NEW INHABITANTS.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad--
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
Goes by to towered Camelot;
And sometimes, through the mirror blue,
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal knight and true--
The Lady of Shalott.
TENNYSON.
'Oakstead, Oct. 14th, 1847.
'My Dear Aunt,--I find that Fitzjocelyn is writing to you, but I think
you will wish for a fuller account of him than can be obtained from his
own letters. Indeed, I should be much obliged if you would kindly
exercise your influence to persuade him that he is not in a condition
to be imprudent with impunity. Sir Miles Oakstead was absolutely
shocked to see the alteration in his appearance, as well as in his
spirits; and although both our kind host and hostess are most
solicitous on his account, it happens unfortunately that they are at
this juncture quite alone, so that he is without companions of his own
age. I must not, however, alarm you. The fact is, that circumstances
have occurred which, though he has acted in the most exemplary manner,
have harassed and distressed him a good deal, and his health suffers
from the difficulty of taking sufficient exercise. James will triumph
when he hears that I regret having shortened his stay by the sea-side;
for neither the place nor the weather seems to agree with him: he has
had a recurrence of wakeful nights, and is very languid. Poor boy!
yesterday he wandered out alone in the rain, lost his way, and came
home so fatigued that he slept for three hours on the sofa, but to-day
he seems better--has more colour, and has been less silent. We go to
Leffingham Castle from Monday till Thursday, when I shall take him to
London for Hastings to decide whether it be fit for him to return to
Christchurch after the vacation, according to his own most anxious
wish. With my love to Mary Ponsonby and her daughter, and best
remembrances to James,
'Your affectionate nephew,
'ORMERSFIELD.'
The same envelope contained another letter of many sheets, beginning in
a scrawl:--
'Scene--Rose-coloured Pastor's Nest. Tables, chairs, books, papers,
despatch-boxes. The two ex-ministers writing and consulting. Viscount
F. looking on like a colt running beside its parent at plough, thinking
that harness leaves deep marks, and that he does not like the furrow.
'October 13th, 1847.--That correct date must be a sign that he is
getting into harness.
'Well, dear Aunt Kitty, to make a transition from the third to the
first person, like Mrs. Norris, you have in this short scene an epitome
of the last fortnight. Lady Oakstead is an honourable matron, whom I
pity for having me in her way; a man unable to be got rid of by the
lawful exercises of shooting and riding, and with a father always
consulting her about him, and watching every look and movement, till
the blood comes throbbing to my temples by the mere attraction of his
eyes. To be watched into a sense of impatience and ingratitude, is a
trial of life for which one is not prepared. My father and Sir Miles
are very busy; I hang here an anomaly, sitting with them as being less
in their way than in Lady Oakstead's, and wondering what I shall be
twenty years hence. I am sick of the only course of life that will
content my father, and I can see no sunshine likely to brighten it.
But, at least, no one's happiness is at stake but my own. Here is a
kind, cordial letter from Lady Conway, pressing me to join her at
Scarborough, make expeditions, &c. My father is in such a state about
me, that I believe I could get his consent to anything, but I suppose
it would not be fair, and I have said nothing to him as yet. On Monday
we go to Leffingham, which, I hear, is formality itself. After that,
more state visits, unless I can escape to Oxford. My father fancies me
not well enough; but pray unite all the forces of the Terrace to
impress that nothing else will do me any good. Dragging about in this
dreary, heartless way is all that ails me, and reading for my degree
would be the best cure. I mean to work hard for honours, and, if
possible, delude myself with hopes of success. Work is the need.
Here, there is this one comfort. There is no one to talk to, no birds
in last year's nest, sons absent, daughters disposed of, but,
unluckily, the Pastoress, under a mistaken sense of kindness, has asked
the Vicar's son to walk with me, and he is always lying in wait,--an
Ensign in a transition state between the sheepish schoolboy and the
fast man, with an experience of three months of depot. Having roused
him from the pristine form, I regret the alternative.
'Did I ever write so savage a letter? Don't let it vex you, or I won't
send it. What a bull! There is such a delectable Scotch mist, that no
one will suspect me of going out; and I shall actually cheat the
Ensign, and get a walk in solitude to hearten me for the dismal state
dinner party of the evening.
'October 14th.--Is it in the book of fate that I should always treat
this rose-coloured pastor like a carrion crow? I have done it again!
