CHAP. XVIII.

"UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE."

I am going to take you back to Oaklands Hall, and I am sure that if you feel half as delighted as I do to leave the din and turmoil of London for the sylvan shades and sunchequered lawn of the pretty Kentish House, I shall be satisfied. And it really will not be such a losing bargain, after all, this exchangepure, fresh breezes, provocative of ruddy cheeks and unlimited hunger, instead of the dull, leaden canopy of smoke, under which we poor Londoners have been gasping and groping our way-for pleasant walks in the turnip-fields and quiet lunches at the cover-side, under some patriarchal oak, where Tityrus leaves, for the nonce, his flute, and operates upon a bottle of sherry, and Neæra ceases turning the pretty coronal and carves the venison pasty. Far away from London now are all the divinities who have graced the ball-rooms and the concerts of the dead season-far away in distant shootingboxes, tramping, in the neatest of nailed boots, through the heather, or whipping the brawling stream for speckled trout, and sometimes knocking down their brace of birds quite as neatly and efficiently as they broke the hearts of unsuspecting victims in the mazy dance. Far away, in the "stately homes of England," where they spend the live-long day reading the last new novel under their favourite elm, or driving the ball through the difficult croquet hoop, or indulging in sweet far niente, the absolute luxury of doing and thinking of nothing at all. Far away, on the broad channel, in the most bewitching of yachting costumes, sailor-hats placed cavalierly over the long fluttering tresses; pea-jacket, with gilt buttons, and puzzling their pretty little heads with the Eleusinian mysteries of "starboard" and "larboard," "luff" and "belay." The last birds were preparing to wing their flight from London; solitude was commencing its annual reign in the fashionable localities; Praed's "Goodbye to the season" was in every mouth, and the closed curtained windows, the vacuous, idle footmen lolling on the step, were conclusive evidence that the polite world was out of town. And, in troth, it would

And so it was, that visitors to Mr. Grantley's house in Portman Square would have been informed by the stalwart Jeames Augustus, with condescending urbanity, that the "family was hout of town at Oakland's 'All." An invitation had come from Mrs. Stewart to her daughter, begging of her to come and help fill the house for the shooting, and to bring Grantley to help and shoot the birds, who wanted thinning sadly. To tell truth, Ella was right glad to go; the feverish hard life of continual excitement which she had been living lately, going incessantly from ball to ball, rout to rout, concert to concert, had almost knocked up the young wife, and she longed for the sharp pure breeze of the air round the dear old Hall, to enable her to recover her lost roses; and, above all these, there was the fact that she should have Grantley all to herself at the Hall; there would be none of those horrid creatures at clubs to occupy all his time and keep him absent from his loving little wife; and, most priceless boon of all, only get him to Oaklands, and he would forget, in the excitement of open-air sport, the terrible fascination which was luring him to destruction-the furious desire of winning money at the gaming table. At Oaklands there would be no Board of Green Cloth over which to ruin the health and energies; no écarté table, to detect and punish cheating foreigners at. So never did Roman poet welcome the retreat into the country, to the shady Apulian farm, to drink warm milk with his Falernian, and chat with sunburnt Galatea, as he bound the sheaves, when wearied with the strepitus of the Roman streets; never did the bucks and macaronies of the second Charles' days welcome the annual trip to Buxton or Bath, and the usual flirtation with the brown-cheeked farmers' daughters, who sold flummery and cherries,

