Lord Alfred’s courtship.

The Hall, as the great house at Humblethwaite was called, consisted in truth of various edifices added one to another at various periods; but the result was this, that no more picturesque mansion could be found in any part of England than the Hall at Humblethwaite.  The oldest portion of it was said to be of the time of Henry VII.; but it may perhaps be doubted whether the set of rooms with lattice windows looking out on to the bowling-green, each window from beneath its own gable, was so old as the date assigned to it.  It is strange how little authority can usually be found in family records to verify such statements.  It was known that Humblethwaite and the surrounding manors had been given to, or in some fashion purchased by, a certain Harry Hotspur, who also in his day had been a knight, when Church lands were changing hands under Henry VIII.  And there was authority to prove that that Sir Harry had done something towards making a home for himself on the spot; but whether those very gables were a portion of the building which the monks of St. Humble had raised for themselves in the preceding reign, may probably be doubted.  That there were fragments of masonry, and parts of old timber, remaining from the monastery was probably true enough.  The great body of the old house, as it now stood, had been built in the time of Charles II., and there was the date in the brickwork still conspicuous on the wall looking into the court.  The hall and front door as it now stood, very prominent but quite at the end of the house, had been erected in the reign of Queen Anne, and the modern drawing-rooms with the best bedrooms over them, projecting far out into the modern gardens, had been added by the present baronet’s father.  The house was entirely of brick, and the old windows, ­not the very oldest, the reader will understand, but those of the Caroline age, ­were built with strong stone mullions, and were longer than they were deep, beauty of architecture having in those days been more regarded than light.  Who does not know such windows, and has not declared to himself often how sad a thing it is that sanitary or scientific calculations should have banished the like of them from our houses?  Two large oriel windows coming almost to the ground, and going up almost to the ceilings, adorned the dining-room and the library.  From the drawing-rooms modern windows, opening on to a terrace, led into the garden.

You entered the mansion by a court that was enclosed on two sides altogether, and on the two others partially.  Facing you, as you drove in, was the body of the building, with the huge porch projecting on the right so as to give the appearance of a portion of the house standing out on that side.  On the left was that old mythic Tudor remnant of the monastery, of which the back wall seen from the court was pierced only with a small window here and there, and was covered with ivy.  Those lattice windows, from which Emily Hotspur loved to think that the monks of old had looked into their trim gardens, now looked on to a bowling-green which was kept very trim in honour of the holy personages who were supposed to have played there four centuries ago.  Then, at the end of this old building, there had been erected kitchens, servants’ offices, and various rooms, which turned the corner of the court in front, so that only one corner had, as it were, been left for ingress and egress.  But the court itself was large, and in the middle of it there stood an old stone ornamental structure, usually called the fountain, but quite ignorant of water, loaded with griffins and satyrs and mermaids with ample busts, all overgrown with a green damp growth, which was scraped off by the joint efforts of the gardener and mason once perhaps in every five years.

It often seems that the beauty of architecture is accidental.  A great man goes to work with great means on a great pile, and makes a great failure.  The world perceives that grace and beauty have escaped him, and that even magnificence has been hardly achieved.  Then there grows up beneath various unknown hands a complication of stones and brick to the arrangement of which no great thought seems to have been given; and, lo, there is a thing so perfect in its glory that he who looks at it declares that nothing could be taken away and nothing added without injury and sacrilege and disgrace.  So it had been, or rather so it was now, with the Hall at Humblethwaite.  No rule ever made for the guidance of an artist had been kept.  The parts were out of proportion.  No two parts seemed to fit each other.  Put it all on paper, and it was an absurdity.  The huge hall and porch added on by the builder of Queen Anne’s time, at the very extremity of the house, were almost a monstrosity.  The passages and staircases, and internal arrangements, were simply ridiculous.  But there was not a portion of the whole interior that did not charm; nor was there a corner of the exterior, nor a yard of an outside wall, that was not in itself eminently beautiful.

Lord Alfred Gresley, as he was driven into the court in the early dusk of a winter evening, having passed through a mile and a half of such park scenery as only Cumberland and Westmoreland can show, was fully alive to the glories of the place.  Humblethwaite did not lie among the lakes, ­was, indeed, full ten miles to the north of Keswick; but it was so placed that it enjoyed the beauty and the luxury of mountains and rivers, without the roughness of unmanageable rocks, or the sterility and dampness of moorland.  Of rocky fragments, indeed, peeping out through the close turf, and here and there coming forth boldly so as to break the park into little depths, with now and again a real ravine, there were plenty.  And there ran right across the park, passing so near the Hall as to require a stone bridge in the very flower-garden, the Caldbeck, as bright and swift a stream as ever took away the water from neighbouring mountains.  And to the south of Humblethwaite there stood the huge Skiddaw, and Saddleback with its long gaunt ridge; while to the west, Brockleband Fell seemed to encircle the domain.  Lord Alfred, as he was driven up through the old trees, and saw the deer peering at him from the knolls and broken fragments of stone, felt that he need not envy his elder brother if only his lines might fall to him in this very pleasant place.

He had known Humblethwaite before; and, irrespective of all its beauties, and of the wealth of the Hotspurs, was quite willing to fall in love with Emily Hotspur.  That a man with such dainties offered to him should not become greedy, that there should be no touch of avarice when such wealth was shown to him, is almost more than we may dare to assert.  But Lord Alfred was a man not specially given to covetousness.  He had recognized it as his duty as a man not to seek for these things unless he could in truth love the woman who held them in her hands to give.  But as he looked round him through the gloaming of the evening, he thought that he remembered that Emily Hotspur was all that was loveable.

