Carding-mill Valley

Among the ancient British hills, not far from the Welsh Border, lies a lone tract of very romantic, almost mountainous country. Those who have looked down often on continental moraines, where arrowy rivers and rushing torrents sweep past, bringing with them all kinds of débris, will be reminded, in miniature, of scenes near the sources of mighty streams; even though it is only a brook that trickles between dark heaving slopes of heath; or that spreads itself out into shallow pools, blue with forget-me-nots growing among pebbles, and peeping out of the glancing water.

"Be ye going to the Mountains?" is the reply given by some passing shepherd if you ask your way; and, although these ancient heights do not rival Alps or Apennines, the traveller who has seen both and many other grand acclivities does not find fault with the term.

This winding vale is not so far away from the haunts of men as might be supposed when you have followed its intricacies for some distance. Children from old-fashioned houses and cottages in a straggling street, gather the flowers and water-cresses and paddle in the shallow water-course. Sheep are washed in the deep pool under the alders, and the trees of a noble domain, fringe the heights overlooking the entrance to the gorge.

But it is wild enough farther on. There, men have wandered despairingly, in danger of their lives, on snowy nights of gusty winter; warned, only just in time, by the sudden dash of the rivulet over a stony ledge, that they were on the verge of a precipice. Wide, inhospitable moors stretch away, with deep pits underlying their treacherous surface; while rugged cart-tracks and rough steep bridle-roads alone unite the little hamlets and solitary farms. The small town at the entrance of the Carding-Mill Valley is the capital of this secluded, beautiful wilderness.

At the end of its one long street overlooked by the tower of the Church, the houses form an irregular square, one side of which is partially open, excepting where a jutting ledge of rock starts forward as if on purpose to shut out the view. It does not, however, impede the advance of the traveller, for there is a wide path carried round the natural ledge of stone which forms a seat. Here the irrepressible children congregate, and almost equally numerous, and much bolder, large white pigs, sometimes seem holding a conclave. Only a few paces farther on the houses are lost to sight behind this stony promontory; and you are, or seem to be, alone with Nature. "There, yes, there are the Mountains!" you involuntarily exclaim. You cannot call them by any other name! Taking every casual tint of the atmosphere, peaked, crenellated, battlemented, storm-defiant, those rugged, weather-beaten summits command the smiling wooded ridges, pleasant field pathways, and emerald-green water-meadows, which surround the primitive dwellings of the children of the soil.

The last house in what would be called in the West of England "the Church Town," to distinguish it from one or two other clusters of buildings, previously passed, turned its front quite away from the streets and towards the hills, receiving shelter from the jutting promontory which hid the view from other dwellings. On the opposite side of the white winding road a darkly wooded slope terminated at but a short distance, where the stone piers of a lofty entrance gateway marked the commencement of a very shadowy avenue. No building was visible, the mansion being approached by long wooded drives from each end of the village, and lying far back under the hills which gently folded round it.

High above these home-woods and smiling hills rose the peaks and cones of what the country people invariably designated as "The Mountains." Their wild jagged outlines deserved the name, though perhaps they might be more correctly called Moor-land Heights. Still, as the provincial appellation suited them well, we shall often use it. An opening in the lower chain of hills gave the cottage at the end of the street a prospect few English dwellings possess of these storm-rent acclivities. The slanting rays of the sun as it sank behind heavy clouds gave majesty to the view. Darkly grey against the amber sunset frowned the Mountains--purple in the deeper shadows--gold-flecked where salient angles caught the light.

Miss Derinzy's residence, except in situation, differed very little from other houses in the street, many of them being pleasantly set in the midst of gardens, shadowed by trees, thatched, and individualized by various ornamental appendages, in the shape of gables, verandas, and bay or bow windows. Indeed, it was much plainer than some villas or cottages of gentility belonging to the doctor's, the lawyer's, and several other respectable families. The windows were only sheltered and shaded by the deep projection of the thatch. Just now the small diamond-paned casements glittered in the low sunrays. A long row of beehives was ranged against the sunny south fence, and the entrance was straight from the little garden in front through a porch which was thatched, and in shape very much resembled the beehives.

