A few years ago, in the second week of September, I found myself, very
much against my inclination, still inhaling the dusty atmosphere of my
London chambers, Lincoln’s Inn. I was anxious that the suit upon which
I was engaged should be ready for the commencement of the November
term; it was unusually intricate; the client a man of high rank and
importance, or I should not have allowed it to detain me in town
after the 12th of August, at which date all the ordinary temptations
had assailed me and had been resisted; and now having relinquished
my favourite recreations, both grouse and partridge shooting, all my
friends dispersed far and wide, and no companion left in town with
whom I cared to spend the remaining weeks of the long vacation, I was
quite at a loss whither to betake myself for a change, so necessary to
the exhausted legal brain at that period of the year. I turned over
the leaves of my _Bradshaw_ in the hope of gaining an idea, but its
maddening pages left me more unsettled than ever. At last I suddenly
resolved to run down to Brighton by the afternoon express, which I
found would just give me time to go home for a portmanteau and make the
few necessary arrangements for a short absence; one thing only being
clear to my mind, that I should not stay long away.
The transit from Lincoln’s Inn to Eaton Place, where as a bachelor I
still resided with my mother, was rapidly accomplished; and if I had
not been unexpectedly detained at home, I should have reached Victoria
in comfortable time; as it was, my hansom only drove into the station
as the bell was ringing for the train to start, and I hastily jumped
into the first carriage in which I could find room, as the train moved
on. It proved to be a second-class.
As soon as I had settled myself in my corner, I naturally took an
observation of my companions. There were but two on my side of the
carriage: an elderly and very provincial-looking lady; and opposite
to her, and in the farthest corner from my own, a very young one, who
at once arrested my attention. That she was quite a girl was very
evident, though her face was almost concealed by one of those ugly blue
veils which render the complexion livid, the hair green; but in this
instance the actual shade of the latter was visible in the rich plaits
which were coiled round the back of her head, and such golden-brown is
sure to be accompanied by a skin as fair as that of the slender throat
of which I just caught a glimpse. The figure was extremely petite
and graceful, the dress perfectly plain, and the whole appearance so
undoubtedly that of a young lady, that it seemed an almost incongruous
circumstance that she should have in her lap a sleeping infant. The
child—richly dressed in ample robes, and carefully veiled—was so small
that I guessed it to be scarcely a month old.
Now we all know that there are women who adore babies, and it is
possible that there are also some girls who are given to a predilection
so incomprehensible to the masculine mind generally. I concluded that
I beheld one of these wonders in my youthful fellow-traveller, as at
any slight movement of her little charge, she soothed and hushed it in
a truly maternal manner; while her companion (no doubt, thought I, the
child’s nurse) was entirely occupied, as it seemed to me for want of
something else to do, with a huge packet of sandwiches.
Presently our fast train stopped at Croydon. The elderly female
prepared to alight; and having assisted her, I offered to hand out the
young lady. To my great surprise she said: ‘Thank you very much, but I
go on to Brighton.’
‘And baby too?’ I asked.
‘O yes!’ she replied. ‘I never trust him to any one else.’
I was sorely perplexed. Surely, surely she could not be the mother. The
thought was preposterous. My curiosity was fairly roused, and I tried
to beguile her into conversation on indifferent topics; but she was a
discreet little person, and her replies were so monosyllabic, that we
arrived at our destination without having become in the least better
acquainted. However, as we entered the station, she did at last throw
back the ugly veil as she looked somewhat anxiously from the window,
and then disclosed to my admiring gaze one of the loveliest faces I
had ever looked upon. She appeared to be about sixteen. Large dark
eyes bright as stars, were shaded with long black lashes; a rosebud of
a mouth, a small delicate nose ever so slightly _retroussé_, and the
sudden blush which increased these charms, when I asked if she expected
any one to meet her, made a powerful impression upon me _then_, and
were destined, though I knew it not at the time, to affect my peace of
mind and influence my future life.
I repeated my question before she gave her hesitating answer: ‘The
fact is I do _not_ expect any one, as my friends do not know that I am
alone.’
‘Pray allow me then to help you with your luggage, or in any way.’
‘Thank you so much, but I have no luggage; the servants brought it all
down yesterday.’ Then again blushing, she added: ‘If you _would_ kindly
call a fly, it will be all I shall require.’
Before handing her out of the carriage, I offered (I confess in much
tribulation) to relieve her of the infant; but she exclaimed, laughing
merrily: ‘O no; I really could not trust you for the world.’
So we walked together towards the fly, I having previously observed
that her ticket, like my own, was for the first-class. Here was another
mystery. In my haste I had been glad to secure a seat anywhere; but
I recollected that she must have been settled in her corner of the
carriage for some time when I jumped in, as she then appeared to be
quite absorbed in a book. We now reached the fly; and not in the least
incommoded with her burden, she skipped nimbly up the steps, and
requested me to direct the driver to ‘89 Marine Parade.’