And it has but brought out more of my father's marvellous kindness and
patience.
'I plunged into the Scotch mist unsuspected and unpursued. The visible
ebullition of discontent had so much disgusted me that I must needs see
whether anything could be done with it, and fairly face the matter, as
I can only do in a walk. Pillow counsel is feverish and tumultuous;
one is hardly master of oneself. The soft, cool, mist-laden air, heavy
but incense-breathing, was a far more friendly adjunct in the quiet
decay of nature--mournful, but not foul nor corrupt, because man had
not spoilt it. It suited me better than a sunny, glaring day, such as
I used to revel in, and the brightness of which, last spring, made me
pine to be in the free air. Such days are past with me; I had better
know that they are, and not strive after them. Personal happiness is
the lure, not the object, in this world. I have my Northwold home, and
I am beginning to see that my father's comfort depends on me as I
little imagined, and sufficiently to sweeten any sacrifice. So I have
written to refuse Scarborough, for there is no use in trying to combine
two things, pleasing my father and myself. I wish the determination
may last; but mine have never been good for much, and you must help me.
'Neither thinking nor fog conduced to seeing where I was going; and
when my ankle began to give out, and I was going to turn, I ran into a
hedge, which, looming through the mist, I had been taking for a fine
range of distant mountains--rather my way of dealing with other
objects. Being without a horse on whose neck to lay the reins, I could
only coast the hedge, hoping it might lead me back to Oakstead Park,
which I had abandoned in my craving for space and dread of being dogged
by the Ensign. But the treacherous hedge led me nowhere but to a
horsepond; and when I had struggled out of the adjacent mire, and
attained a rising ground, I could only see about four yards square of
bare down, all the rest being grey fog. Altogether, the scene was
worth something. I heard what I thought the tinkling of a sheep bell
through the cloud, which dulled the sound like cotton wool; I pursued
the call, when anon, the veil began to grow thin, and revealed, looking
just like a transparency, a glimpse of a little village in a valley
almost under my feet, trees, river, church-spire and all, and the bell
became clearer, and showed me what kind of flock it was meant for. I
turned that way, and had just found a path leading down the steep, when
down closed the cloud--a natural dissolving view--leaving me wondering
whether it had been mirage or imagination, till presently, the curtain
drew up in earnest. Out came, not merely form, but colour, as I have
seen a camera clear itself--blue sky, purple hills, russet and orange
woods, a great elm green picked out with yellow, a mass of brown oaks,
a scarlet maple, a beech grove, skirting a brilliant water meadow, with
a most reflective stream running through it, and giving occasion for a
single arched bridge, and a water mill, with a wheel draperied with
white foam; two swans disporting on the water (I would not declare they
were not geese), a few cottony flakes of mist hanging over damp
corners, the hill rising green, with the bright whitewashed cottages of
this district, on the side a rich, red, sandstone-coloured church, late
architecture, tower rather mouldering--all the more picturesque;
churchyard, all white headstones and ochreous sheep, surmounted by a
mushroom-shaped dark yew tree, railed in with intensely white rails,
the whole glowing in the parting coup-de-soleil of a wet day, every
tear of every leaf glistening, and everything indescribably lustrous.
It is a picture that one's mental photograph ought to stamp for life,
and the cheering and interest it gave, no one but you can understand. I
wished for you, I know. It looks so poor in words.
'After the service, I laid hold of the urchin whose hearty stare had
most reminded me of Tom Madison, and gave him a shilling to guide me
back to Oakstead, a wise measure, for down came the cloud, blotting all
out like the Castle of St. John, and by the time I came home, it was
pitch dark and raining hard, and my poor father was imagining me at the
foot of another precipice. I was hoping to creep up in secret, but
they all came out, fell upon me, Lady Oakstead sent me tea, and ordered
me to rest; and so handsomely did I obey, that when next I opened my
eyes, and saw my father waiting, as I thought, for me to go down to
dinner with him, I found he had just come up after the ladies had
quitted the dining-room. So kind and so little annoyed did he seem,
that I shook myself, to be certified that I had broken no more bones,
but it was all sheer forbearance and consideration--enough to go to
one's heart--when it was the very thing to vex him most. With great
penitence, I went down, and the first person I encountered was the very
curate I had seen in my _mist_erious village, much as if he had walked
out of a story book. On fraternizing, I found him to be a friend of
Holdsworth. Lady Oakstead is going to take me, this afternoon, to see
his church, &c., thoroughly; and behold, I learn from him that she is a
notable woman for doing good in her parish, never so happy as in
trotting to cottages, though her good deeds are always in the
background. Thereupon, I ventured to attack her this morning on cottage
garniture, and obtained the very counsel I wanted about ovens and
piggeries, we began to get on together, and she is to put me up to all
manner of information that I want particularly. I must go now, not to
keep her waiting, never mind the first half of my letter--I have no
time to cancel it now. I find my father wants to put in a note: don't
believe a word that he says, for I am much better to-day, body and mind.
