Country Visits

27

Country Visits

    “So, you have a letter from your Aunty Midge!” said Dr Golightly kindly to his little wife.

    “Yes,” agreed Polly with a strange look on her face.

    “Is anything wrong, my love?”

    “Oh, no!” she said quickly. “They are all keeping well, and... It is a trifle odd, that is all. Read it, Arthur: see what you think.”

    Trying not to look resigned, Dr Golightly took the letter.

My dear Polly,

    Pray remark instantly how your aunt has gone up in the world: BLEFFORD PARK. In Oxfordshire. A giant pile. Hideous. Famous for its Elizabethan chapel, no, I have that wrong: for the ceiling of its Elizabethan chapel. We have not seen it yet, as it has poured steadily ever since we got here.

    I have written you of Lady Blefford before: they were, of course, our neighbours in town. She has been all that is kind and welcoming. She and Katerina are getting on so well together, the which is not surprising, for they are both sweet-natured persons possessed of that innate kindness to their fellow beings which cannot be either feigned, or, alas, learned. You already know her babies are adorable, so I shall not prose on, on that subject, except to say that I have now discovered that Lord Blefford’s name is Christian: do you like it? Might it do for Baby, in the case that he is a boy and Arthur remains adamant against “Arthur” and the Dean against “David”? It suits Lord B.: he is all that is kind and good, entirely right-thinking politically, very concerned for the welfare of the labouring classes, and his servants adore him. I confess that I sank to verifying his goodness and enquired in the most artless way possible of a gardener what wage the local farm labourers are paid: the proof of the pudding, you know. My dear Polly, they get 12 shillings per week! Not even the shepherds get that in our district. He is very interested in the question of suffrage: Arthur will know, his Lordship frequently speaks of it in the Lords. We had such a pleasant talk last night after dinner, and found ourselves quite in accord on the most serious subjects.

    We had been previously warned that B. Park is the most notoriously cold and draughty of places, old Lady Jessamine Heyne going so far as to warn my blushing self, in front of Lord Sleyven, naturally, that red flannel petticoats are de rigueur for most of the year. But in fact the Earl and Countess live in the cosiest set of apartments, and have closed up the very grand rooms, only using them for state occasions. We have not been chilly at all, and I made the opportunity to run upstairs and see that my little May is comfortable: Lady B.’s housekeeper has very kindly put her in with Lady Rupert Narrowmine’s maid, who is not very much older than she. They have piles of coverlets, a fire at any time, and warming-pans galore! I was touched to see that Lady R.’s maid had her dolly on her bed. I should explain that Lord R. is Lord Blefford’s younger brother, and amazingly unlike him in everything but good nature. Not very bright, very much the hearty country squire, tho’ this fortunately seems to be what Lady Rupert desires! She has not a brain in her head, but v. pretty, with buttery yellow curls. They have a very little girl, “Alfreda Lettice,” for the present Lady B. and Lady Rupert’s mamma, but call her Freddie: quite a pretty notion, what do you think?

    You will wish to know who is distinguishing the distinguished pile besides our only partly distinguished party and the Narrowmines. Major L. and Janey have come, and Yoly Renwick and her brother, plus Lady B.’s younger sister with her husband: Mr and Mrs Tarlington. The latter v. like Lady B. in appearance: those great deep sapphire eyes and black curls with the very white skin. She is lively in manner, and very clever indeed, but appears most content to live a retired life in the obscure depths of Wiltshire. His name is Aden. A family name; very unusual, is it not? Would you consider it for Baby? He is some years her senior: a sardonic personality of a quite frightening intelligence. Not, I would think, an easy person to live with, but appears devoted to her. They have a very little boy, aged nearly fifteen months, who is with them: Simeon, for her papa. Yes? No? I like it. His father refers to him as “Simnel Pudding”; I made the mistake of pointing out that the confection is more commonly known as cake, to which he immediately retorted, looking down his quite extraordinarily handsome nose, that a damp bundle in a cloth was commonly called a pudding, an he mistook not? In the most blighting of tones! Yours truly immediately collapsing in hysterical giggles, for it was the most unexpected thing!

