The Squire of Sandal-Side: A Pastoral Romance

JULIUS SANDAL.

     “Variety’s the very spice of life
      That gives it all its flavor.”

     “Domestic happiness, thou only bliss
      Of Paradise that has survived the fall.”

Life has a chronology quite independent of the almanac.  The heart divides it into periods.  When the sheep-shearing had been forgotten by all others, the squire often looked back to it with longing.  It was a boundary which he could never repass, and which shut him out forever from the happy days of his daughters’ girlhood,—­the days when they had no will but his will, and no pleasures but in his smile and companionship.  His son Harry had never been to him what Sophia and Charlotte were.  Harry had spent his boyhood in public schools, and, when his education was completed, had defied all the Sandal traditions, and gone into the army.  At this time he was with his regiment,—­the old Cameronian,—­in Edinburgh.  And in other points, besides his choice of the military profession, Harry had asserted his will against his father’s will.  But the squire’s daughters gave him nothing but delight.  He was proud of their beauty, proud of Charlotte’s love of out-door pleasures, proud of Sophia’s love of books; and he was immeasurably happy in their affection and obedience.

If Sandal had been really a wise man he would have been content with his good fortune; and like the happy Corinthian have only prayed, “O goddess, let the days of my prosperity continue!” But he had the self-sufficiency and impatience of a man who is without peer in his own small arena.  He believed himself to be as capable of ordering his daughters’ lives as of directing his sheep “walks,” or the change of crops in his valley and upland meadows.

Suddenly it had been revealed to him, that Stephen Latrigg had found his way into a life he thought wholly his own.  Until that moment of revelation he had liked Stephen; but he liked him no longer.  He felt that Stephen had stolen the privilege he should have asked for, and he deeply resented the position the young man had taken.  On the contrary, Stephen had been guilty of no intentional wrong.  He had simply grown into an affection too sweet to be spoken of, too uncertain and immature to be subjected to the prudential rules of daily life; yet, had the question been plainly put to him, he would have gone at once to the squire, and said, “I love Charlotte, and I ask for your sanction to my love.”  He would have felt such an acknowledgment to be the father’s most sacred and evident right, and he was thinking of making it at the very hour in which Sandal was feeling bitterly toward him for its omission.  And thus the old, old tragedy of mutual misunderstanding works to sorrowful ends.

The night of the sheep-shearing the squire could not sleep.  To lay awake and peer into the future through the dark hours was a new experience, and it made him full of restless anxieties.  Of course he expected Sophia and Charlotte to marry, but not just yet.  He had so far persistently postponed the consideration of this subject, and he was angry at Stephen Latrigg for showing him that further delay might be dangerous to his own plans.

“A presumptuous young coxcomb,” he muttered.  “Does he think that being ‘top-shearer’ gives him a right to make love to Charlotte Sandal?”

In the morning he wrote the following letter:—­

NEPHEW JULIUS SANDAL,—­I hear you are at Oxford, and I should think you would wish to make the acquaintance of your nearest relatives.  They will be glad to see you at Seat-Sandal during the vacation, if your liking leads you that way.  To hear soon from you is the hope of your affectionate uncle,

     WILLIAM SANDAL, of Sandal-Side.

He finished the autograph with a broad flourish, and handed the paper to his wife.  “What do you think of that, Alice?  Eh?  What?”

There was a short silence, then Mrs. Sandal laid the note upon the table.  “I don’t think over much of it, William.  Good-fortune won’t bear hurrying.  Can’t you wait till events ripen naturally?”

“And have all my plans put out of the way?”

“Are you sure that your plans are the best plans?”

“They will be a bit better than any Charlotte and Stephen Latrigg have made.”

“I don’t believe they have such a thing as a plan between them.  But if you think so, send Charlotte to her aunt Lockerby for a few months.  Love is just like fire:  it goes out if it hasn’t fuel.”

“Nay, I want Charlotte here.  After our Harry, Julius is the next heir, and I’m set on him marrying one of the girls.  If he doesn’t like Sophia he may like Charlotte.  I have two chances then, and I’m not going to throw one away for Steve Latrigg’s liking or loving.  Don’t you see, Alice?  Eh?  What?”

