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Read Ebook: Ralph Wilton's weird by Alexander Mrs
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Ebook has 1116 lines and 53605 words, and 23 pages
"No doubt it would be better for the world to be in an Arcadian or paradisiacal condition; but, as it is, I am afraid it will be a long time before we can dispense with fighting or fighting-men. However, you are right--war is a horrible thing, and I hope we shall have no more for a long time."
"Alas! how dare we hope that, so long as it is in the power of three or four men to plunge three or four nations into such horrors?"
"Ah, I see I have encountered a dangerous democrat," said Wilton, laughing; and, vaguely pleased to see her drawn out of her cool composure, he watched the varying color in her cheek while she was turning over the leaves of her sketch-book, seeming to seek for something. "Pardon me," said Wilton, after waiting for a reply, and determined to speak again, "but I imagine you are not English."
"I scarcely know--yes, I believe I am." She spoke in her former quiet tone again.
"In England all young ladies are conservative, at least all I have ever known," continued Wilton.
"Conservative!--I have read that word often in the journals. Is it legitimacy, Church and state, and all that?"
"Exactly."
"Well, the young ladies I know--and they are but few--are very charming, very accomplished; but they know nothing, absolutely nothing. Is it not strange?"
There was not the slightest approach to cynicism in her tone, but she looked at Wilton as if fully expecting him to share her wonder.
"Is this the character of the young ladies of the unknown land into which I am about to plunge? I fancied Scotchwomen were educated within an inch of their lives."
"I know English girls best. Some are very learned; have been taught quantities; they can tell the very year when printing was tried, and when Queen Elizabeth first wore silk stockings, and when every great pope was born; and they read French and German; and oh, I cannot tell all they can do and say. And yet--yet, they know nothing--they care for nothing--they lead such strange lives."
"I suppose the lives of all girls are much alike," observed Wilton, more and more curious to find out some leading acts concerning his rather original companion. "But, as we are both bound for the same place, perhaps I may have some opportunity of communicating my observations on the intellectual status of the Monkscleugh young ladies?"
"There is very little probability of such an event," said she, with an amused smile.
"Then you do not reside at Monkscleugh?"
"Within three miles of it."
"I am going down to a shooting-lodge called Glenraven," hoping she would respond by naming her own abode.
"Indeed! I know it; there are some lovely bits about there."
"We shall be neighbors, then?"
"Yes, in a certain sense. Here," she continued, turning over a fresh page of her book, "this is the outline of a very lovely brae and burn close to your abode."
It was only a bit of broken bank; a stream, dotted with stones, lay below, with some mountain ash trees spreading their feathery foliage against the sky; but there were wonderful grace and beauty in the sketch. "This gives you a very faint idea of the reality," she resumed, in a low, soft tone, as if inwardly contemplating it. "The water is clear brown; it foams and chafes round these large black stones, and all sorts of delicious mosses and leaves lurk below the edge; and then ferns wave about the rocks on the brae, and there are gleams of purple heather and tufts of green, green grass, and behind here a great, wild, free hill-side. Oh, it is so quiet and dreamy there--delicious!"
"And this delightful brae is near the lodge?" said Wilton, when she paused, after listening an instant in hopes she would speak on, there was such caressing sweetness in her voice.
"No, not very near; almost a mile away, I think." She evidently knew the place well.
"I hope you will continue to transfer the beauties of Glenraven after I become a dweller there."
"Oh, yes; whenever I have time; to draw is my greatest pleasure."
With all her frankness, he was not an inch nearer the discovery of her actual abode.
"I suppose you do not live far from the scene of your sketch?"
"Not far: Brosedale is quite a mile and a half on this side," touching the page with her pencil; "and the pathway to Monkscleugh goes over the brae."
"Indeed! I imagine I have heard the name of Brosedale before."
"Very likely; it is, I believe, the largest gentleman's seat in the neighborhood."
"Yes, yes; I remember now: it belongs to Sir Peter Fergusson."
"Exactly."
"She cannot be his daughter," thought Wilton; "I suppose she must be the governess.--I understand he is quite the grand seigneur of Monkscleugh," he said aloud.
"Well, I suppose so. He is a good little man--at least, whenever I see him he is very kind." After some further, but intermittent conversation, there was a sort of movement in the next room, and Wilton's companion begged him to go and see what was the matter.
The matter was the arrival of the promised engine and train; so Wilton's conversation and inquiries were put an end to for the present.
The young lady had sunk to sleep at last, carefully wrapped in Wilton's cloak, and the bagman, having exhausted either his powers or his subject, composed himself to slumber. But Wilton could not rest for a long time, and he seemed hardly to have lost consciousness before they stopped at Carlisle. Here the commercial traveller alighted, and Wilton's puzzling companion woke up.
"We shall be at Monkscleugh in three-quarters of an hour," said Wilton; "can I be of any further use to you if your friends are not there to meet you, as may be the case?"
"There will be no friends to meet me," she replied; "but I need trouble you no more: I go to the house of one of the Brosedale employ?s, who will send me on."
"After a hair-breadth 'scape, such as ours," said Wilton, amused at his own unwonted bashfulness and difficulty in putting the question, "may I ask the name of my comrade in danger?"
"My name?" with some surprise. "Oh, Ella--Ella Rivers."
"And mine; do you not care to inquire?" said Wilton, bending forward to look into her eyes.
"Yes," she said, slowly, with a slight sigh; "what is your name?"
"Wilton."
"Have you no other?--there is always more character in a Christian name."
"Mine is Ralph."
"Ralph--Ralph--I do not seem to understand it. Are you noble?"
"No; simply Colonel Wilton."
"Ah! a colonel is higher than a captain, and lower than a general?"
"Just so."
She relapsed into silence, scarcely responding to Wilton's endeavor to make her talk and turn her eyes upon him. He was surprised to find himself counting the minutes that remained before he should be compelled to lose sight of his curiously fascinating companion. The parting moment came all too quickly, and Wilton was obliged to say "Good-by."
"I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you again," he said, politely.
"There is nothing so unlikely," she returned, with a slight blush; "but," holding out her hand, "your kindness will always be a pleasant recollection."
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