    That is the complete house party for now, but M. d’Arresnes is due tomorrow. Despite Lord Sleyven’s claims to the contrary, it was not I who was such a gaby as to hint to our kind hostess that he be invited, and in fact suspect he invited himself. I may be a country nobody but I quite understand that, mere tho’ he may be in Miss Partridge’s terms, his family will not wish him to ally himself with an unknown Miss Renwick whose fortune consists of two hundred pounds and a brass statuette of an Indian goddess with 6 arms.

    Miss P. and Brother P. blessedly absent. They are to meet us at Jellicott Reach. They can scarcely be said to be missing anything: for the china at Blefford P. is, Lady Rupert N. assures us, all hideous (tho’ we could see that for ourselves) and the Narrowmine family portraits, Lord Rupert N. assures us, “a frightful pack of fellows”, at whom we do not want to look! And nor we do. And we have not had to play basset, casino, nor any other elegant card game, or dance a quadrille or a gavotte yet, either!

    The letter ended with enquiries after Polly’s health and good wishes to herself and her husband. Dr Golightly put it down, smiling. “I cannot see anything odd in this, my love.”

    Apparently he was blind! For Polly’s Aunty Midge had mentioned Lord Sleyven only twice in the course of the entire letter—see? She proved it fiercely. And both times slightingly!

    He did not point out that the first time had been a mere passing reference, related to red flannel. By now he was an experienced enough husband merely to say humbly: “I see, my dear.”

    Cheering up immediately, Polly replied: “But at least she is interested in the babies! That must be a hopeful sign!”

    Kindly Arthur agreed with her. And did not voice his own feeling that the amount of emphasis on the babies at Blefford Park was due rather more to Miss Burden’s desire to write something that would interest her niece, than to any innate interest in the subject on the part of the correspondent.

My dear Janey,

    Just a quick note to say ALL yr. predictions have come true: Lady Julia and Sir Derek Morphett even stiffer in their country home, tho’ some of us did not think that possible, than in town. Morphett Manor, essentially a delightful Jacobean house, ruined by the cold formality of its interior arrangements, to say nothing of that of its owners; whist, whist and more whist; Lady J.’s maternal aunt, a Mrs Frobisher, pumps one on the most intimate details of one’s relations’ confinements, &c., ignoring one’s own maidenly state, and notes with reference to one’s presumptive fiancé-to-be in one’s hearing: “Such a pity that the title had to revert to that side”; Sir D.’s maternal uncle, a Mr Joshua Haydon-Pruitt—yes, Haydon-hyphen-Pruitt—assures one that one’s widow’s portion should be large and that one’s family must make sure it is so, for both the father and grandfather of one’s presumptive fiancé-to-be dropped dead, his expression, before they were sixty!!

    The china is hideous and without exception Chinese and very rare, in fact there is a cabinetful of yellow Chinese emperor’s Um and another of what I unerringly identified as “Celandine ware”, myself and Katerina then having to retire precipitately to bed on the excuse of exhaustion after the journey. Well, Sir Derek had just told me that the Laceys, dear Lady Caroline’s mamma’s family, are directly traceable to a Royal bastard in the time of Henry IV! I admit he did not sound interested as he said it, but what would you have done?

    As to the other guests: there are none, that that is why we are at the mercy of Mrs F. and Mr J.-Hyphen-P. Possibly this is not because Lady Julia is ashamed of us, for according to her maternal aunt, she dislikes entertaining! Mrs F., by the by, ascertained less than two minutes after being introduced that our darling Katerina is not one of the Pughs of You Know Where. Grr!

    Write me how much you are hating your continued sojourn at Blefford Park, I beg! Nota B., it had best be to Jellicott Reach: we are due there at the end of the week. And, dare I say it? It cannot be worse than this!

I remain, tho’ possibly not for long, for how much can the merely human frame take?

Your Suffering Friend,

MILLICENT Burden.

    Janey replied from Blefford Park with the following:

My dear Miss Burden,

    My heart goes out to you, as does Yoly’s, and she is writing you herself. Tho’ I fear she will not tell you as much news as I shall!