Goosey, goosey gander,
Where shall we wander,
Anywhere, everywhere, to remain still
'Your most affectionate,
'FITS GOSLING.'
Dear Aunt Kitty! One of her failings was never to be able to keep a
letter to herself. She fairly cried over her boy's troubles; and Mrs.
Ponsonby would not have known whether to laugh or cry but for James's
doleful predictions, which were so sentimental as to turn even his
grandmother to the laughing party, and left him no sympathizer but
Mary, who thought it very hard and cruel to deride Louis when he was
trying so earnestly to be good and suffering so much. Why should they
all--Aunt Catharine herself--be merry over his thinking the spring-days
of his life past away, and trying so nobly and patiently to resign
himself?
'It is the way of the world, Mary,' said James. 'People think they are
laughing at the mistaking a flock of sheep for the army of Pentapolin
of the naked arm, when they are really sneering at the lofty spirit
taking the weaker side. They involve the sublime temper in the
ridiculous accident, and laugh both alike to scorn.'
'Not mamma and Aunt Catharine,' said Mary. 'Besides, is not half the
harm in the world done by not seeing where the sublime is invaded by
the ridiculous?'
'I see nothing ridiculous in the matter,' said James. 'His father has
demanded an unjustifiable sacrifice. Fitzjocelyn yields and suffers.'
'I do believe Lord Ormersfield must relent; you see how pleased he is,
saying that Louis's conduct is exemplary.'
'He would sacrifice a dozen sons to one prejudice!'
'Perhaps Miss Conway will overcome the prejudice. I am sure, if he
thinks Louis's conduct exemplary, Louis must have the sort of happiness
he used to wish for most, and his father would do his very best to
gratify him.'
That sentence was Mary's cheval de bataille in her discussions with
James, who could never be alone with her without broaching the subject.
The two cousins often walked together during James's month at
Northwold. The town church was not very efficiently served, and was
only opened in the morning and late evening on Sundays, without any
afternoon prayers, and James was often in the habit of walking to
Ormersfield church for the three o'clock service, and asking Mary to
join him. Their return was almost always occupied in descriptions of
Miss Conway's perfections, and Mary learnt to believe that two beings,
evidently compounded of every creature's best, must be destined for
each other.
'How well it is,' she thought, 'that I did not stand in the way. Oh!
how unhappy and puzzled I should be now. How thankful I am that dear
mamma understood all for us so well! How glad I am that Louis is
waiting patiently, not doing anything self-willed. As long as his
father says he is exemplary, it must make one happy, and mamma will
convince Lord Ormersfield. It will all turn out well; and how
delightful it will be to see him quite happy and settled!'
Mary and her mother had by this time taken root at Dynevor Terrace, and
formed an integral part of the inhabitants. Their newspaper went the
round of the houses, their name was sent to the Northwold book-club and
enrolled among the subscribers to local charities, and Miss Mercy
Faithfull found that their purse and kitchen would bear deeper hauls
than she could in general venture upon. Mary was very happy, working
under her, and was a welcome and cheerful visitor to the many sick,
aged, and sorrowful to whom she introduced her.
If Mary could only have induced Aunt Melicent to come and see with her
own eyes, to know Mrs. Frost and the Faithfull sisters, and, above all,
to see mamma in her own house, she thought one of her most eager wishes
would have been fulfilled. But invite as she and her mother might,
they could not move Miss Ponsonby from Bryanstone Square. Railroads
and country were both her dread; and she was not inclined, to overcome
her fears on behalf of a sister-in-law whom she forgave, but could not
love.
'You must give it up, my dear,' said Mrs. Ponsonby. 'I let the time
for our amalgamation pass. Melicent and I were not tolerant of each
other. Since she has given you back to me, I can love and respect her
as I never did before; but a little breach in youth becomes too wide in
age for either repentance or your affection, my dear, to be able to
span it.'