All the rooms which the cottage contained were on one floor. At the back was a large garden filled with multitudes of common flowers, with straight walks passing among them; and, beyond, a well-stocked kitchen-garden, now looking verdant and prolific. Through the middle of the smaller plot of grass in front of the cottage a narrow gravel path led directly to the parlour-window, which also served the purpose of front-door; the entrance at the back being principally used by the tradespeople and numerous recipients of charity. The visitors, few in number, of the quiet Mistress of The Nest found their way unannounced into her presence by walking in at the open window in summer; or, if it were closed, by ringing a little bell which hung close by under the porch upon which it opened.

The glare of the afternoon sunshine lay on the flowers outside, but the room itself was in shadow, and the windows wide open, when a lady, who might have been seen coming down the avenue from The Hall, tapped with her parasol against the glass door, and upon hearing a gentle voice say, "Come in," entered quietly. She was handsomely dressed, and there was an unmistakable air of refinement in her whole appearance; but all traces of beauty had vanished before their time from the pale face of Ursula Derinzy, the present mistress of Hagleth Hall. Once she had been very lovely, but she had faded prematurely.

Even in dress an alteration in style, which was not an improvement, had taken place. The soft blues and greys and lilacs, and even delicate-rose tints, in which she had once delighted were always sufficiently subdued to harmonize with, and might have brightened up and thrown a glow over, the at present wan hue of her complexion. A more decided contrast might have set off those delicate feminine features, and light hair more than tinged with silver; but Ursula preferred neutral tints, shadowy dull greens and brown and slate. Herself a shadow, her limp, trailing, dust-coloured garment, as she glided across the floor, made her seem spectral.

Miss Derinzy was in all respects the opposite to her cousin. Her tall figure was always attired in well-fitting graceful robes, adapted after a fashion of her own to the prevailing custom of the period. Though in reality they were contemporaries, she looked many years younger than her visitor. Her clear dark complexion was still pure as in her youth. Her eyes shone with a grave but tender lustre which could be compared to nothing more aptly than the evening star. Many a well-turned couplet and compliment, long since forgotten, had been offered at the shrine of Stella Derinzy's darkly beaming eyes.

She did not rise from the low beehive chair in which she was seated, but held out both her hands, dropping her needlework in her lap.

"Welcome!" she said warmly. "I did not know you had come back to The Hall. How kind of you to walk here in this great heat, at once to see me!"

Mrs. Derinzy received that frank kindly grasp and greeting as affectionately as her nature and habits permitted. She was one of those unfortunate people who cannot learn, and have not imbibed instinctively, the art of salutation. If she ever kissed anyone--it was not usual for her to go so far even with her most intimate friends--she always turned her head away just at the critical moment, and presented the side of her cheek, or the tip of her shell-shaped ear, instead of the small straight mouth. So, in shaking hands, her slender trembling fingers eluded a straightforward clasp, her little thumbs were always in the way.

However, after their several widely differing fashions, the two ladies shook hands; neither of them seeming to contemplate or desire a warmer embrace, though they were near relatives as well as intimate friends, and had been separated from each other for a considerable period.

"We came home much sooner than was originally intended. As usual, everything here was going wrong," said Mrs. Derinzy, lowering her never loud tones to a confidential whisper. "The girls naturally wished, after our return from the Riviera, to stay a little while in London, see the exhibitions, attend meetings and conversaziones, hear the great preachers, in fact, to enjoy, each in her own way, what are called the pleasures of the season; but Colonel Derinzy would not hear of it, and hurried us off at, literally, a moment's notice. You know, Stella, I never dispute his commands--I only wish others were as obedient! No doubt he had good reason for saying that it was best, on all accounts, to leave Town without a moment's delay."

"Had anything happened here, or did Colonel Derinzy think London unhealthy? I have heard great complaints of the heat there already this season, and of epidemics, measles and scarlatina. I hope the girls have not caught them."

"Oh dear no, I hope not; I trust we brought them away in time to avoid those and much worse risks," said the mother of four handsome, healthy daughters with a sigh. "Oh, Stella, how much you are to be envied! Here you live so contentedly in your sweet little cottage, with your two men and three model maid-servants! No carriage-horses to be always falling ill (that dear little poney is never out of condition)--no boys getting into constant scrapes--no girls developing all kinds of alarming peculiarities and inclinations, in danger of forming most undesirable connections--with literally no one but yourself to think about! No domestic anxieties to worry you perpetually--a handsome income and perfect independence. I always say you are the person I know in the world most to be envied."