    As you saw, M. d’Arresnes was in a positive ecstasy to discover (tho’ that is not the word!) Yoly at Blefford Park. The ecstasy has deepened, and he confided to Lord Rupert Narrowmine on the Wednes. night, possibly unaware that he is one of the greatest loose-tongues in Society, that he would not offer for any of the daughters of the Princesse P. if they were the last females on earth, even had the one they had intended for him not been his sister. And that it is a hum, put about by his paternal relatives, that he must marry money!! Lord R. could not wait to tell Lady R., very naturally, and she, very naturally, confided it all to myself and Mrs Tarlington during a stroll in the shrubbery the next morning. The plot then thickened, for Only Guess Who arrived that same afternoon! You will not, so I shall tell you: M. le Prince Henri-Louis, with, amongst other possibly more notable but less noteworthy names, the Vicomte’s aunt, Mme de Fontenay, and his Mother!!! The Vicomte’s, not H.-L.’s., I think she is dead or living in deepest obscurity in Leamington Spa, or some such. Dinner that night v. stiff, as you may imagine! I wore my apricot, but a warm petticoat under, having been warned by Lord Rupert about the DRAFTS in the formal drawing-room. –Hideous. Gold brocade. Gilded troglodytes. Red marble plinths.

    The stiffness continues, but having come under interrogation by Mme d’A., Papa and I were able to inform her of Yoly’s Plantagenet blood. Goodness knows if it did any good. The (literal) frost threatens, but holds off, so the gentlemen are able to get out after whatever part of the brute creation it is that they slaughter at this time of year. Lord Rupert bagged three rabbits but I am not absolutely sure if he was aiming at them. H.-L. refused to go, telling us ladies frankly that he much preferred to stay in the warm. The older French ladies, thank goodness, closeted themselves away with poor dear Lady B., so we had him to ourselves. He has the sweetest nature: warm and charming. What a tragedy that they have some pug-nosed Austrian princess lined up for him! I ventured to express this thought, and Son Altesse professed himself entirely flattered. The gentlemen returning in time for tea, I was flattered to find Major Renwick glooming, but positively glooming at H.-L. in the most Byronic way imaginable! Sat next the Major at dinner and informed him that Son Altesse knows that honey, not to say flattery in the place of reprimands, is well known to attract flies of the opposite gender. He had the amazing impertinence to reply that he was disappointed in my Character!! “Major,” I said: “I fear that cannot be so; tho’ it is all too likely that you are disappointed to find my character does not approximate to that of some prunes-and-prisms nullity which you had apparently had fixed in your head.” He sulked all evening, so I flirted à suivie with H.-L. We got up an impromptu hop, and I confess I hopped every step with Son Altesse! Well, how often does one get a chance to dance with a Prince? A real one, rather than an imaginary Russian, I mean! Yoly hopped all but two with the V. Gave Lord Rupert one and Papa one, so I do not think the V. has anything to fear!

    Next morning Mme d’A. took a stroll with Yoly, horrors. I attempted to pump her after, but could get only: “She was most gracious, I suppose.”—“But Yoly,” cry I, “what did she ask you?” Poor Y., looking v. disconcerted. replies: “She did not ask me anything, as such.” Goodness! One may make  of that what one pleases, I suppose.

    Must fly, H.-L. has promised to teach me to drive a pair!

In Haste, not to say Flutter, Yr devoted,

Janey.

    “Oh, dear!” said Midge with a weak laugh, handing this missive to Katerina.

    Katerina read it carefully. “This is terrible! Poor Major Renwick.”

    “Well, he has acted like a stick, you know, Katerina.”

    “Miss Burden, how can you? He acted like a man of honour!”

    “I do not deny it. Also like a stick.”

    Katerina bit her lip. “Er—well, a little, yes. It—it was not the right tack to take with a girl of Janey’s spirit.”

    “No, indeed.”

    “Perhaps it is best that he should find it out now, if they do not suit,” she murmured, frowning over it.