Mary saw what a relief it was that the invitations were not accepted,
and though she was disappointed, she blamed herself for having wished
otherwise. Tranquillity was such a boon to that wearied spirit, each
day was so much gain that went by without the painful, fluttered look
of distress, and never had Mrs. Ponsonby had so much quiet enjoyment
with her daughter and her aunt. Mary was perfectly contented in seeing
her better, and had no aims beyond the present trivial, commonplace
life, with so many to help by little ordinary services, and her mother
serene and comfortable. Placid, and yet active, she went busily
through the day, and did not forget the new pleasures to which Louis
had opened her mind. She took up his books without a pang, and would
say, briskly and unblushingly, to her mother, how strange it was that
before she had been with him, she had never liked at all, what she now
cared for so much.
The winter portended no lack of excitement. Miss Faithfull's rooms
were engaged. When Miss Mercy ran in breathless to Mrs. Frost with the
tidings, she little knew what feelings were excited; the hope and fear,
the doubt and curiosity; the sense of guilt towards the elder nephew,
in not preventing what she could not prevent, the rejoicing on behalf
of the younger nephew; the ladylike scorn of the motives that brought
the lodgers; yet the warm feeling towards what was dear to Louis and
admired by Jem.
What a flapping and battering of carpets on the much-enduring stump!
What furious activity of Martha! What eager help of little Charlotte,
who was in a perfect trepidation of delight at the rumour that a real
beauty, fit for a heroine, was coming! What trotting hither and
thither of Miss Mercy! What netting of blinds and stitching of chintz
by Miss Salome! What envy and contempt on the part of other landladies
on hearing that Miss Faithfull's apartments were engaged for the whole
winter! What an anxious progress was Miss Mercy's, when she conducted
Mrs. Frost and Mary to a final inspection! and what was her triumph
when Mary, sitting down on the well-stuffed arm-chair, pronounced that
people who would not come there did not understand what comfort was.
Every living creature gazed--Mrs. Frost through her blind, Mary behind
her hydrangea in the balcony, Charlotte from her attic window,--when
the lodgers disembarked in full force--two ladies, two children, one
governess, three maids, two men, two horses, one King Charles's
spaniel! Let it be what it might, it was a grand windfall for the Miss
Faithfulls.
Mary's heart throbbed as the first carriage thundered upon the gravel,
and a sudden swelling checked her voice as she was about to exclaim
'There she is!' when the second lady emerged, and moved up the garden
path. She was veiled and mantled; but accustomed as was Mary's eye to
the Spanish figure and walk, the wonderful grace of movement and
deportment struck her as the very thing her eye had missed ever since
she left Peru. What the rest of the strangers were like, she knew not;
she had only eyes for the creature who had won Louis's affection, and
doubtless deserved it, as all else that was precious.
'So they are come, Charlotte,' said Mrs. Frost, as the maiden demurely
brought in the kettle.
'Yes, ma'am;' and stooping to put the kettle on, and growing
carnation-coloured over the fire. 'Oh, ma'am, I never saw such a young
lady. She is all one as the king's sister in The Lord of the Isles!'
While the object of all this enthusiasm was arriving at the Terrace,
she was chiefly conscious that Sir Roland was sinking down on the
ramparts of Acre, desperately wounded in the last terrible siege; and
she was considering whether palmer or minstrel should carry the tidings
of his death to Adeline. It was her refuge from the unpleasant
feelings, with which she viewed the experiment of the Northwold baths
upon Louisa's health. As the carriage stopped, she cast one glance at
the row of houses, they struck her as dreary and dilapidated; she drew
her mantle closer, shivered, and walked into the house. 'Small rooms,
dingy furniture-that is mamma's affair,' passed through her mind, as
she made a courteous acknowledgment of Miss Mercy's greeting, and stood
by the drawing-room fire. 'Roland slowly awoke from his swoon; a
white-robed old man, with a red eight-pointed cross on his breast, was
bending over him. He knew himself to be in--I can't remember which
tower the Hospitallers defended. I wonder whether Marianne can find
the volume of Vertot.'
'Isabel, Isabel!' shrieked Virginia, who, with Louisa, had been roaming
everywhere, 'here is a discovery in the school-room! Come!'