“No:  I never was one to see beyond the horizon.  But if you must have to-morrow in to-day, why then send off your letter.  I would let ‘well’ alone.  When change comes to the door, it is time enough to ask it over the threshold.  We are very happy now, William, and every happy day is so much certain gain in life.”

“That is a woman’s way of talking.  A man looks for the future.”

“And how seldom does he get what he looks for.  But I know you, William Sandal.  You will take your own way, be it good or bad; and what is more, you will make others take it with you.”

“I am inviting my own nephew, Alice.  Eh?  What?”

“You know nothing about it.  There are kin that are not kindred.  You are inviting you know not who or what.  But,”—­and she pushed the letter towards him, with a gesture which seemed to say, “I am not responsible for the consequences.”

The squire after a moment’s thought accepted them.  He went into the yard, humming a strain of “The Bay of Biscay,” and gave the letter to a groom, with orders to take it at once to the post-office.  Then he called Charlotte from the rose-walk.  “The horses are saddled,” he said, “and I want you to trot over to Dalton with me.”

Mrs. Sandal had gone to her eldest daughter.  She was in the habit of seeking Sophia’s advice; or, more strictly speaking, she liked to discuss with her the things she had already determined to do.  Sophia was sitting in the coolest and prettiest of gowns, working out with elaborate care a pencil drawing of Rydal Mount.  She listened to her mother with the utmost respect and attention, and her fine color brightened slightly at the mention of Julius Sandal; but she never neglected once to change an F or an H pencil for a B at the precise stroke the change was necessary.

“And so you see, Sophia, we may have a strange young man in the house for weeks, and where to put him I can’t decide.  And I wanted to begin the preserving and the raspberry vinegar next week, but your father is as thoughtless as ever was; and I am sure if Julius is like his father he’ll be no blessing in a house, for I have heard your grandmother speak in such a way of her son Tom.”

“I thought uncle Tom was grandmother’s favorite.”

“I mean of his high temper and fine ways, and his quarrels with his eldest brother Launcelot.”

“Oh!  What did they quarrel about?”

“A good many things; among the rest, about the Latriggs.  There was more than one pretty girl at Up-Hill then, and the young men all knew it.  Tom and his mother were always finger and thumb.  He was her youngest boy, and she fretted after him all her life.”

“And uncle Launcelot, did she not fret for him?”

“Not so much.  Launcelot was the eldest, and very set in his own way:  she couldn’t order him around.”

“The eldest?  Then father would not have been squire of Sandal-Side if Launcelot had lived?”

“No, indeed.  Launcelot’s death made a deal of difference to your father and me.  Father was very solemn and set about his brother’s rights; and even after grandfather died, he didn’t like to be called ‘squire’ until every hope was long gone.  But I would as soon have thought of poor Launcie coming back from the dead as of Tom’s son visiting here; and it is inconvenient right now, exceedingly so; harvesting coming on, and preserving time, and none of the spare rooms opened since the spring cleaning.”

“It is trying for you, mother, but perhaps Julius may not be very much trouble.  He’ll be with father all the time, and he’ll make a change.”

“Change!  That is just what I dread.  Young people are always for change.  They are certain that every change must be a gain.  Old people know that changes mean loss of some kind or other.  After one is forty years old, Sophia, the seasons bring change enough.”

“I dare say they do, mother.  I don’t care much for change, even at my age.  Have you told Charlotte?”

“No, I haven’t told her yet.  I think she is off to Dalton.  Father said he was going this morning, and he never would go without her.”

Indeed, the squire and his younger daughter were at that moment cantering down the valley, mid the fresh green of the fields, and the yellow of the ripening wheat, and the hazy purple of mountains holding the whole landscape in their solemn shelter except in front, where the road stretched to the sea, amid low hills overgrown with parsley-fern and stag’s-horn-moss.  They had not gone very far before they met Stephen Latrigg.  He was well mounted and handsomely dressed; and, as he bowed to the squire and Charlotte, his happy face expressed a delight which Sandal in his present mood felt to be offensive.  Evidently Steve intended to accompany them as far as their roads were identical; but the squire pointedly drew rein, and by the cool civility of his manner made the young man so sensible of his intrusion, that he had no alternative but to take the hint.  He looked at Charlotte with eyes full of tender reproach, and she was too unprepared for such a speedy termination to their meeting to oppose it.  So Stephen was galloping at headlong speed in advance, before she realized that he had been virtually refused their company.