    “I think so, yes,” agreed Midge. “Janey can be a handful, you know. Major Renwick strikes me as the sort of man who would wish for an equal partner in his wife.”

    “Ye-es... But one cannot arrange such things to order,” she said, looking distressed.

    “No, very true,” agreed Midge with a sigh. “Well, it may yet work out. Janey has plenty of common sense. And she is very young as yet.”

    “Yes. And—and what do you think of what she says of Yoly and the Vicomte, Miss Burden?”

    “I think that that will not be up to either of the interested parties, Katerina, frankly. M. le Vicomte will be allowed to offer only in the case—and I cannot help but see it as an unlikely case—that his relatives approve of Yoly and her family.”

    “The Renwicks are a very old family.”

    “Yes, but their particular branch of it has scarce a penny to bless itself with,” said Midge heavily.

    “Mm. I wonder how true it is, that M. d’Arresnes must marry money.”

    “As true as it is of any well-born young Frenchman today, I fear. Lady Caroline says that the family lost everything in the Terror. And that so far even Henri-Louis’s influence has not prevailed to get his friend his château back. Well, the estates: I gather the château itself was burned to the ground.”

    “Oh, dear.”

    They looked at each other, and sighed.

Dearest Letty.

    I write in a stunned state, so trust you will forgive any incoherency. Incoherence? One of them. Jellicott Reach, as I think I wrote you, is the country seat of Captain Cornwallis’s sister Phoebe’s husband. Help: what a plethora of possessives. His name is not Jellicott, nor anything like it. Hornby, in fact. Mr Partridge’s claim is that the name Jellicott Reach comes from a very old French form, “Juel,” possibly corrupted with, very probably, Anglo-Norman (?), but my ears were buzzing, so I may have misheard: and it has nothing to do with “jelly,” but means “jewel”. “Cott” as in “dovecot,” thus: “Jewel-House Reach.” I have to say that “Jelly-House Reach” seems as likely to my humble self.

    We arrived to find Miss Cornwallis already in residence, fully prepared in the first instance to look down her nose at our dear Katerina and in the second, to hurl her friend Miss Frewsham at Captain C.’s head—no-one having apprised her that Miss F.’s partiality for acid-green woollen gowns must rule her out of the question for Captain C.’s yellow head. Miss Partridge and Brother also in residence, fully prepared, in the intervals of explaining the entomology of Jelly-House Reach, to explain the provenance of its silver, china, furniture and paintings. Not to mention that of its inhabitants.

    The Colonel and Mrs Langford were reading the letter together: at this point he went into a dreadful wheezing fit, emerging from it to gasp in limp explanation: “Insects!”

    Lettice managed to ignore this. Knowing Midge, there would be worse to come.

    Mrs Hornby a very pleasant woman, most kind and welcoming to Katerina. Mr H. kind but, I fancy, something of a nonentity: content to let his wife rule him. We had settled in nicely, finding ourselves almost able, by the second day, to overlook Brother P.’s raptures over the suit of armour in the (obviously) armoury, which actually Mr H. has turned into a library, and Miss P.’s raptures over the discovery, not unassisted by Miss Cornwallis, that the Captain’s mother is related to the Dalrymples (?) of Maundy (??) Sett (???), when Mr Bottomley-Pugh and Mr Vaughan turned up, on their appointed hour, and overset EVERYTHING by informing Miss Cornwallis that Mr Butterworth, as I am sure you know, has offered for Eugenia Waldgrave! Little Mr Vaughan ventured feebly as she and Miss Frewsham went into joint hysterics that they have not heard that she has accepted him, but I do not think he was noticed, poor boy. Of course no-one had the slightest idea that Miss C. had conceived of an interest in that direction. Tho’ dear Lady Caroline, as we eventually escaped the atmosphere of burnt feathers and recriminations to change for dinner, did murmur in my ear that it was possibly a case of the lady fancying herself a Charlotte Lucas to his Mr Collins: after his sad disappointment in re Miss Patterson and her sister, you see!

    The Colonel went into another wheezing fit.