It was an old framed print of a large house, as much of a sham castle
as the nature of things would permit; and beneath were the words
'Cheveleigh, the seat of Roland Dynevor, Esquire.'
'There!' cried Virginia; 'you see it is a castle, a dear old feudal
castle! Think of that, Isabel! Why, it is as good as seeing Sir
Roland himself, to have seen Mr. Dynevor Frost disinherited. Oh! if
his name were only Roland, instead of that horrid James!'
'His initials are J. R.,' said Isabel. 'It is a curious coincidence.'
'It only wants an Adeline to have the castle now,' said Louisa. 'Oh!
there shall be an heiress, and she shall be beautiful, and he shan't go
crusading--he shall marry her.'
The sisters had not been aware that the school-room maid, who had been
sent on to prepare, was busy unpacking in a corner of the room. 'They
say, Miss Louisa,' she interposed, 'that Mr. Frost is going to be
married to a great heiress--his cousin, Miss Ponsonby, at No. 7.'
Isabel requited the forwardness by silently leaving the room with the
sisters, and Virginia apologized for not having been more cautious than
to lead to such subjects. 'It is all gossip,' she said, angrily; 'Mr.
Dynevor would never marry for money.'
'Nay, let us find in her an Adeline,' said Isabel.
The next day, Miss Mercy had hurried into No. 7, to declare that the
ladies were all that was charming, but that their servants gave
themselves airs beyond credence, especially the butler, who played the
guitar, and insisted on a second table; when there was a peal of the
bell, and Mary from her post of observation 'really believed it was
Lady Conway herself;' whereupon Miss Mercy, without listening to
persuasions, popped into the back drawing room to effect her retreat.
Lady Conway was all eagerness and cordiality, enchanted to renew her
acquaintance, venturing so early a call in hopes of prevailing on Mrs.
Ponsonby to come out with her to take a drive. She conjured up
recollections of Mary's childhood, declared that she looked to her for
drawing Isabel out, and was extremely kind and agreeable. Mary thought
her delightful, with something of Louis's charm of manner; and Mrs.
Ponsonby believed it no acting, for Lady Conway was sincerely affable
and affectionate, with great warmth and kindness, and might have been
all that was excellent, had she started into life with a different code
of duty.
So there was to be an intimacy. For Fitzjocelyn's sake, as well as for
the real good-nature of the advances, Mrs. Ponsonby would not shrink
back more than befitted her self-respect. Of that quality she had less
than Mrs. Frost, who, with her innate punctilious spirit, avoided all
favours or patronage. It was curious to see the gentle old lady fire
up with all the dignity of the Pendragons, at the least peril of
incurring an obligation, and, though perfectly courteous, easy, and
obliging, she contrived to keep at a greater distance than if she had
been mistress of Cheveleigh. There, she would have remembered that
both she and Lady Conway were aunts to Louis; at Northwold, her care
was to become beholden for nothing that she could not repay.
Lady Conway did her best, when driving out with Mrs. Ponsonby, to draw
her into confidence. There were tender reminiscences from her heart of
poor sweet Louisa, tearful inquiries respecting her last weeks,
certainties that Mrs. Ponsonby had been of great use to her; for, poor
darling, she had been thoughtless--so much to turn her head. There was
cause for regret in their own education--there was then so much less
attention to essentials. Lady Conway could not have borne to bring up
her own girls as she herself and her sisters had grown up; she had
chosen a governess who made religion the first object, and she was
delighted to see them all so attached to her; she had never had any
fears of their being too serious--people had learnt to be reasonable
now, did not insist on the impracticable, did not denounce moderate
gaieties, as had once been done to the alarm of poor Louisa.
Sweetest Louisa's son! She could not speak too warmly of him, and she
declared herself highly gratified by Mr. Mansell's opinion of his
modesty, attention, and good sense. Mr. Mansell was an excellent
judge, he had such as opinion of Lord Ormersfield's public character.
And, at a safe interval, she mentioned the probability that Beauchastel
might be settled on Isabel, if she should marry so as to please Mr.
Mansell: he cared for connexion more than for wealth; if he had a
weakness, it was for rank.
Mrs. Ponsonby thought it fair that the Earl should be aware of these
facts. He smiled ironically.