“Father, why did you do that?”

“Do what, Charlotte?  Eh?  What?”

“Send Steve away.  I am sure I do not know what to make of you doing such a thing.  Poor Steve!”

“Well, then, I had my reason for it.  Did you see the way he looked at you?  Eh?  What?”

“Dear me!  A cat may look at a king.  Did you send Steve away for a look?  You have put me about, father.”

“There’s looks and other looks, my lass.  Cats don’t look at kings the way Steve looked at you.  Now, then, I want no love-making between you and Steve Latrigg.”

“What nonsense!  Steve hasn’t said a word of love-making, as you call it.”

“I thought you had all your woman-senses, Charlotte.  Bethink you of the garden walk last night.”

“We were talking all the time of the sweetbrier and hollyhocks,—­and things like that.”

“You might have talked of the days of the week or the multiplication-table:  one kind of words was just as good as another.  Any thing Steve said last night could have been spelled with four letters.”

“Four letters?”

“To be sure.  L-o-v-e.”

“You used to like Stephen.”

“I like all bright, honest, good lads; but when they want to make love to Miss Charlotte Sandal, they think one thing, and I think another.  There has been ill-luck with love-making between the Sandals and the Latriggs.  My brothers Launcie and Tom quarrelled about one of Barf Latrigg’s daughters, and mother lost them both through her.  There is no love-line between the two houses, or if there is nothing can make it run straight.  Don’t you try to, Charlotte; neither the dead nor the living will like it or have it.”

He intended then to tell her about Julius Sandal, but a look at her face checked him.  He had a wise perception about women; and he reflected that he had very seldom repented of speaking too little to them, but very often repented of speaking too much.  So he dropped Stephen, and dropped Julius; and began to talk about the fish in the becks and tarns, and the new breed of sheep he was trying in the lower “walks.”  Ere long they came into the rich valley of Furness; and he made her notice the difference between it and the vale of Esk and Duddon, with its dreary waste of sullen moss and unfruitful solitudes.

“Those old Cistercian monks that built Furness Abbey knew how to choose a bit of good land, Charlotte.  Eh?  What?”

“I suppose so.  What did they do with it?”

“Let it out.”

“I wonder who would want to come here seven hundred years ago.”

“You don’t know what you are saying, Charlotte.  There were great men here then, and great deeds doing.  King Stephen kept things very lively; and the Scots were always running over the Border for cattle and sheep, and any thing else they could lay their hands on.  And the monks had great flocks, so they rented their lands to companies of four fighting men; and one of the four was to be ready day and night to protect the sheep, and the Scots kept them busy.  Eh?  What?”

“The Musgraves and Armstrongs and Netherbys, I know,” and the cloud passed from her face; and to the clatter of her horse’s hoofs, she lilted merrily a stanza of an old border song:—­

    “The mountain sheep were sweeter,
       But the valley sheep were fatter;
     We therefore deemed it meeter
       To carry off the latter. 
     We made an expedition;
       We met a force, and quelled it;
     We took a strong position,
       And killed the men who held it.”

And the squire, who knew the effort it cost her, fell readily into her mood of forced gayety until the simulated feeling became a real one; and they entered Dalton neck and neck together, after a mile’s hard race.

In the mean time the letter which was to summon Fate sped to its destination.  When it arrived in Oxford, Julius had left Oxford for London, and it followed him there.  He was sitting in his hotel the ensuing night, when it was delivered into his hands; and as it happened, he was in a mood most favorable to its success.  He had been down the river on a picnic, had found his company very tedious; and early in the day the climate had shown him what it was capable of, even at mid-summer.  As he sat cowering before the smoky fire, the rain plashed in the muddy streets, and dripped mournfully down the dim window-panes.  He was wondering what he must do with himself during the long vacation.  He was tired of the Continent, he was lonely in England; and the United States had not then become the great playground for earth’s weary or curious children.