    Lettice smiled, but said: “Charles, look what she says, here: do you not find it curious? ‘By the by, the only thing I shall really miss about London—aside from several delightful Naval gentlemen, ça va sans dire!—is the availability of all the books. I did make enquiries about the cost of having the new novels sent to one, but it is not to be thought of. I shall take Mr Humphreys’s advice, and take up Horace in the original.’”

     “Eh? Jarvis can certainly afford to get the new books for her,” he said blankly.

    “Well, quite! Um—she says herself she is in a stunned state: perhaps she is forgetting that such a matter would be nothing to a very wealthy man,” said Lettice on an uneasy note.

    The Colonel pulled his ear with his good hand. “Mm. Well, come along, my dear: what does she say of Leonard and his bourgeoise raven-haired Diana?”

    “Really, Charles!” said his wife, her colour very much heightened.

    The Colonel could only hope that his tactless choice of phrase had distracted her from the curiousness of Midge’s assuming she would be unable to afford the new novels in her future life.

    Mr Bottomley-Pugh at his most amiable—thank goodness! For I am aware, if his presumptive future in-laws are not, that he can be amazingly hard and sardonic when he so wishes. Tho’ I hasten to add, he has never been so to me, and I have never seen him treat his children so. Nor is he indulging in his “simple merchant” impersonation, which he tends to do in the company of those who fancy themselves above him. The Hornbys are not patronizing him at all, and once he had grasped that the dull-minded Mr H. was quite serious in asking his advice about heating his conservatory, he relaxed almost visibly! Katerina appears quietly happy, and Captain Cornwallis’s demeanour can only be described as blissful: so altho’ he has not formally asked, yet, we are all predicting it cannot be long! I have decided to be unreservedly pleased about it: the more we see of him the more we realize what a decent fellow he is.

    “Thank God for that,” said the Colonel frankly.

    “Well, of course I am glad for your friend!” said Lettice, squeezing his arm. “But would Midge’s opinion count for so much?”

    Wincing, Colonel Langford replied: “You may be sure of it. In the first instance, old Bottomley-Pugh’s cracked on her, and in the second instance, she has such a strong character: if she were to express an adverse opinion of poor old Leonard to Miss B.-P.— Well!”

    “Ye-es... The girls all admire her, of course, and I know Katerina is very fond of her... I think that is going too far, though, Charles, when it is a case of committing herself to a man for the rest of her life.”

    “I think you do not see Midge very clearly: you have been too close to her all these years,” said the Colonel on a dry note.

    “Well, we shall not argue over it: she is certainly the most determined person I know,” she said, smiling at him. “But I must take serious exception to the expression ‘cracked on her’, Charles!”

    “Eh? Oh!” he said, sniggering.

    “What are a dozen blue-legged French hens, after all?”

    “Well, not just that, my love, but the way the poor fellow would look at her whenever they were in company together. You missed most of it. I think, when you were waiting for Master Justin to deign to put in an appearance.”

    Lettice laughed, but conceded: “I am very sorry for him, if it was so. We must try to see something of him when he returns home.”

    The Colonel agreed mildly, not pointing out that possibly Mr Bottomley-Pugh might not care to be suddenly taken up by Kendlewood Place, and returned to the letter.

    The rest, however, is all frightful: Miss Cornwallis and Miss Frewsham, not necessarily in tandem but sometimes in competition, contend fiercely with Miss Partridge in the matter of connections of connections, houses one has visited, names to be dropped with a resounding thunder-roll, and sad, sad stories, none of which redound to the credit of the characters in them.

    Mr Vaughan B.-P. was fast lapsing into a melancholy, only that Lord S. took pity on him and dragged him off to find a horse and get out and do gentlemanly things on it. On them: they both get out. One is tempted to say, out of it, but that is merely green jealousy, resulting from the necessity imposed by one’s gender of staying indoors, or at most strolling genteelly in the shrubbery, and Listening.