"Do you really think so, Ursula?" said Stella, raising her grave, wondering, luminous eyes to her cousin's face. "Well, perhaps you are right. At all events I am, at last, content, after long praying and trying to be so. But such is the perversity of human nature and the contradictoriness of women's hearts that I have often envied you the occupation of the lovely place where I was born; I have wished that the cool waving woods hung still over my own rooftree, or belonged to one dearer than myself who would have shared everything with me--that the fleet steeds my brother and I used to ride still carried us over the hills and through the valley. More than all I have longed for the love of children--his or my own; I should have loved his boys and girls dearly, and could then contentedly have remained to the end of my days, Aunt Stella, watching over them; or I might have married and been as you should be, a proud happy mother, and been blessed with such a crown of joy as your bright loving beautiful daughters and brave sons are for you!"

Mrs. Derinzy laid her tremulous hand on those which Stella had clasped together in her momentary excitement, but the limp fingers fell away again immediately.

"Oh, of course, yes, I know, I remember what you must often feel; but, please do not let us talk about it. The past is gone beyond recall, the present is your own doing, and I am sure you are much too good to envy anyone. Circumstanced as we both are, it is best never to allude to those old times."

"Then do not bring them before me by envying me my poor cottage, my lonely state," said Miss Derinzy, vainly trying to repress her feelings. "I cannot bury my dead out of sight as you do, Ursula; and there are none but yourself to whom I can speak of persons and things that neither time nor absence, not even death, can make me forget."

Mrs. Derinzy gazed helplessly at her friend whilst this strong spasm of emotion lasted. Her hands shook more than ever, and there were fresh lines and nervous twitches round her thin lips; her white face grew yet more deathlike. Feelings seldom stirred swayed her like a leaf. She trembled from head to foot, and there was something sadder than sorrow in the expression of her tearless eyes. Stella did not look at her, but, nevertheless, she was aware that her cousin, as well as herself, had been, and still was, unusually agitated.

"Forget what I have said, Ursula. You are quite right. I am content with my lot now, and thankful for its tranquillity," she said kindly. "Tell me, what new troubles brought you home so suddenly!"

"Indeed, indeed, Stella, I did not mean to grieve you. A mother of many children like me is not always to be envied. Colonel Derinzy, though I am far from wishing to blame my husband, has his peculiarities, and so have all his and my sons and daughters, though they are unlike us both. Thea has a thousand whims and fancies, and wanted me to ask her father to allow her to become a nursing-sister, or assistant pupil, I know not what, in a great London Hospital! The next thing will be that she will take it into her head to be a Lady Doctor. I can't think where they get such ideas--certainly not from me or their father!"

"No; I do not think you ever had any such eccentric inclinations," said her cousin. "It is like a hen bringing up in her coop ducklings or game birds, or a hedge-sparrow with a cuckoo in her little nest. But I do not think Althea will develop into a cuckoo. All her instincts are kindly ones. As yet she is but groping in the dark to find her true vocation."

"Leo has altered the services and changed the hymn-books. He actually has tall candles burning on the altar. I do hope he will discontinue his Ritualistic practices now that we are come back. His father, I am quite sure, will not tolerate them. He was always the most wilful of my children"--pursued his mother in a still more plaintive key. "Ah yes," she added in reply to a few quiet words of explanation. "These innovations are only practised as yet in the little Chapel which you helped him and others to build. I wonder why people cannot be satisfied and worship with us in the old Parish Church. You have quite given up your own place, now, in the Hall pew--" A movement of impatience on Stella's part cut short her murmurs, and she said hurriedly:

"But these were not the troubles which you asked me about, Stella. Have you really not heard or cared about the infringement of our family rights and privileges by the stranger who is making a road at the upper end of the Carding-Mill Valley? Colonel Derinzy considers it an unpardonable liberty, and hurried home the moment he heard of it to put a stop to his proceedings."

"Yes, I know that a gentleman--Mr. Vansittart's tenant at the old burnt Mill--was so sorry to see the horses so greatly distressed by the sharp pitch of the hill that he had gone to great expense in turning and levelling the road. Is there any harm in that? I look on him as a public benefactor!"

"My dear Stella, I wonder that you, a landed-proprietor, should say so!" said her cousin. "What business had this Manchester man--Mr. Johnson or Thompson--I hear he has been in trade and has loads of money--to meddle with your road? Colonel Derinzy was furious about it and says he shall bring an action against the man. It is only by favour that carts pass that way; if the road is bad, let them go round the hill."

