Her playful smile, her buoyance wild,
Bespeak the gentle, mirthful child;
But in her forehead’s broad expanse,
Her chastened tones, her thoughtful glance,
Is mingled, with the child’s light glee,
The modest maiden’s dignity.
One summer’s day, two years after the ball and review, Mary Ross and her
father were finishing their early dinner, when she said,--
‘If you don’t want me this afternoon, papa, I think I shall walk to
Hollywell. You know Eveleen de Courcy is there.’
‘No, I did not. What has brought her?’
‘As Charles expresses it, she has over-polked herself in London, and is
sent here for quiet and country air. I want to call on her, and to
ask Sir Guy to give me some idea as to the singing the children should
practise for the school-feast?’
‘Then you think Sir Guy will come to the feast?’
‘I reckon on him to conceal all the deficiencies in the children’s
singing.’
‘He won’t desert you, as he did Mrs. Brownlow?’
‘O papa! you surely did not think him to blame in that affair?’
‘Honestly, Mary, if I thought about the matter at all, I thought it a
pity he should go so much to the Brownlows.’
‘I believe I could tell you the history, if you thought it worth while;
and though it may be gossip, I should like you to do justice to Sir
Guy.’
‘Very well; though I don’t think there is much danger of my doing
otherwise. I only wondered he should become intimate there at all.’
‘I believe Mrs. Edmonstone thinks it right he should see as much of the
world as possible, and not be always at home in their own set.’
‘Fair and proper.’
‘You know she has shown him all the people she could,--had Eveleen
staying there, and the Miss Nortons, and hunted him out to parties, when
he had rather have been at home.’
‘I thought he was fond of society. I remember your telling me how amused
you were with his enjoyment of his first ball.’
‘Ah! he was two years younger then, and all was new. He seems to me too
deep and sensitive not to find more pain than pleasure in commonplace
society. I have sometimes seen that he cannot speak either lightly or
harshly of what he disapproves, and people don’t understand him. I was
once sitting next him, when there was some talking going on about an
elopement; he did not laugh, looked almost distressed, and at last said
in a very low voice, to me, “I wish people would not laugh about such
things.”’
‘He is an extraordinary mixture of gaiety of heart, and seriousness.’
‘Well, when Mrs. Brownlow had her nieces with her, and was giving those
musical parties, his voice made him valuable; and Mrs. Edmonstone told
him he ought to go to them. I believe he liked it at first, but he found
there was no end to it; it took up a great deal of time, and was a style
of thing altogether that was not desirable. Mrs Edmonstone thought at
first his reluctance was only shyness and stay-at-home nonsense, that
ought to be overcome; but when she had been there, and saw how Mrs.
Brownlow beset him, and the unpleasant fuss they made about his singing,
she quite came round to his mind, and was very sorry she had exposed him
to so much that was disagreeable.’
‘Well, Mary, I am glad to hear your account. My impression arose from
something Philip Morville said.’
‘Captain Morville never can approve of anything Sir Guy does! It is not
like Charles.’
‘How improved Charles Edmonstone is. He has lost that spirit of repining
and sarcasm, and lives as if he had an object.’
‘Yes; he employs himself now, and teaches Amy to do the same. You know,
after the governess went, we were afraid little Amy would never do
anything but wait on Charles, and idle in her pretty gentle way; but
when he turned to better things so did she, and her mind has been
growing all this time. Perhaps you don’t see it, for she has not lost
her likeness to a kitten, and looks all demure silence with the elders,
but she takes in what the wise say.’
‘She is a very good little thing; and I dare say will not be the worse
for growing up slowly.’
‘Those two sisters are specimens of fast and slow growth. Laura
has always seemed to be so much more than one year older than Amy,
especially of late. She is more like five-and-twenty than twenty. I
wonder if she overworks herself. But how we have lingered over our
dinner!’
By half-past three, Mary was entering a copse which led into Mr.
Edmonstone’s field, when she heard gay tones, and a snatch of one of the
sweetest of old songs,--
Weep no more, lady; lady, weep no more,
Thy sorrow is in vain;
For violets pluck’d, the sweetest showers
Will ne’er make grow again.