    However, Brother P. has decided I have to learn to sketch, and Jellicott Reach is the very thing to teach me! Miss P., needless to state. encouraging him. Even Mr Bottomley-Pugh has failed me in this regard: upon the Earl’s approving of the scheme, he lent his support to it! I said to him: “Mr Bottomley-Pugh, I had thought I had an ally in you, at least!” and he replied, with the wickedest look in that clever eye of his: “Nay, Miss Burden, sketching is a very ladylike accomplishment, and Mr Partridge seems like just the fellow to teach it you.” ! I can only hope that every bluestocking hen he owns will rise up as one hen and peck him to death for this wilful persecution of one of their gender!

    Lady Caroline, by the by, manages quietly to dissociate herself from the whole thing. My conclusion is, alas, that one must be a Wynton born and over seventy years of age to be able to achieve it.

    At this point Mrs Langford, sad to state, broke down in helpless gales of laughter. “She—has not—artistic—bone—in body!” she gasped through the gales.

    “No: poor old Midgey, eh?” agreed the Colonel, grinning. But with a doubtful look in his eye which his wife, mopping hers, did not see.

    The letter concluded with a bitter description of Jellicott Reach’s architecture and a sample of Midge’s “sketching”. Mrs Langford went into hysterics again. The Colonel sniggered, but quietly abstracted the letter and took it away to peruse again at his leisure. She had mentioned Jarvis once, and that not in reference to herself. Well... some sort of maidenly modesty? And perhaps she was annoyed with the fellow for getting on out of it and leaving her to the tender mercies of Miss C., the bosom-bow, and Mr and Miss P. After considerable pulling of his ear, he sat down and scratched out a note to Jarvis. On the assumption that it could not do any harm, and might possibly do some good.

    The Earl replied very promptly, as follows:

Dear Charles,

    Have faith. All will be well.

    As to Leonard: yes, I am very pleased. As we know, he is a thoroughly good fellow. Katerina Bottomley-Pugh is a delightful girl with a solid character and a kind heart: I have no doubt that she will make him very happy. Phoebe Hornby, of course, is an amiable woman who would be prepared to like any woman whom Leonard wished to make his wife, but the rest of the Cornwallis family is gradually coming round to it, I am glad to say: the pill being very much sweetened by the revelation of the size of Bottomley-Pugh’s fortune.

    I have writ to tell Judith that Simon may have The Winnows when Corcoran gives up the lease, if he is still interested in farming after his spell learning the ropes at the hands of Jeffson! But I have another candidate in mind for Oak Ring House: the rumour that I am repairing it for Simon is not correct. Shelby writes me that the repairs are going splendidly, but if you should care to ride over in the direction of Upper Nettlefold, I should be pleased to get your report. Write me at Gratton Hall, if you should care to: we move on from here, minus Miss B.-P., of course, to Lanniford Abbey, and shall be with the G.-G.’s within the week.

    The other rumour you have hold of, that I am about to acquire Dinsley House, is correct.

Ever yours,

Jarvis.

    “If that is not just like the fellow! I suppose I should be grateful he ain’t signin’ himself Sleyven,” he muttered. “And as for repairing Oak Ring House: re-buildin’ would be more like!” He pulled his ear slowly, thinking it over. “Well, who?” he muttered.

    He decided not to show the note to Lettice. For it raised more questions than it answered, damn the fellow!

Dear Janey,

    Just a quick note to say we are on our travels again and have halted at Agsley House en route to Lanniford Abbey. Agsley House belongs to the Vane-Hunters. You may not have heard of Sir William, of that ilk. If so, you are fortunate. Major Vane-Hunter all present and correct. Well, not entirely correct, and I was driven to smack his hand this very afternoon, but only lightly, for it was so pleasant to see a friendly face. Or any face that was not that of Miss Cornwallis, Miss Frewsham or Miss P., frankly. Mrs Camilla Vane-Hunter has deserted the pussies, but only momentarily. Unfortunately I could not remember any of their names and could only say inanely: “And how are the cats, Mrs Camilla?” It did not go over at all well.

