Cecilia de Noël | Page 9

Lady Atherley.
"Of course she does. I always told you my powers of persuasion were
irresistible."

"But how annoying about the ceiling," said Lady Atherley. "Over the
new carpet, too! What can make the plaster fall in this way?"
"It is the quality of the climate," said Atherley. "It is horribly
destructive. If you would read the batch of letters now on my
writing-table from tenant-farmers you would see what I mean: barns,
roofs, gates, everything is falling to pieces and must immediately be
repaired--at the landlord's expense, of course."
"We must send for a plasterer," said Lady Atherley, "and then the
doctor. Perhaps you would have time to go round his way, George."
"No, I have no time to go anywhere but to Northside farm. Hunt has
been waiting nearly half an hour for me, as it is. Lindy, would you like
to come with me?"
"No, thank you, George; I too am a landowner, and I mean to look over
my audit accounts to-day."
"Don't compare yourself to a poor overworked underpaid landowner
like me. You are one of the landlords they spout about in London parks
on Sundays. You have nothing to do but sign receipts for your rents,
paid in full and up to date."
"Mr. Lyndsay is an excellent landlord," said Lady Atherley; "and they
tell me the new church and the schools he has built are charming."
"Very mischievous things both," said Atherley. "Ta-ta."
That afternoon, Atherley being still absent, and Lady Atherley having
gone forth to pay a round of calls, the little boys undertook my
entertainment. They were in rather a sober mood for them, having just
forfeited four weeks' pocket-money towards expenses incurred by Tip
in the dairy, where they had foolishly allowed him to enter; so they
accepted very good-humouredly my objections to wading in the river or
climbing trees, and took me instead for a walk to Beggar's Stile. We
climbed up the steep carriage-drive to the lodge, passed through the big
iron gates, turned sharply to the left, and went down the road which the

park palings border and the elms behind them shade, past the little
copse beyond the park, till we came to a tumble-down gate with a stile
beside it in the hedgerow; and this was Beggar's Stile. It was just on the
brow of the little hill which sloped gradually downward to the village
beneath, and commanded a wide view of the broad shallow valley and
of the rising ground beyond.
I was glad to sit down on the step of the stile.
"Are you tired already, Mr. Lyndsay?" inquired Harold incredulously.
"Yes, a little."
"I s'pose you are tired because you always have to pull your leg after
you," said Denis, turning upon me two large topaz-coloured eyes.
"Does it hurt you, Mr. Lyndsay?"
"Mother told you not to talk about Mr. Lyndsay's leg," observed Harold
sharply.
"No, she didn't; she said I was not to talk about the funny way he
walked. She said--"
"Well, never mind, little man," I interrupted. "Is that Weald down
there?"
"Yes," cried Denis, maintaining his balance on the topmost bar but one
of the gate with enviable ease. "All these cottages and houses belong to
Weald, and it is all daddy's on this side of the river down to where you
see the white railings a long way down near the poplars, and that is the
road we go to tea with Aunt Eleanour; and do you see a little blue
speck on the hill over there? You could see if you had a telescope.
Daddy showed me once; but you must shut your eye. That is Quarley
Beacon, where Aunt Cissy lives."
"No, she does not, stupid," cried Harold, now suspended, head
downwards, by one foot, from the topmost rail of the gate. "No one
lives there. She lives in Quarley Manor, just behind."

Denis replied indirectly to the discourteous tone of this speech by
trying with the point of his own foot to dislodge that by which Harold
maintained his remarkable position, and a scuffle ensued, wherein,
though a non-combatant, I seemed likely to get the worst, when their
attention was fortunately diverted by the sight of Tip sneaking off, and
evidently with the vilest motives, towards the covert.
My memory was haunted that day by certain words spoken seven
months ago by Atherley, and by me at the time very ungraciously
received:
"Remember, if you do come a cropper, it will go hard with you, old
man; you can't shoot or hunt or fish off the blues, like other men."
No, nor could I work them off, as some might have done. I possessed
no distinct talents, no marked vocation. If there was nothing behind and
beyond all this, what an empty freak of destiny my