But, reader, we must not linger long over Lord Alfred’s love.  A few words as to the father, a few as to the daughter, and a few also as to the old house where they dwelt together, it has been necessary to say; but this little love story of Lord Alfred’s, ­if it ever was a love story, ­must be told very shortly.

He remained five weeks at Humblethwaite, and showed himself willing to receive amusement from old Mrs. Crutchley and from young Mrs. Latheby.  The shooting was quite good enough for him, and he won golden opinions from every one about the place.  He made himself acquainted with the whole history of the house, and was prepared to prove to demonstration that Henry VII.’s monks had looked out of those very windows, and had played at bowls on that very green.  Emily became fond of him after a fashion, but he failed to assume any aspect of divinity in her eyes.

Of the thing to be done, neither father nor mother said a word to the girl; and she, though she knew so well that the doing of it was intended, said not a word to her mother.  Had Lady Elizabeth known how to speak, had she dared to be free with her own child, Emily would soon have told her that there was no chance for Lord Alfred.  And Lady Elizabeth would have believed her.  Nay, Lady Elizabeth, though she could not speak, had the woman’s instinct, which almost assured her that the match would never be made.  Sir Harry, on the other side, thought that things went prosperously; and his wife did not dare to undeceive him.  He saw the young people together, and thought that he saw that Emily was kind.  He did not know that this frank kindness was incompatible with love in such a maiden’s ways.  As for Emily herself, she knew that it must come.  She knew that she could not prevent it.  A slight hint or two she did give, or thought she gave, but they were too fine, too impalpable to be of avail.

Lord Alfred spoke nothing of love till he made his offer in form.  At last he was not hopeful himself.  He had found it impossible to speak to this girl of love.  She had been gracious with him, and almost intimate, and yet it had been impossible.  He thought of himself that he was dull, stupid, lethargic, and miserably undemonstrative.  But the truth was that there was nothing for him to demonstrate.  He had come there to do a stroke of business, and he could not throw into this business a spark of that fire which would have been kindled by such sympathy had it existed.  There are men who can raise such sparks, the pretence of fire, where there is no heat at all; ­false, fraudulent men; but he was not such an one.  Nevertheless he went on with his business.

“Miss Hotspur,” he said to her one morning between breakfast and lunch, when, as usual, opportunity had been given him to be alone with her, “I have something to say to you, which I hope at any rate it will not make you angry to hear.”

“I am sure you will say nothing to make me angry,” she replied.

“I have already spoken to your father, and I have his permission.  I may say more.  He assures me that he hopes I may succeed.”  He paused a moment, but she remained quite tranquil.  He watched her, and could see that the delicate pink on her cheek was a little heightened, and that a streak of colour showed itself on her fair brow; but there was nothing in her manner to give him either promise of success or assurance of failure.  “You will know what I mean?”

“Yes, I know,” she said, almost in a whisper.

“And may I hope?  To say that I love you dearly seems to be saying what must be a matter of course.”

“I do not see that at all,” she replied with spirit.

“I do love you very dearly.  If I may be allowed to think that you will be my wife, I shall be the happiest man in England.  I know how great is the honour which I seek, how immense in every way is the gift which I ask you to give me.  Can you love me?”

“No,” she said, again dropping her voice to a whisper.

“Is that all the answer, Miss Hotspur?”

“What should I say?  How ought I to answer you?  If I could say it without seeming to be unkind, indeed, indeed, I would do so.”

“Perhaps I have been abrupt.”

“It is not that.  When you ask me ­to ­to ­love you, of course I know what you mean.  Should I not speak the truth at once?”

“Must this be for always?”

“For always,” she replied.  And then it was over.

He did not himself press his suit further, though he remained at Humblethwaite for three days after this interview.

Before lunch on that day the story had been told by Emily to her mother, and by Lord Alfred to Sir Harry.  Lady Elizabeth knew well enough that the story would never have to be told in another way.  Sir Harry by no means so easily gave up his enterprise.  He proposed to Lord Alfred that Emily should be asked to reconsider her verdict.  With his wife he was very round, saying that an answer given so curtly should go for nothing, and that the girl must be taught her duty.  With Emily herself he was less urgent, less authoritative, and indeed at last somewhat suppliant.  He explained to her how excellent would be the marriage; how it would settle this terrible responsibility which now lay on his shoulders with so heavy a weight; how glorious would be her position; and how the Hotspurs would still live as a great family could she bring herself to be obedient.  And he said very much in praise of Lord Alfred, pointing out how good a man he was, how moral, how diligent, how safe, how clever, ­how sure, with the assistance of the means which she would give him, to be one of the notable men of the country.  But she never yielded an inch.  She said very little, ­answered him hardly a word, standing close to him, holding by his arm and his hand.  There was the fact, that she would not have the man, would not have the man now or ever, certainly would not have him; and Sir Harry, let him struggle as he might, and talk his best, could not keep himself from giving absolute credit to her assurance.

The visit was prolonged for three days, and then Lord Alfred left Humblethwaite Hall, with less appreciation of all its beauties than he had felt as he was first being driven up to the Hall doors.  When he went, Sir Harry could only bid God bless him, and assure him that, should he ever choose to try his fortune again, he should have all the aid which a father could give him.

“It would be useless,” said Lord Alfred; “she knows her own mind too well.”

And so he went his way.