    Janey, it is terrible: the Wigzells are here! Of course, they are connections—or is that the other side of the family? However it may be, they are here: Mr Putnam, Miss Wigzell and a brother and sister whom we did not meet in London: the elder Mr Wigzell, and a Mrs Forsyth. They are as bad as the others: Mr W. even more lugubrious than his brother; Mrs F. of the cattish variety, but sweet with it: acid-sweet, you know the style. I was patronized unmercifully and on Miss Partridge’s gallantly informing them that dear Will had been in the Rifle Brigade, was flattened utterly by the remark: “Not one of the old regiments.” There was only one Wynton present at that moment and he smiled. He deserves everything I can think of to pour on his horrid head and I have totally hardened my heart against him.

    Pray excuse this haste: I must rush to dress for dinner, the main course of which will be a Vane-Hunter cousin’s unsuitable marriage dressed with the sauce of the general undesirability of marriages between persons of disparate fortunes and stations in life. Brother P. may be allowed to provide a dessert of the tragedy of the fine Vane-H. Elizabethan pepperpots (?) having been lost to Cromwell’s wicked raiders, but on present showing it is more like it will have to give way to the nuts and raisins of Lady Vane-Hunter’s hopes for a depressed little Miss Vane-H. in the direction of one of Lord S.’s cousin Josiah’s sons. It has not dawned on her that he loathes those cousins, and I shall not be the one to enlighten her. Let him suffer, it is more than his turn.

Love to Yoly, and all the usual messages; must dash!

Midge B.

P.S. It was chimney pots. Not silver.

    Miss Lattersby had scarce finished choking over this plaint, and had only just passed it on to Miss Renwick for her to choke over also, when the following arrived for them:

Dear Janey & Yoly.

    This is just to say we will be fixed here at Lanniford Abbey for 2 or 3 days before we go on to Grafton Hall. Mrs Camilla V.-H. accompanies us: she is making her way back to the pussies. The Major likewise: that is, he accompanies us. I do not know if the pussies be his ultimate destination. The Abbey belongs to the Croydon family, pleasant connections of Lady Caroline’s. I do not think they were expecting our party to include any Vane-H.’s, or even P’s. Letty has now writ me thrice reminding me to write of the Gothick splendours of Lanniford Abbey in detail, so I am about to take my revenge on her.

    Pray excuse the joint note.

Yours, in haste,

Midge B.

Dearest Letty,

    We are here, you wished to know about Lanniford Abbey, so I shall tell you. Pray note before you commence it, that I disclaim all responsibility, however. Alternatively, I could just enclose a sketch. No? Very well, then:

 

             The Ides of Lanniford

The Ides of Lanniford! The Ides of Lanniford!

    Where boring Gothick ruled the roast,

Where rose grey stones of priest and lord.

    Where Partridge sketched and Myrtle prosed:

Eternal boredom dulls them yet.

Oh, would their gloomy sun had set.

 

The Bell-Tower and the Chapel muse;

    The Gothick Arch, the ancient Moate

Have found the fame sense would refuse;

    The Moate can scarcely floate a boate.

The Arch is crumbled and decrepit,

The Chapel full of briar and rabbit.

 

Camilla broods on Macedons—

    And Macedons brood on their tea;

And musing there, but NOT alone,

    I dreamed that I might yet be free;

For hearing of the Persians’ meals

Is one step worse than boils and weals.

    Colonel Langford at this point gave an ecstatic yelp, and rushed to his bookshelves. “No... no...,” he muttered, riffling through pages. “Ah! Here! I knew it! Byron!” he yelped. “Look, Letty, my dear!”

    Lettice smiled feebly. “Yes. It is not that funny.”

    “Of course it is!” he choked. “Look: the fellow actually says here, ‘Persians’: that will be what set her off!”

    “Ides are not isles,” replied Lettice, looking huffy.

    Grinning, the Colonel took the letter from her hands and proceeded to read the rest of Midge’s awful poem to himself with relish. Mrs Langford was eventually driven to say in an acid tone: “Your lips are moving,” but the Colonel, sniggering gently, ignored her.

An abbot sate on the rocky brow

    Which looks o’er land-locked Lanniford;

And sheep, by thousands, browsed below,

    And friars in smocks:—all were his!

He counted them at break of day,

And when the sun set, where were they?