"There was always a right of road through the valley," said her cousin thoughtfully. "Tell Colonel Derinzy that I say so, and I knew our hills, and dales too, long before he did. Lawsuits about way-rights are tedious things. Why should we not have a good road instead of a bad one, since you cannot shut out the public?"

"Oh, you do not know what gentlemen think about these matters--you must excuse me. I make a point of never interfering or giving an opinion. No doubt Colonel Derinzy knows best. He is quite sure to be right."

"Let him try then, but not as my representative," said Stella carelessly. "We must all buy our experience, and no doubt Colonel Derinzy is prepared, as the next proprietor of the Hall, to count the cost, and able to pay for it. I doubt whether the law will give judgment in his favour; although in most cases I admit him to be wiser in his generation than myself or our new neighbour, who seems to think more of other people's comfort and convenience than of his own interests."

Mrs. Derinzy sighed. "You are very severe, Stella; less charitable to my husband than to this stranger. Let us say no more about these troublesome matters. Parish business is not at all in my way. The less ladies meddle in it the better. It is quite out of our sphere. Have you been suffering more than usual lately? You are certainly not in your usual good spirits to-day."

"The heat is trying," replied her friend, as Mrs. Derinzy looked at her compassionately. She loved Stella better than anyone outside her own home circle, and the affection was mutual, though their pursuits, habits and characters were far as the poles asunder. "Will you give me your arm as far as the gates of your avenue? I shall go and rest then on my favourite seat looking towards the hills. They always soothe me."

"I wish you would come home with me," said her cousin affectionately. "It is very little further than that uncomfortable stone chair, and the views of the woods and hills much pleasanter. My flowers are lovely; and we have brought down some delightful lawn-seats, and a tent which Leo and Hugo have already set up for their sisters. The young people will be delighted to see you. Stella, do you never mean to enter the old Hall again?"

Miss Derinzy did not take any notice of this question. She was busy assuming her simple out-of-door costume, every article of which hung within her reach. Last of all she took up an alpenstock, marked with records of travel in other hands, but she did not make much use of it at first, accepting the arm of her friend as far as the way led in the same direction--the shadowy approach to the domain of Hagleth.

It seemed strange to see the taller, apparently stronger, still handsome woman leaning on the slender, willowy, feeble Mistress of the Hall; but Stella Derinzy needed support. When she parted from her cousin her pace became slower and she leant more on her staff, often pausing for breath. Years before, in blooming girlhood, she had overtaxed her strength; and now the once fleet limbs had lost much of their power, though medical and surgical skill failed in discovering the cause or remedy.

Stella submitted to her fate, but it cost her a severe struggle to give up active exercise. She could only walk a short distance; riding, in which she formerly delighted, was forbidden; the motion of a carriage fatigued and pained her. Her friends believed, as well as the eminent physicians consulted, that the weight of a great mental sorrow, caused by the loss of an idolized brother, suddenly laid upon her when her bodily health first failed, conduced to make the strain and tension of the nerves almost intolerable; but she had a brave spirit and bore up against it.

It was probably the knowledge that many persons in her native village wanted friendly sympathy which made Stella Derinzy remain near her old home, although she never on any occasion or under any circumstances crossed the threshold of The Hall. Mrs Derinzy was too timid to play the part of Lady Bountiful; her husband considered charity as the root of pauperism and numberless ills; as perhaps, when injudiciously distributed, in some cases, may be true. He never went among the cottagers, nor would he suffer his wife to do so. As children the young girls of the family took exercise in the extensive and beautiful grounds. Their attendants were strictly forbidden to take them into the village for fear of infection; although in justice to him and to Stella, the Lady of the Manor, it must be said that all local affairs were attended to carefully. The dwellings were kept in decent repair, and a sufficient number of tolerably roomy, comfortable tenements were provided and at certain seasons put in order.

Colonel Derinzy was not a cruel, but he was by no means a tender nor a generous steward. He was the manager of Miss Derinzy's large property and her heir-at-law. Her tenantry were not insensible to his good qualities, and yet they heartily disliked the man who had succeeded, prematurely they thought, to the authority of the old-fashioned, kind-hearted Squire.