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quence of which is that they get naturally tired and sick to death of the same faces. They need not meet at all, unless they like, till the dinnerhour; and there, radiant in gorgeous attire and beaming in smiles, they cannot fail in liking each other's company. There they can talk of the pleasure and occupation of the day; there they can hold pleasant converse, in low under-tones of each other's little peculiarities. The only thing which militates a little against the perfect equanimity of these country houses is that ofttimes, and especially in the shooting season, the ladies are left too much to their own resources, as all the available men come down in the morning attired for the day's sport in all the dandyism of shooting-coats and knickerbockers, which seems to say-" It's no use expecting us to stay and flirt and play at croquet and devour luncheon with you; there's fresh game a-field, and the only way in which you will be enabled to share our lordly company is by bringing | baskets of lunch out to us in the middle of the day." And not unfrequently has this little game succeeded: when Diana has tried every known ruse to snare the wary bird, she has had to thank that little bit of lunch under the hedge, after all; she looked so much like a ministering angel, as she laid the cloth, and wrung her hands over the absent pepper, that Charley was fain to propose. There was a very judicious mixture in the little knot of people at Oaklands Hall this autumn. There was a Commissioner of Inland Revenue and his wife-Mr. Batson, a very quiet, harmless little man, with an undecided face and a very decided judgment in matters where eating and drinking were concerned-a man who set himself up for a very Soyer in cookery, and prided himself on his taste in port wine. "It is no use trying to sell me with your new-fangled imitations," he would say, eyeing the liquor in question curiously the while: "I know a good wine when I taste one." Perhaps it was not true; but there existed a legend amongst the junior clerks in the little Commissioner's department that he had been a winetaster, in the days of his youth, at the docks. Once get Launcelot Batson fairly engaged upon a good dinner, and be the lady whom he had taken down a very Hester Stanhope in conversation, the commissioner would see, hear, think of nothing but the dinner. Mrs. Batson was a mighty woman in stature, in voice, in deportment fact was only too patent that she ruled her small spouse with a Draco's rod of iron. Ever attentive to her majestic nod, the little commissioner would follow her about like a spaniel, and often her "Launcelot, my love!" fell upon his guilty ears when he was taking too much port. It is my opinion that she had formed a code of signals for his use, and that when she nodded like Jove himself, or compressed her lips, Launcelot was to take no more than four glasses of wine, and not to touch olives for fear of his digestion, nor a cigar for fear of his breath, and to join the ladies as speedily as possible. As the Commissioner did not or could

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not shoot, he was always impressed into the service of the ladies, and his small fat figure might be seen sprawling about on the lawn and fixing the croquet-hoops, or carving at lunch, for which, like his namesake Gobbo's old father, "he had a kind of taste." This was the sole married couple, with the exception of the Grantleys. The rest were still in single blessedness, and were (room for the fair!) a Miss Sherlock (Viola Sherlock), who was an unfailing feature in all social gatherings of this sort-a species of "unprotected female," who was, natheless, very well able to take care of herself. She was not very young nor very pretty, but had seen the time when her name was a favourite toast, and was invaluable in love affairs. Though she had fought an unsuccessful fight herself, and had in vain attacked the citadel of men's hearts, she was still very much valued for the skill in which she brought people together. Had she been a man, “Shall I, Sir Pandarus of Troy become?" would have suited her well; as it was, she played the part of match-maker much more skilfully than her namesake in "Twelfth Night." Then she was very useful in filling up idle hours in houses, could play accompaniments in good style, and had a certain voice herself, which had got rather seedy, and was very good at philosophical discussion, seeing that she had read a great deal, and had once written and read a paper at the "Social Science Meeting," about the "Right Place of Women."

Hope, they say, came last out of Pandora's capacious box, and it has the faculty now of surviving all other passions in woman's breast. So it may be that Viola Sherlock still dreamt of the delusive charms of matrimony. With her we may mention Croker Pitts of the War Office, also a very handy man in a countryhouse, for he was very like the person who is described in the comic song as "Up to every sort of thing." For the last on dit or sparkle of wit which had occupied town circles before his holidays commenced, you might safely go to Croker Pitts; and he had a very neat turn for indoor amusements-from getting up charades and private theatricals, and performing the chief characters himself, down to singing the last comic song learnt at a music-hall: "Tootletum-tay," or "Policeman 92 X.," which he flattered himself he was only excelled in by the great Arthur Lloyd himself. "Capital company "the inen styled him; the ladies, "that amusing creature, Mr. Pitts." He thought himself a decent shot, but his detractors said that his fame rested solely on the fact that one day by happy luck he did manage to bring down a pheasant within range, and that after that he shot no more, and rested on his laurels.

Ensign Robson had been asked over to the Hall, and had accordingly obtained leave of absence, and made himself supremely happy with everybody, as was his wont; and his big cigar, of which he seemed to have imported all the brand, was seen all over the grounds. He fought rather shy of Viola Sherlock, and with reason, for no sooner was that lady introduced К?