 

And where are they? And where art thou,

    My sanity? On this friarless field,

The sheep graze quietly now—

    But th’heroic abbot is no more!

And must my ear, so long expos’d,

Absorb yet more of Brother’s prose?

 

’Tis nothing like a dearth of story,

    Though note, there is a guide-book rare,

That tells of Gothick fame and glory;

   E’en as I yawn, and do not care:

For what is left for P. to say?

Or can he prose on all the day?

 

Must Midge but weep o’er stony trefoil?

    Must Midge but sigh? –The friars fled.

Help! Up to the Bell-Tower did I toil,

    And now I’m like the Spartan dead.

Of the three hundred grant but ane,

To carry me down to earth again.

 

What, silent now? Not Partridge, surely?

    Ah! no;—the voices of the free

Sound like a distant clarion cry,

    And call: “Let Midge come down to tea.

Muffins and jam: now come, now come!”

But will it render Partridge dumb?

 

In vain—in vain: oh, strike me dead;

    Fill high the cup with good Bohea!

Leave abbeys to the scholar’s head.

    And let’s sit down and try for cheer.

Hark! rising to accept his brew,

He notes the Abbey has rivals few.

 

You have the fine stone cloister yet;

    Where is the famous drawbridge gone?

Of two such samples, why forget,

   The nobler and the heavier one?

He’s read the Deed that Henry gave—

Think ye he means us to enslave?

 

Fill high the cup with good Bohea!

    We will not think of themes like these!

But turn to jam and goodly cheer.

    And try good Brother not to tease.

A tyrant; but at least well meaning.

And ’t’ain’t his fault the Gothick’s boring.

    “I maintain,” said Mrs Langford with desperate dignity: “that it is not that clever. For that poem has nothing to do either with the Gothick or with abbeys.”

    The Colonel choked.

    “And I really wanted to know about it!” she cried.

    Regrettably, the Colonel collapsed in helpless hysterics.

    “Charles writes me,” said the Earl, all smiles, “that you have honoured Lanniford Abbey with a Byronic ode, or possibly effusion.”

    Midge smiled palely and could think of nothing to say to this.

     “Might I see a copy of it?” he asked meekly.

    The original version had contained a pithy stanza in which belted earls got mentioned in the same breath as Wynton blood; Midge cringed, and muttered: “No, um, I have not kept a good copy.”

    “Then would it be too much to beg you to write me out one?”

    “Yes, very well,” she said hurriedly.

    They were now at Gratton Hall, and being kept very busy: though not with anything that could have been said to be of compelling interest. She did, however, find time to write out a copy and thrust it into his hand.

    Jarvis was thus enabled to laugh over it in peace. He cornered her after breakfast next morning and took her visibly unwilling form out for a stroll.

    “Thank you so much for giving me a copy of your Byronic effusion, Miss Burden.”

    “You did ask,” said the author uncomfortably.

    “Certainly I did! It is splendid: almost as good as Vyv’s effort on the West Wind! Or not on the West Wind, as I recall.”

    Miss Burden smiled palely.

    “It is rather a pity, if I may say so, that the first line does not scan,” he said politely.

    “That is part of the p—” She broke off, glaring.

    “Part of the point: yes!” he choked, going into hysterics.

    “Oh, thank goodness: you’re not cross,” she said, sagging.

    “No!” he choked. “I would beg you to send a copy to Humphreys, or I would send mine, but that Charles writes me he rode into Lower Nettlefold with a copy for him the day it came.”

    “Oh,” said Miss Burden limply.

    “Surely you cannot really have thought I would be cross?” said Jarvis, wiping his eyes.

    “Y— N— Um—lèse majesté,” she croaked. They had approached the corner of the house: she edged towards the front door.

    “What?”

    “I think I shall go in,” said Miss Burden in a high voice. “It is rather a chilly morning.”

    Jarvis just stood there staring as she rushed indoors.

    “I really do not think,” he said numbly to himself, after quite some time, “that that was calculated to annoy. Lèse majesté? Hell.”

    He wandered slowly out into the extensive grounds of Gratton Hall, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Next chapter:

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