A merry, clear laugh followed, and a turn in the path showed her Guy,
Amy, and Charlotte, busy over a sturdy stock of eglantine. Guy, little
changed in these two years,--not much taller, and more agile than
robust,--was lopping vigorously with his great pruning-knife, Amabel
nursing a bundle of drooping rose branches, Charlotte, her bonnet in a
garland of wild sweet-brier, holding the matting and continually getting
entangled in the long thorny wreaths.
‘And here comes the “friar of orders gray,” to tell you so,’ exclaimed
Guy, as Mary, in her gray dress, came on them.
‘Oh, that is right, dear good friar,’ cried Amy.
‘We are so busy,’ said Charlotte; ‘Guy has made Mr. Markham send all
these choice buds from Redclyffe.’
‘Not from the park,’ said Guy, ‘we don’t deal much in gardening; but
Markham is a great florist, and these are his bounties.’
‘And are you cutting that beautiful wild rose to pieces?’
‘Is it not a pity?’ said Amy. ‘We have used up all the stocks in the
garden, and this is to be transplanted in the autumn.’
‘She has been consoling it all the time by telling it it is for its
good,’ said Guy; ‘cutting off wild shoots, and putting in better
things.’
‘I never said anything so pretty; and, after all, I don’t know that the
grand roses will be equal to these purple shoots and blushing buds with
long whiskers.’
‘So Sir Guy was singing about the violets plucked to comfort you. But
you must not leave off, I want to see how you do it. I am gardener
enough to like to look on.’
‘We have only two more to put in.’
Knife and fingers were busy, and Mary admired the dexterity with which
the slit was made in the green bark, well armed with firm red thorns,
and the tiny scarlet gem inserted, and bound with cotton and matting.
At the least critical parts of the work, she asked after the rest of
the party, and was answered that papa had driven Charles out in the pony
carriage, and that Laura and Eveleen were sitting on the lawn, reading
and working with mamma. Eveleen was better, but not strong, or equal to
much exertion in the heat. Mary went on to speak of her school feast and
ask her questions.
‘O Guy, you must not go before that!’ cried Charlotte.
‘Are you going away?’
‘He is very naughty, indeed,’ said Charlotte. ‘He is going, I don’t know
where all, to be stupid, and read mathematics.’
‘A true bill, I am sorry to say,’ said Guy; ‘I am to join a
reading-party for the latter part of the vacation.’
‘I hope not before Thursday week, though we are not asking you to
anything worth staying for.’
‘Oh, surely you need not go before that!’ said Amy, ‘need you?’
‘No; I believe I may stay till Friday, and I should delight in the
feast, thank you, Miss Ross,--I want to study such things. A bit more
matting, Amy, if you please. There, I think that will do.’
‘Excellently. Here is its name. See how neatly Charlie has printed it,
Mary. Is it not odd, that he prints so well when he writes so badly?’
‘“The Seven Sisters.” There, fair sisterhood, grow and thrive, till I
come to transplant you in the autumn. Are there any more?’
‘No, that is the last. Now, Mary, let us come to mamma.’
Guy waited to clear the path of the numerous trailing briery branches,
and the others walked on, Amy telling how sorry they were to lose Guy’s
vacation, but that he thought he could not give time enough to
his studies here, and had settled, at Oxford, to make one of a
reading-party, under the tutorship of his friend, Mr. Wellwood.
‘Where do they go?’
‘It is not settled. Guy wished it to be the sea-side; but Philip has
been recommending a farmhouse in Stylehurst parish, rather nearer St.
Mildred’s Wells than Stylehurst, but quite out in the moor, and an
immense way from both.’
‘Do you think it will be the place?’
‘Yes; Guy thinks it would suit Mr. Wellwood, because he has friends at
St. Mildred’s, so he gave his vote for it. He expects to hear how it is
settled to-day or to-morrow.’
Coming out on the lawn, they found the three ladies sitting under the
acacia, with their books and work. Laura did, indeed, look older than
her real age, as much above twenty as Amy looked under nineteen. She
was prettier than ever; her complexion exquisite in delicacy, her fine
figure and the perfect outline of her features more developed; but the
change from girl to woman had passed over her, and set its stamp on the
anxious blue eye, and almost oppressed brow. Mary thought it would be
hard to define where was that difference. It was not want of bloom,
for of that Laura had more than any of the others, fresh, healthy,
and bright, while Amy was always rather pale, and Lady Eveleen was
positively wan and faded by London and late hours; nor was it loss of
animation, for Laura talked and laughed with interest and eagerness; nor
was it thought, for little Amy, when at rest, wore a meditative, pensive
countenance; but there was something either added or taken away, which
made it appear that the serenity and carelessness of early youth had
fled from her, and the air of the cares of life had come over her.