Many times the idea of seeking out his own relations occurred to him.  He had promised his father to do so.  But, as a rule, people haven’t much enthusiasm about unknown relations; and Julius regarded his promise more in the light of a duty to be performed than as the realization of a pleasure.  Still, on that dreary night, in the solitary dulness of his very respectable inn, the Sandals, Lockerbys, and Piersons became three possible sources of interest.  While his thoughts were drifting in this direction, the squire’s letter was received; and the young man, who was something of a fatalist, accepted it as the solution of a difficulty.

“Sandal turns the new leaf for me,” he murmured; “the new leaf in the book of life.  I wonder what story will be written in it.”

He answered the invitation while the enthusiasm of its reception swayed him, and he promised to follow the letter immediately.  The squire received this information on Saturday night, as he was sitting with his wife and daughters.  “Your nephew Julius Sandal, from Calcutta, is coming to pay us a visit, Alice,” he said; and his air was that of a man who thinks he is communicating a piece of startling intelligence.  But the three women had already exchanged every possible idea on the subject, and felt no great interest in its further discussion.

“When is he coming?” asked Mrs. Sandal without enthusiasm; and Sophia supplemented the question by remarking, “I suppose he has nowhere else to go.”

“I wouldn’t say such things, Sophia; I would not.”

“He has been in England some months, father.”

“Well, then, he was only waiting till he was asked to come.  I’m sure that was a proper thing.  If there is any blame between us, it is my fault.  I sent him a word of welcome last Wednesday morning, and it is very likely he will be here to-morrow.  I’m sure he hasn’t let any grass grow under his feet.  Eh?  What?”

Charlotte looked up quickly. “Wednesday morning.”  She was quite capable of putting this and that together, and by a momentary mental process she arrived at an exceedingly correct estimate of her father’s invitation.  Her blue eyes scintillated beneath her dropped lids; and, though she went calmly on tying the feather to the fishing-fly she was making, she said, in a hurried and unsteady voice, “I know he will be disagreeable, and I have made up my mind to dislike him.”

Julius Sandal arrived the next morning when the ladies were preparing for church.  He had passed the night at Ambleside, and driven over to Sandal in the first cool hours of the day.  The squire was walking about the garden, and he saw the carriage enter the park gates.  He said nothing to any one, but laid down his pipe, and went to meet it.  Then Julius made the first step towards his uncle’s affection,—­he left the vehicle when they met, and insisted upon walking by his side.

When they reached the house, his valet was attending to the removal of his luggage, and they entered the great hall together.  At that moment Mistress Charlotte’s remarkable likeness seemed to force itself upon the squire’s attention.  He was unable to resist the impulse which made him lead his nephew up to it.  “Let me introduce you, first of all, to your father’s mother.  I greet you in her name as well as in my own.”  As he spoke, the squire lifted his hat, and Julius did the same.  It was a sudden, and to both men a quite unexpected, ceremonial; and it gave an air, touching and unusual, to his welcome.

And if that man is an ingrate who does not love his native land, how much more immediate, tender, and personal must the feeling be for the home of one’s own race.  That stately lady, who seemed to meet him at the threshold, was only the last of a long, shadowy line, whose hands were stretched out to him, even from the dark, forgotten days in which Lögberg Sandal laid the foundations of it.  Julius was sensitive, and full of imagination:  he felt his heart beat quick, and his eyes grow dim to the thought; and he loitered up the wide, low steps, feeling very like a man going up the phantom stairway of a dream.

The squire’s cheery voice broke the spell.  “We shall be ready for church in a quarter of an hour, Julius; will you remain at home, or go with us?”

“I should like to go with you.”

“That’s good.  It is but a walk through the park:  the church is almost at its gates.”

When he returned to the hall, the family were waiting for him; Mrs. Sandal and her daughters standing together in a little group, the squire walking leisurely about with his hands crossed behind his back.  It would have been to some men a rather trying ordeal to descend the long flight of stairs, with three pairs of ladies’ eyes watching him; but Julius knew that he had a striking personal appearance, and that every appointment of his toilet was faultless.  He knew also the value of the respectable middle-aged valet following him, and felt that his irreproachable manner of serving his hat and gloves was a satisfactory reflection of his own importance.