He left his card with his sister-in-law, and, to have it over while
Louis was safe at Oxford, invited the party to spend a day at
Ormersfield, with Mrs. Frost to entertain them. He was far too
considerate of the feelings that he attributed to the Ponsonbys to ask
them to come; and as three out of the six in company were more or less
in a state of haughtiness and coolness, Lady Conway's graces failed
entirely; and poor innocent Virginia and Louisa protested that they had
never spent so dull a day, and that they could not believe their cousin
Fitzjocelyn could belong to such a tiresome place.
Isabel, who had undergone more dull days than they had, contrived to
get through it by torturing Adeline with utter silence of all tidings
from the East, and by a swarm of suitors, with the fantastic Viscount
foremost. She never was awake from her dream until Mr. Holdsworth came
to dinner, and was so straightforward and easy that he thawed every one.
Afterwards, he never failed to return an enthusiastic reply to the
question that all the neighbourhood were asking each other--namely,
whether they had seen Miss Conway.
No one was a more devoted admirer than the Lady of Eschalott, whose
webs had a bad chance when there was one glimpse of Miss Conway to be
obtained from the window, and the vision of whose heart was that Mrs.
Martha might some day let her stand in the housemaid's closet, to
behold her idol issue forth in the full glory of an evening dress--a
thing Charlotte had read of, but never seen anything nearer to it than
Miss Walby coming to tea, and her own Miss Clara in the scantiest of
all white muslins.
But Mrs. Martha was in an unexampled state of vixenish crossness, and
snapped venomously at mild Mrs. Beckett for the kindest offers of
sparing Charlotte to assist her in her multiplied labours. She seemed
to be running after time all day long, with five dinners and teas upon
her hands, poor woman, and allowing herself not the slightest
relaxation, except to rush in for a few seconds to No. 7, to indulge
herself by inveighing against the whole of the fine servants; and yet
she was so proud of having lodgers at all, that she hated them for
nothing so much as for threatening to go away.
The object of her bitterest invectives was the fastidious butler, Mr.
Delaford, who by her account could do nothing for himself, grudged her
mistresses their very sitting-room, drank wine with the ladies' maids
like a gentleman, and ordered fish for the second table; talked of
having quitted a duke, and submitting to live with Lady Conway because
he compassionated unprotected females, and my Lady was dependent on him
for the care of Sir Walter in the holidays. To crown his offences, he
never cleaned his own plate, but drew sketches and played the guitar!
Moreover, Mrs. Martha had her notions that he was making that sickly
Frenchified maid of Miss Conway's much too fond of him; and as to his
calling himself Mr. Delaford--why, Mrs. Martha had a shrewd suspicion
that he was some kin to her first cousin's brother-in-law's shopman's
wife in Tottenham-court-road, whose name she knew was Ford, and who had
been picked out of a gutter! The establishment of such a fact appeared
as if it would be the triumph of Mrs. Martha's life. In the meantime,
she more than hinted that she would wear herself to the bone rather
than let Charlotte Arnold into the house; and Jane, generally
assenting, though seldom going all lengths, used to divert the
conversation by comparisons with Mr. Frampton's politeness and
consideration. He never came to No. 5 to give trouble, only to help.
The invectives produced on Charlotte's mind an effect the reverse of
what was intended. Mr. Delaford, a finer gentleman than Mr. Frampton
and Mr. Poynings, must be a wonder of nature. The guitar--redolent of
serenades and Spanish cloaks--oh! but once to see and hear it! The very
rudeness of Mrs. Martha's words, so often repeated, gave her a feeling
in favour of their object. She had known Mrs. Martha unjust before.
Poor Tom! if he had only been a Spaniard, he would have sung about the
white dove--his pretty thought--in a serenade, but then he might have
poignarded Mr. James in his passion, which would have been less
agreeable--she supposed he had forgotten her long ago--and so much the
better!
It was a Sunday evening. Every one was gone to church except
Charlotte, who was left to keep house. Though November, it was not
cold, the day had been warm and showery, and the full moon had risen in
the most glorious brightness, riding in a sky the blue of which looked
almost black by contrast with her brilliancy. Charlotte stood at the
back door, gazing at the moon walking in brightness, and wandered into
the garden, to enjoy what to her was beyond all other delights, reading
Gessner's Death of Abel by moonlight. There was quite sufficient
light, even if she had not known the idyll almost by heart; and in a
trance of dreamy, undefined delight, she stood beside the dark
ivy-covered wall, each leaf glistening in the moonbeams, which shed a
subdued pearliness over her white apron and collar, paled but gave a
shadowy refinement to her features, and imparted a peculiar soft golden
gloss to the fair braids of hair on her modest brow.