Mary told her plans,--Church service at four, followed by a tea-drinking
in the fields; tea in the garden for the company, and play for the
school children and all who liked to join them. Every one likes such
festivals, which have the recommendation of permitting all to do as they
please, bringing friends together in perfect ease and freedom, with
an object that raises them above the rank of mere gatherings for the
pleasure of rich neighbours.
Mrs. Edmonstone gladly made the engagement and Lady Eveleen promised to
be quite well, and to teach the children all manner of new games, though
she greatly despised the dullness of English children, and had many
droll stories of the stupidity of Laura’s pupils, communicated to
her, with perhaps a little exaggeration, by Charles, and still further
embellished by herself, for the purpose of exciting Charlotte’s
indignation.
Mary proceeded to her consultation about the singing, and was
conducted by Guy and Amy to the piano, and when her ears could not be
indoctrinated by their best efforts, they more than half engaged to walk
to East-hill, and have a conversation with the new school-master, whom
Mary pitied for having fallen on people so unable to appreciate his
musical training as herself and her father. The whole party walked back
with her as far as the shade lasted; and at the end of the next field
she turned, saw them standing round the stile, thought what happy people
they were, and then resumed her wonder whither Laura’s youthfulness had
flown.
The situation of Philip and Laura had not changed. His regiment had
never been at any great distance from Hollywell, and he often came,
venturing more as Laura learnt to see him with less trepidation. He
seldom or never was alone with her; but his influence was as strong as
ever, and look, word, and gesture, which she alone could understand,
told her what she was to him, and revealed his thoughts. To him she was
devoted, all her doings were with a view to please him, and deserve his
affection; he was her world, and sole object. Indeed, she was sometimes
startled by perceiving that tenderly as she loved her own family, all
were subordinate to him. She had long since known the true name of her
feelings for him; she could not tell when or how the certainty had come,
but she was conscious that it was love that they had acknowledged for
one another and that she only lived in the light of his love. Still she
did not realize the evil of concealment; it was so deep a sensation of
her innermost heart, that she never could imagine revealing it to any
living creature, and she had besides so surrendered her judgment to her
idol, that no thought could ever cross her that he had enjoined what was
wrong. Her heart and soul were his alone, and she left the future to him
without an independent desire or reflection. All the embarrassments and
discomforts which her secret occasioned her were met willingly for
his sake, and these were not a few, though time had given her more
self-command, or, perhaps, more properly speaking, had hardened her.
She always had a dread of tete-a-tetes and conversations over novels,
and these were apt to be unavoidable when Eveleen was at Hollywell.
The twilight wanderings on the terrace were a daily habit, and Eveleen
almost always paired with her. On this evening in particular, Laura was
made very uncomfortable by Eveleen’s declaring that it was positively
impossible and unnatural that the good heroine of some novel should have
concealed her engagement from her parents. Laura could not help saying
that there might be many excuses; then afraid that she was exciting
suspicion, changed the subject in great haste, and tried to make Eveleen
come indoors, telling her she would tire herself to death, and vexed
by her cousin’s protestations that the fresh cool air did her good.
Besides, Eveleen was looking with attentive eyes at another pair
who were slowly walking up and down the shady walk that bordered the
grass-plot, and now and then standing still to enjoy the subdued silence
of the summer evening, and the few distant sounds that marked the
perfect lull.
‘How calm--how beautiful!’ murmured Amabel.
‘It only wants the low solemn surge and ripple of the tide, and its dash
on the rocks,’ said Guy. ‘If ever there was music, it is there; but it
makes one think what the ear must be that can take in the whole of those
harmonics.’
‘How I should like to hear it!’
‘And see it. O Amy! to show you the sunny sea,--the sense of breadth
and vastness in that pale clear horizon line, and the infinite number of
fields of light between you and it,--and the free feelings as you stand
on some high crag, the wind blowing in your face across half the globe,
and the waves dashing far below! I am growing quite thirsty for the
sea.’
‘You know, papa said something about your taking your reading-party to
Redclyffe.’