It is the women of a family that give the tone and place to it.  One glance at his aunt and cousins satisfied Julius.  Mrs. Sandal was stately and comely, and had the quiet manners of a high-bred woman.  Sophia, in white mull, with a large hat covered with white drooping feathers, and a glimmer of gold at her throat and wrists, was at least picturesque.  Of Charlotte, he saw nothing in the first moments of their meeting but a pair of bright blue eyes, and a face as sweet and fresh as if it had been made out of a rose.  He took his place between the girls, and the squire and his wife walked behind them.  Sophia, being the eldest, took the initiative, talking softly and thoughtfully, as it was proper to do upon a Sunday morning.

The sods under their feet were thick and green; the oaks and sycamores above them had the broad shadows of many centuries.  The air was balmy with emanations from the woods and fields, and full of the expanding melody of church-bells travelling from hill to hill.  Julius was conscious of every thing; even of the proud, shy girl who walked on his left hand, and whose attitude impressed him as slightly antagonistic.  They soon reached the church, a very ancient one, built in the bloody days of the Plantagenets by the two knights whose grim effigies kept guard within the porch.  It was dim and still when they entered:  the congregation all kneeling at the solemn confession; the clergyman’s voice, low and pathetic, intensifying silence to which it only added mortal minors of lament and entreaty.  He was a small, spare man, with a face almost as white as the vesture of his holy office.  Julius glanced up at him, and for a few minutes forgot all his dreamy philosophies, aggressive free thought, and shallow infidelities.  He could not resist the influences around him; and when the people rose, and the organ filled the silence with melody, and a young sweet voice chanted joyfully,—­

    “O come let us sing unto the Lord:  let us heartily rejoice
       in the strength of our salvation. 
    Let us come before His presence with thanksgiving: 
       and shew ourselves glad in him with Psalms,”—­

he turned round, and looked up to the singer, with a heart beating to every triumphant note.  Then he saw it was Charlotte Sandal; and he did not wonder at the hearty way in which the squire joined in the melodious invocation, nor at his happy face, nor at his shining eyes; and he said to himself with a sigh, “That is a Psalm one could sing oftener than once in seven days.”

He had not noticed Charlotte much as they went to church:  he amended his error as he returned to the “seat.”  And he thought that the old sylvan goddesses must have been as she was; must have had just the same fresh faces, and bright brown hair; just the same tall, erect forms and light steps; just the same garments of mingled wood-colors and pale green.

The squire had a very complacent feeling.  He looked upon Julius as a nephew of his own discovering, and he felt something of a personal pride in all that was excellent in the young man.  He watched impatiently for his wife to express her satisfaction, but Mrs. Sandal was not yet sure that she had any good reason to express it.

“Is he not handsome, Alice?”

“Some people would think so, William.  I like a face I can read.”

“I’m sure it is a long way better to keep yourself to yourself.  Say what you will, I am sure he will have plenty of good qualities.  Eh?  What?”

“For instance, a great deal of money.”

“Treat him fair, Alice; treat him fair.  You never were one to be unfair, and I don’t think you’ll begin with my nephew.”

“No, I’ll never be unfair, not as long as I live; and I’ll take up for Julius Sandal as soon as I am half sure he deserves it.”

“You can’t think what a pleasure it would be to me if he fancied one of our girls.  I’ve planned it this many a long day, Alice.”

“Well, then, William, if you have a wish as strong as that, it is something more than a wish, it is a kind of right; and I’ll never go against you in any fair matter.”

“And though you spoke scornful of money, it is a good thing; and the girl Julius marries will be a rich woman.  Eh?  What?”

“Perhaps; but it is the happiness and not the riches of her child that is a good mother’s reward, and a good father’s too.  Eh, William?”

“Certainly, Alice, certainly.”  But his unspoken reflection was, “women are that short sighted, they cannot put up with a small evil to prevent a big one.”

He had forgotten that “the wise One” and the “Counsellor” thought one day’s joys and sorrows “sufficient” for the heart to bear.