There were many persons who wondered (as neighbours will always wonder at the actions of those whom they have seen grow up without realizing their individual peculiarities) that Stella Derinzy should remain in the near vicinity of the place where she was born and might have continued to bear rule; but the broken-hearted girl clung even to painful associations. It was better, she said, to mourn among her own people than to hide her deep grief from strangers. A small cottage in the village which suited her taste and particularly belonged to her as part of the portion for younger children, had been, when she was quite young, fitted up according to her fancy. The gardener, housekeeper, and coachman were old servants from The Hall, friends from childhood, and their daughter had been her own maid ever since she was released from her nurse's thrall. With a small but well-ordered and sufficient establishment, and one little maiden from the village school, a promotion earnestly contemplated by the best scholar, Miss Derinzy contented herself; and, as her cousin said, she was free from home troubles.

Most part of her large income was spent in works of charity, in aiding old and young friends, and, in judiciously assisting those who tried to help themselves, but for whom life's changes and chances had proved too heavy. There are bounds even in the most loving and best-balanced spirits wearing mortal shape to Christian charity, and Stella Derinzy's stopped here. She did not love--she tried not to hate--her brother's successor at the old Hall, Arnold Derinzy, the representative of a younger branch, who had married her first cousin. Never did she knowingly and willingly cross his path.

It was easy to avoid him, for the Colonel disliked the village, and all the quiet rural paths, and in fact seldom walked at all. He rode into the neighbouring county-town almost every day, followed by his groom; and performed the usual duties of a country gentleman with exemplary regularity. No particularly arbitrary or cruel judgment as a magistrate had ever been brought home to him. He was not an over-strict game-preserver, but he was regarded as a hard man. No wife, sister, mother, or friend, would have tried to influence him towards deeds of mercy rather than strict justice. There was an iron rigidity about his straightly-cut features and upright figure which told of harshness as well as military discipline; and, through his more gentle wife, experience taught that it was useless to try and reach the gentler side, if it existed, of his nature. Ursula had no influence; and, as she said, made a point of never interfering.

Stella tried not to think about her enemy--the only one she ever even imagined herself to have--as she walked on after parting with his wife, but the tall straight figure haunted her. She thought, too, of the stranger at the Burnt Mill, as people still often called the place where he had unwisely settled. Many kind actions of his had been reported to her, and she had a strong fellow-feeling for the over-driven cattle--the weary beasts of burden--whose toil he had tried to lighten by turning and lowering the road, and placing a drinking-trough and fountain beside it. The man himself derived no benefit from his large outlay, but he was supposed to be rich and to have plenty to spare.

He had sacrificed the prettiest corner of his small recently-acquired picturesque grounds in order to give the new road a better turn and easier incline, and probably imagined other gentlemen in the neighbourhood would be equally accommodating. What a disappointing, souring effect the churlish opposition of the occupants of the Hall would have upon this good-natured individual if the threat of law-proceedings against him were actually to be carried out! It should not be done, at all events, under her name and sanction.

Stella forgot her troubles when the path by a sudden turn brought her out on a lone hillside overlooking the course of the brook. She could see the blue forget-me-nots growing among the pebbles in and beside the shallow stream,--the grey boulders past which it meandered. High dark summits, many-hued, many-shaped, closed in the prospect. Could she but have wandered far enough, the path would lead into the recesses of the hills. She might hear again the music of the waterfall, and gather ferns from its very ledge. But her strength failed, even while she thought of it. "Hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther," had been impressed upon her during many an hour of pain and restlessness.

Opposite to the rocky recess in which she was resting was another stony ledge somewhat similar in character. She sat down thankfully, after lifting up and appropriating a bunch of flowers laid on the granite slab. She guessed that they were intended for herself; very seldom did she fail to find some little token of rural affection as the reward of her pilgrimage.

In olden times, this spot had been named the "Lady's Chair," and the opposite shelf in the rock the "Knight's Table," sole relics of some forgotten legend or superstition. Stella was empress of her people's hearts--the sons and daughters of the soil adored her. These working men and women prayed for her--children worshipped the ground on which she trod, and followed her bidding blindfold. Was it not worth while to have borne pain and conquered reluctance to win such wealth of love? Every day Stella rejoiced more and more that she had resolved to live down her trouble, her sore mortification, among her own people, under the shadow of her own hills. Feeble as she was, there were the skirts and crowns of the mountains, with the brook winding its way down the valley. No other place on earth could have the same hallowed though thrilling associations, or be so dear to her, even though she could no longer urge her light palfrey to carry her more fleetly through the passes of the hills by Hugh's side, or feel the warm clasp of the brotherly hand which had once helped her to reach on foot their boldest and loneliest heights.