‘True, but I don’t think Markham would like it, and it would put old
Mrs. Drew into no end of a fuss.’
‘Not like to have you?’
‘O yes, I should be all very well; but if they heard I was bringing
three or four men with me, they would think them regular wild beasts.
They would be in an awful fright. Besides, it is so long since I have
been at home, that I don’t altogether fancy going there till I settle
there for good.’
‘Ah! it will be sad going there at first.’
‘And it has not been my duty yet.’
‘But you will be glad when you get there?’
‘Sha’n’t I? I wonder if any one has been to shoot the rabbits on the
shag rock. They must have quite overrun it by this time. But I don’t
like the notion of the first day. There is not only the great change,
but a stranger at the vicarage.’
‘Do you know anything about the new clergyman? I believe Mrs. Ashford is
a connection of Lady Thorndale’s?’
‘Yes; Thorndale calls them pattern people, and I have no doubt they will
do great good in the parish. I am sure we want some enlightenment, for
we are a most primitive race, and something beyond Jenny Robinson’s dame
school would do us no harm.’
Here Mr. Edmonstone called from the window that they must come in.
Mrs. Edmonstone thought deeply that night. She had not forgotten her
notion that Eveleen was attracted by Guy’s manners, and had been curious
to see what would happen when Eveleen was sent to Hollywell for country
air.
She had a very good opinion of Lady Eveleen. Since the former visit,
she had shown more spirit of improvement, and laid aside many little
follies; she had put herself under Laura’s guidance, and tamed down into
what gave the promise of a sensible woman, more than anything that had
hitherto been observed in her; and little addicted to match-making as
Mrs. Edmonstone was, she could not help thinking that Eva was almost
worthy of her dear Guy (she never could expect to find anyone she should
think quite worthy of him, he was too like one of her own children for
that), and on the other hand, how delighted Lord and Lady Kilcoran would
be. It was a very pretty castle in the air; but in the midst of it, the
notion suddenly darted into Mrs. Edmonstone’s head, that while she was
thinking of it, it was Amy, not Eveleen, who was constantly with Guy.
Reading and music, roses, botany, and walks on the terrace! She looked
back, and it was still the same. Last Easter vacation, how they used
to study the stars in the evening, to linger in the greenhouse in
the morning nursing the geraniums, and to practise singing over the
school-room piano; how, in a long walk, they always paired together; and
how they seemed to share every pursuit or pleasure.
Now Mrs. Edmonstone was extremely fond of Guy, and trusted him entirely;
but she thought she ought to consider how far this should be allowed.
Feeling that he ought to see more of the world, she had sent him as
much as she could into society, but it had only made him cling closer to
home. Still he was but twenty, it was only a country neighbourhood, and
there was much more for him to see before he could fairly be supposed
to know his own mind. She knew he would act honourably; but she had a
horror of letting him entangle himself with her daughter before he was
fairly able to judge of his own feelings. Or, if this was only behaving
with a brother’s freedom and confidence, Mrs. Edmonstone felt it was not
safe for her poor little Amy, who might learn so to depend on him as
to miss him grievously when this intimacy ceased, as it must when he
settled at his own home. It would be right, while it was still time, to
make her remember that they were not brother and sister, and by checking
their present happy, careless, confidential intercourse, to save her
from the chill which seemed to have been cast on Laura. Mrs. Edmonstone
was the more anxious, because she deeply regretted not having been
sufficiently watchful in Laura’s case, and perhaps she felt an
unacknowledged conviction that if there was real love on Guy’s part, it
would not be hurt by a little reserve on Amy’s. Yet to have to speak
to her little innocent daughter on such a matter disturbed her so much,
that she could hardly have set about it, if Amy had not, at that very
moment, knocked at her door.
‘My dear, what has kept you up so late?’
‘We have been sitting in Eveleen’s room, mamma, hearing about her London
life; and then we began to settle our plans for to-morrow, and I came to
ask what you think of them. You know Guy has promised to go and hear
the East-hill singing, and we were proposing, if you did not mind it,
to take the pony-carriage and the donkey, and go in the morning to
East-hill, have luncheon, and get Mary to go with us to the top of the
great down, where we have never been. Guy has been wanting us, for a
long time past, to go and see the view, and saying there is a track
quite smooth enough to drive Charlie to the top.’
