While these exciting incidents are passing upon the river, Llangorren
Court is wrapped in that stately repose becoming an aristocratic
residence--especially where an elderly spinster is head of the house,
and there are no noisy children to go romping about. It is thus with
Llangorren, whose ostensible mistress is Miss Linton, the aunt and legal
guardian already alluded to. But, though presiding over the
establishment, it is rather in the way of ornamental figure-head; since
she takes little to do with its domestic affairs, leaving them to a
skilled housekeeper who carries the keys.
Kitchen matters are not much to Miss Linton's taste, being a dame of the
antique brocaded type, with pleasant memories of the past, that go back
to Bath and Cheltenham; where, in their days of glory, as hers of youth,
she was a belle, and did her share of dancing, with a due proportion of
flirting, at the Regency balls. No longer able to indulge in such
delightful recreations, the memory of them has yet charms for her, and
she keeps it alive and warm by daily perusal of the _Morning Post_ with
a fuller hebdomadal feast from the _Court Journal_, and other
distributors of fashionable intelligence. In addition she reads no end
of novels, her favourites being those which tell of Cupid in his most
romantic escapades and experiences, though not always the chastest. Of
the prurient trash there is a plenteous supply, furnished by scribblers
of both sexes, who ought to know better, and doubtless do; but knowing
also how difficult it is to make their lucubrations interesting within
the legitimate lines of literary art, and how easy out of them, thus
transgress the moralities.
Miss Linton need have no fear that the impure stream will cease to flow,
any more than the limpid waters of the Wye. Nor has she; but reads on,
devouring volume after volume, in triunes as they issue from the press,
and are sent her from the Circulating Library.
At nearly all hours of the day, and some of the night, does she so
occupy herself. Even on this same bright April morn, when all nature
rejoices, and every living thing seems to delight in being out of
doors--when the flowers expand their petals to catch the kisses of the
warm Spring sun, Dorothea Linton is seated in a shady corner of the
drawing-room, up to her ears in a three-volume novel, still odorous of
printer's ink and binder's paste; absorbed in a love dialogue between a
certain Lord Lutestring and a rustic damsel--daughter of one of his
tenant-farmers--whose life he is doing his best to blight, and with much
likelihood of succeeding. If he fail, it will not be for want of will
on his part, nor desire of the author to save the imperilled one. He
will make the tempted iniquitous as the tempter, should this seem to add
interest to the tale, or promote the sale of the book.
Just as his lordship has gained a point and the girl is about to give
way, Miss Linton herself receives a shock, caused by a rat-tat at the
drawing-room door, light, such as well-trained servants are accustomed
to give before entering a room occupied by master or mistress.
To her command "Come in!" a footman presents himself, silver waiter in
hand, on which is a card.