A sound of opening the back gate made her give one of her violent
starts; but before she could spring into the shelter of the house, she
was checked by the civil words, 'I beg your pardon, I was mistaken--I
took this for No. 8.'
'Three doors off--' began Charlotte, discovering, with a shy thrill of
surprise and pleasure, that she had been actually accosted by the great
Mr. Delaford; and the moonlight, quite as becoming to him as to her,
made him an absolute Italian count, tall, dark, pale, and whiskered.
He did not go away at once, he lingered, and said softly, 'I perceive
that you partake my own predilection for the moonlight hour.'
Charlotte would have been delighted, had it not been a great deal
harder to find an answer than if the old Lord had asked her a question;
but she simpered and blushed, which probably did just as well. Mr.
Delaford supposed she knew the poet's lines--
'How sweet the moonlight sleeps on yonder bank--'
'Oh yes, sir--so sweet!' exclaimed the Lady of Eschalott, under her
breath, though yonder bank was only represented by the chequer-work of
Mrs. Ponsonby's latticed trellis; and Mr. Delaford proceeded to quote
the whole passage, in a deep mellow voice, but with a great deal of
affectation; and Charlotte gasped, 'So beautiful!'
'I perceive that you have a fine taste for poetry,' said Mr. Delaford,
so graciously, that Charlotte presumed to say, 'Oh, sir! is it true
that you can play the guitar?'
He smiled upon her tone of veneration, and replied, 'a trifle--a little
instrumental melody was a great resource. If his poor performance
would afford her any gratification, he would fetch his guitar.'
'Oh, sir--thank you--a psalm-tune, perhaps. It is Sunday--if you would
be so kind.'
He smiled superciliously as he regretted that his music was not of that
description, and Charlotte felt ready to sink into the earth at the
indignity she had done the guitar in forgetting that it could accompany
anything but such songs as Valancourt sang to Emily. She begged his
pardon humbly; and he declared that he had a great respect for a lady's
scruples, and should be happy to meet her another evening. 'If Mrs.
Beckett would allow her,' said Charlotte, overpowered with gratitude:
'there would be the moon full to-morrow--how delightful!' He could
spare a short interval between the dinner and the tea; and with this
promise he took leave.
Honest little Charlotte told Mrs. Beckett the whole story, and all her
eager wishes for to-morrow evening; and Jane sighed and puzzled
herself, and knew it would make Martha very angry, but could not help
being goodnatured. Jane had a great deference for Martha's strong,
rough character; but then Martha had never lived in a great house, and
did not know 'what was what,' nor the difference between 'low people'
and upper servants. So Jane acted chaperon as far as her easy
discretion went, and had it to say to her own conscience, and to the
angry Martha, that he never said one word that need offend any young
woman.
There was a terrible storm below-stairs in the House Beautiful at the
idea of Delaford taking up with Mrs. Frost's little
kitchen-maid--Delaford, the lady's-maid killer par excellence, wherever
Lady Conway went, and whose coquetries whitened the cheeks of Miss
Conway's poor Marianne, the object of his attentions whenever he had no
one else in view. He had not known Charlotte to be a kitchen-maid when
he first beheld her, and her fair beauty and retiring grace had had
full scope, assisted by her veneration for himself; and now the scorn
of the grand Mrs. Fanshawe, and the amusement of teasing Marianne, only
made him the more bent on patronizing 'the little rustic,' as he called
her. He was deferential to Mrs. Beckett, who felt herself in her
element in discussing plate, china, and large establishments with him;
and he lent books, talked poetry, and played the guitar to Charlotte,
and even began to take her portrait, with her mouth all on one side.
Delaford was an admirable servant, said the whole Conway family; he was
trusted as entirely as he represented, and Lady Conway often gave him
charge over her son in sports and expeditions beyond ladies'
management: he was, in effect, nearly the ruler of the household, and
never allowed his lady to go anywhere if he did not approve. If it had
not been for the 'little rustic's' attractions, perhaps he might have
made strong demonstrations against the House Beautiful. Little did
Miss Faithfull know the real cause of her receiving or retaining her
lodgers.