Amy wondered at her mother’s look of hesitation. In fact, the scheme was
so accordant with their usual habits that it was impossible to find any
objection; yet it all hinged on Guy, and the appointment at East-hill
might lead to a great many more.
‘Do you wish us to do anything else, mamma? We don’t care about it.’
‘No, my dear,’ said Mrs. Edmonstone, ‘I see no reason against it.
But--’ and she felt as if she was making a desperate plunge, ‘there is
something I want to say to you.’
Amy stood ready to hear, but Mrs. Edmonstone paused. Another effort, and
she spoke:--
‘Amy, my dear, I don’t wish to find fault, but I thought of advising you
to take care. About Guy--’
The very brilliant pink which instantly overspread Amy’s face made her
mother think her warning more expedient.
‘You have been spending a great deal of time with him of late, very
sensibly and pleasantly, I know; I don’t blame you at all, my dear, so
you need not look distressed. I only want you to be careful. You know,
though we call him cousin, he is scarcely a relation at all.’
‘O mamma, don’t go on,’ said poor little Amy, hurriedly; ‘indeed I am
very sorry!’
For Amy understood that it was imputed to her that she had been forward
and unmaidenly. Mrs. Edmonstone saw her extreme distress, and, grieved
at the pain she had inflicted, tried to reassure her as much as might be
safe.
‘Indeed, my dear, you have done nothing amiss. I only intended to tell
you to be cautious for fear you should get into a way of going on which
might not look well. Don’t make any great difference, I only meant that
there should not be quite so much singing and gardening alone with him,
or walking in the garden in the evening. You can manage to draw back a
little, so as to keep more with me or with Laura, and I think that will
be the best way.’
Every word, no matter what, increased the burning of poor Amy’s cheeks.
A broad accusation of flirting would have been less distressing to many
girls than this mild and delicate warning was to one of such shrinking
modesty and maidenly feeling. She had a sort of consciousness that she
enjoyed partaking in his pursuits, and this made her sense of confusion
and shame overwhelming. What had she been thoughtlessly doing? She could
not speak, she could not look. Her mother put her arm round her, and Amy
hid her head on her shoulder, and held her fast. Mrs. Edmonstone kissed
and caressed the little fluttering bird, then saying, ‘Good night, my
own dear child,’ unloosed her embrace.
‘Good night, dear mamma,’ whispered Amy. ‘I am very sorry.’
‘You need not be sorry, my dear, only be careful. Good night.’ And it
would be hard to say whether the mother or the daughter had the hottest
cheeks.
Poor little Amy! what was her dismay as she asked herself, again and
again, what she had been doing and what she was to do? The last was
plain,--she knew what was right, and do it she must. There would be an
end of much that was pleasant, and a fresh glow came over her as she
owned how very, very pleasant; but if it was not quite the thing,--if
mamma did not approve, so it must be. True, all her doings received
their zest from Guy,--her heart bounded at the very sound of his
whistle, she always heard his words through all the din of a whole
party,--nothing was complete without him, nothing good without his
without his approval,--but so much the more shame for her. It was a
kind of seeking him which was of all things the most shocking. So there
should be an end of it,--never mind the rest! Amy knelt down, and prayed
that she might keep her resolution.
She did not know how much of her severity towards herself was learned
from the example that had been two years before her. Nor did she think
whether the seeking had been mutual; she imagined it all her own doing,
and did not guess that she would give pain to Guy by withdrawing herself
from him.
The morning gave vigour to her resolution, and when Laura came to ask
what mamma thought of their project, Amy looked confused--said she
did not know--she believed it would not do. But just then in came her
mother, to say she had been considering of the expedition, and meant to
join it herself. Amy understood, blushed, and was silently grateful.
When Laura wanted to alter her demeanour towards Guy, being perfectly
cool, and not in the least conscious, she had acted with great judgment,
seen exactly what to do, and what to leave undone, so as to keep up
appearances. But it was not so with Amy. She was afraid of herself,
and was in extremes. She would not come down till the last moment,
that there might be no talking in the window. She hardly spoke at
breakfast-time, and adhered closely to Laura and Eveleen when
they wandered in the garden. Presently Charles looked out from the
dressing-room window, calling,--
‘Amy, Guy is ready to read.’
‘I can’t come. Read without me,’ she answered, hoping Charlie would not
be vexed, and feeling her face light up again.
