Heartsease | Page 4

long neck, and stately head, crowned with a
braid of her profuse black hair. That regal look was more remarkable in
her than beauty; her brow was too high, her features not quite regular,
her complexion of gypsy darkness, but with a glow of eyes very large,
black, and deeply set, naturally grave in expression, but just now

beaming and dancing in accordance with the encouraging smiles on her
fresh, healthy, red lips, as her hands, very soft and delicate, though of
large and strong make, completed the ball, threw it in the little boy's
face, and laughed to see his ecstasy over the delicious prize; teaching
him to play with it, tossing it backwards and forwards, shaking him into
animation, and ever and anon chasing her little dog to extract it from
between his teeth.
Suddenly she became aware of the presence of a spectator, and
instantly assuming her bonnet, and drawing up her tall figure, she
exclaimed, in a tone of welcome:
'Oh, Mr. Wingfield, you are come to see our cowslip feast.'
'There seems to be great enjoyment,' replied the young curate, looking,
however, somewhat pre-occupied.
'Look at Charlie Layton,' said she, pointing to the dumb boy. 'That ball
is perfect felicity, he had rather not play with it, the delight is mere
possession.' She was turning to the boy again, when Mr. Wingfield said,
not without hesitation--'You have not heard when to expect your party
from Madeira?'
'You know we cannot hear again. They were to sail by the next packet,
and it is uncertain how soon they may arrive.'
'And--and--your brother Arthur. Do you know when he comes home?'
'He promised to come this spring, but I fancy Captain Fitzhugh has
inveigled him somewhere to fish. He never writes, so he may come any
day. But what--is anything the matter?'
'I have a letter here that--which--in Lord Martindale's absence, I
thought it might be better--you might prefer my coming direct to you. I
cannot but think you should be aware'--stammered Mr. Wingfield.
'Well,'--she said, haughtily.

'Here is a letter from my cousin, who has a curacy in the Lake country.
Your brother is at Wrangerton, the next town.'
'Arthur is well?' cried she, starting.
'Yes, yes, you need not be alarmed, but I am afraid there is some
entanglement. There are some Miss Mosses--'
'Oh, it is that kind of thing!' said she, in an altered tone, her cheeks
glowing; 'it is very silly of him to get himself talked about; but of
course it is all nothing.'
'I wish I could think so,' said Mr. Wingfield; 'but, indeed, Miss
Martindale,' for she was returning to the children, 'I am afraid it is a
serious matter. The father is a designing person.'
'Arthur will not be taken in,' was her first calm answer; but perceiving
the curate unconvinced, though unwilling to contradict, she added, 'But
what is the story?'
Mr. Wingfield produced the letter and read; 'Fanshawe, the curate of
Wrangerton, has just been with me, telling me his rector is in much
difficulty and perplexity about a son of your parishioner, Lord
Martindale. He came to Wrangerton with another guardsman for the
sake of the fishing, and has been drawn into an engagement with one of
the daughters of old Moss, who manages the St. Erme property. I know
nothing against the young ladies, indeed Fanshawe speaks highly of
them; but the father is a disreputable sort of attorney, who has taken
advantage of Lord St. Erme's absence and neglect to make a prey of the
estate. The marriage is to take place immediately, and poor Mr. Jones is
in much distress at the dread of being asked to perform the ceremony,
without the consent of the young man's family.'
'He cannot do it,' exclaimed the young lady; 'you had better write and
tell him so.'
'I am afraid,' said Mr. Wingfield, diffidently, 'I am afraid he has no
power to refuse.'

'Not in such a case as this? It is his duty to put a stop to it.'
'All that is in his power he will do, no doubt, by reasoning and
remonstrance; but you must remember that your brother is of age, and
if the young lady's parents consent, Mr. Jones has no choice.'
'I could not have believed it! However, it will not come to that: it is
only the old rector's fancy. To make everything secure I will write to
my brother, and we shall soon see him here.'
'There is still an hour before post-time,' said Mr. Wingfield; 'shall I
send the children home?'
'No, poor little things, let them finish their game. Thank you for coming
to me. My aunt will, I hope, hear nothing of it. Good evening.'
Calling an elder girl, she gave some directions; and Mr. Wingfield
watched