea, but the real meal that was laid in the Rectory drawing-room. In those days the article itself was costly but good, and they drank it out of tiny cups. Some had been handed down from a former generation and had no handles, others of more modern make had. Dorothy's mother was sitting at the table, surveying with a little pleased satisfaction its hospitable spread of country dainties prepared under her own eye, if not with her own hands. They were expecting a guest—Madam from the Hall. Mrs Linley's hands were never idle; the whole parish could bear witness to her 'notableness;' and her daughters were considered models of 'bringing up.'
'You would not have liked to live in the town where you were born, my dear,' she said in answer to Dorothy's exclamation; then suffering her work to drop into her lap, she looked beyond the slight figure at the window, away through the chestnuts, far back into the past. 'I thought as you do when first I walked up this avenue carrying you, an infant, in my arms. Your father and I had had a hard struggle—his means were so small as a curate, and he tried in vain to increase them by teaching—those were such terrible times; bread was almost at famine price; and I have sat with windows and doors bolted and barred, trembling to hear the people in the streets, for bread-riots were not uncommon. Everything was taxed, even the light that came in at the windows; so many of them were closed up, making the houses dark and gloomy. We could hardly believe it, when your father's cousin Kent Linley, whom he had not seen for years, wrote to say that the family "living" was vacant, and sooner than give it to a stranger, he offered it to him.'
'It must have been like a glimpse of Paradise, mother.'
'It was; for your father's health was giving way under the strain. He would have it that you, our first child, born just when our troubles were greatest, were the herald of the peace that was coming; and when he gave you his mother's name, he called you also Olive. You were the first he christened at the little church here, and "Dorothy Olive" the first name he wrote on the parish register.'
'Was Madam at the Hall then?' asked her daughter.
'No; the Squire brought home his bride two years later, before your sister was born; and Mrs Melton used to come and see us very often. As you know, she gave Juliet her own name. We thought it rather fanciful, but could not refuse so kind a friend.' Mrs Linley looked up and smiled as the owner of it entered the room—a younger copy of herself, small, and with the same sweet tender eyes.
'Mother dear,' said the new-comer, seating herself beside her, 'do you know what it is my godmother is coming to talk about this afternoon?'
'No, my child: perhaps some parish matter.'
'Perhaps,' said Dorothy from the window, 'it may be the long-talked-of visit to London.'
'Oh, if it should!' cried Juliet, her face flushing with delight at the thought.
'Well, we shall not have long to wait,' answered their mother, laying down her work; 'for I hear the wheels coming up the avenue;' and the Squire's large roomy carriage, drawn by its two sleek well-fed horses, drawing up to the door, they all rose to receive their guest.