The hour for the expedition came, and Amy set off walking with Laura,
because Guy was with Mrs. Edmonstone; but presently, after holding open
a gate for Charlotte, who was on the donkey, he came up to the sisters,
and joined in the conversation. Amy saw something in the hedge--a
foxglove, she believed--it would have done as well if it had been a
nettle--she stopped to gather it, hoping to fall behind them, but they
waited for her. She grew silent, but Guy appealed to her. She ran on to
Charlotte and her donkey, but at the next gate Guy had joined company
again. At last she put herself under her mother’s wing, and by keeping
with her did pretty well all the time she was at East-hill. But when
they went on, she was riding the donkey, and it, as donkeys always are,
was resolved on keeping a-head of the walkers, so that as Guy kept by
her side, it was a more absolute tete-a-tete than ever.
At the top of the hill they found a fine view, rich and extensive, broad
woods, fields waving with silvery barley, trim meadows, fair hazy blue
distance, and a dim line of sea beyond. This, as Amy knew, was Guy’s
delight, and further, what she would not tell herself, was that he
chiefly cared for showing it to her. It was so natural to call him to
admire everything beautiful, and ask if it was equal to Redclyffe, that
she found herself already turning to him to participate in his pleasure,
as he pointed out all that was to be seen; but she recollected, blushed,
and left her mother to speak. He had much to show. There was a hanging
wood on one side of the hill, whence he had brought her more than one
botanical prize, and she must now visit their native haunts. It was too
great a scramble for Mrs. Edmonstone, with all her good will; Eveleen
was to be kept still, and not to tire herself; Laura did not care for
botany, nor love brambles, and Amy was obliged to stand and look into
the wood, saying, ‘No, thank you, I don’t think I can,’ and then run
back to Mary and Charles; while Charlotte was loudly calling out that it
was delightful fun, and that she was very stupid. In another minute Guy
had overtaken her, and in his gentle, persuasive voice, was telling her
it was very easy, and she must come and see the bird’s-nest orchises.
She would have liked it above all things, but she thought it very kind
of Guy not to seem angry when she said, ‘No, thank you.’
Mary, after what she had seen yesterday, could not guess at the real
reason, or she would have come with her; but she thought Amy was tired,
and would rather not. Poor Amy was tired, very tired, before the walk
was over, but her weary looks made it worse, for Guy offered her his
arm. ‘No thank you,’ she said, ‘I am getting on very well;’ and she
trudged on resolutely, for her mother was in the carriage, and to lag
behind the others would surely make him keep with her.
Mrs. Edmonstone was very sorry for her fatigue, but Amy found it a good
excuse for not wandering in the garden, or joining in the music. It
had been a very uncomfortable day; she hoped she had done right; at any
rate, she had the peaceful conviction of having tried to do so.
The next day, Amy was steady to her resolution. No reading with the two
youths, though Charles scolded her; sitting in her room till Guy was
gone out, going indoors as soon as she heard him return, and in the
evening staying with Charles when her sisters and cousins went out; but
this did not answer, for Guy came and sat by them. She moved away as
soon as possible, but the more inclined she was to linger, the more she
thought she ought to go; so murmuring something about looking for Laura,
she threw on her scarf, and sprung to the window. Her muslin caught on
the bolt, she turned, Guy was already disentangling it, and she met
his eye. It was full of anxious, pleading inquiry, which to her seemed
upbraiding, and, not knowing what to do, she exclaimed, hurriedly,
‘Thank you; no harm done!’ and darted into the garden, frightened
to feel her face glowing and her heart throbbing. She could not help
looking back to see if he was following. No, he was not attempting it;
he was leaning against the window, and on she hastened, the perception
dawning on her that she was hurting him; he might think her rude,
unkind, capricious, he who had always been so kind to her, and when he
was going away so soon. ‘But it is right; it must be done,’ said little
Amy to herself, standing still, now that she was out of sight. ‘If I
was wrong before, I must bear it now, and he will see the rights of it
sooner or later. The worst of all would be my not doing the very _most_
_right_ to please any body. Besides he can’t really care for missing
silly little Amy when he has mamma and Charlie. And he is going away, so
it will be easier to begin right when he comes back. Be that as it may,
it must be done. I’ll get Charlie to tell me what he was saying about
the painted glass.’