‘No mystery about the address at all events,’ I thought as I raised
my hat to take leave of my fair companion, who bending towards me,
thanked me with the sweet voice and refined pronunciation that I love
to hear in women, for the slight service I had rendered her, and left
me perfectly bewitched by her grace and beauty. I stood gazing after
the fly till it was quite out of sight, before I procured one for
myself. I could not understand my feelings. That I, a man of the world,
accustomed to the society of attractive women, should in my thirtieth
year fall in love at first sight with a little girl scarcely more than
half that age, seemed incredible. I could not, and would not believe
it. No; it certainly was mere curiosity which induced me to traverse
Brighton from morning to night in the hope of seeing her again. For
three whole days my rambles were unsuccessful. I fancied once that
she passed in a barouche on the drive; but it was only the pose in
the carriage which struck me, the face being turned away. At last I
began to fear that she and her friends had only stopped at Brighton
_en route_ for some other destination; and feeling utterly weary of
all the frequented parts of the gay town, on the fourth morning I
wandered towards Cliftonville. A deep reverie was interrupted by the
sound of silvery-toned laughter; and considerably below me on the
beach I discerned the fairy form which had become so familiar to my
imagination. An adjacent seat was a ‘coigne of vantage’ whence I could
watch her who had so attracted me.
She was attired in a dainty morning-dress of pale blue, looped up
over the crisp white frills of an under-skirt; she wore the same
hat in which I had first seen her, but without the objectionable
veil, and still better, was without the far more objectionable
baby. A fashionable-looking lady was seated near her occupied with
a book; while the fairy (as I shall call her till I know her name)
was frolicking about with a little Maltese dog, which she vainly
endeavoured to entice into the sea. The little animal, more like a ball
of white wool, scampered readily enough after the pebbles thrown for
it as the waves retreated, but rushed back to his mistress, as if for
protection from the advancing waters, as they returned and broke upon
the shingle.
I watched these gambols with the interest of a school-boy, rather than
that of a man of my mature age, and felt that I should never tire of
so watching them. Then the elder lady rose and spoke to her companion;
the latter immediately picked up the little dog, and they walked slowly
up the beach towards the place where I was sitting, without observing
me until they were so close that I could not avoid (had I so wished)
raising my hat to my late railway companion. She returned my salutation
with a blush and a smile; while her friend’s inquiring glance was
somewhat haughty.
‘The gentleman, dear aunt,’ explained the fairy, ‘who was so kind to me
on my journey.’
‘I am happy, sir, to have the opportunity of thanking you for your
attention to my niece,’ was the rejoinder—the words being courteous
enough, while the manner was so distant, that it was impossible for me
to do otherwise than wish them good-morning, and content myself with
gazing after the blue cloud which enveloped my fairy till it had melted
away in the distance.
Of course I walked in the same direction the following morning, but
no fairy appeared to me. I tried the esplanade, the piers, the shops
at all hours, without success. At last one day, which I had almost
determined should be my last in Brighton, I thought a book might
change my thoughts, and by good-fortune went for it to the library
in St James’s Street. There, standing in the entrance, I beheld the
graceful little lady with her white dog. The stately aunt was at the
counter turning over the books; and when at last she had made her
choice, she found her niece actually conversing with a comparative
stranger. I could see that she was not greatly pleased at the meeting,
in spite of her studied politeness; but to my infinite satisfaction,
a friendly shower detained her, and she was unavoidably drawn into
the conversation, though with true English reserve; her niece, on the
contrary, chattered away with all the naïveté of a child.
‘We must have a fly, Lily,’ said the aunt presently. ‘I am sure the
rain will not cease for some time.’
‘Oh, it is really hardly worth while,’ replied that young lady, ‘we are
so near home, and my considerate fellow-traveller has offered us his
umbrella.’
‘You are extremely polite, sir,’ said the frigid duenna; ‘but you
require it yourself; we cannot think of’——
‘Not at all,’ I interrupted. ‘Pray favour me by using it. Any time will
do for returning it; either to the _Old Ship_, where I am staying;
or I am here almost every day; or if you will allow me, I would save
all trouble by calling for it.’ I then presented my card, which bore
my town address. It evidently satisfied her, for the icy manner
perceptibly thawed; and taking out her card-case, she gave me her own,
expressing her hope that they might have the pleasure of seeing me.
Here was a success. I think I must have returned to the hotel on
wings—certainly it was not the ordinary walk of mortals which conveyed
me; for I found myself seated before my solitary dinner quite oblivious
of everything that might have occurred since that parting at the
library.
The following afternoon, on wings again, I flew to the temple which
enshrined my divinity. Miss Langdale was at home. I had of course
inquired for the elder lady. I was conducted up the broad staircase
to an elegant drawing-room, its four French windows opening upon a
spacious verandah, which pleasantly shaded this luxuriously furnished
apartment. A grand-piano and harp testified to the musical tastes
of the family. But there was little time for observation, as Miss
Langdale entered the room almost immediately. She was very gracious in
her welcome; but that could not make up to me for the absence of her
charming niece.
‘I am sorry,’ observed the placid lady, as if stating a very
unimportant fact, ‘that my niece is not at home; it is the day for her
riding-lesson, and unfortunately she has but just gone.’
I could scarcely conceal my bitter disappointment sufficiently to make
a conventional reply: ‘I was of course fortunate to have found one of
the ladies at home in so fine a day, &c.’
There was no difficulty in ‘getting on,’ as it is called, with Miss
Langdale: the inevitable subject of the weather was disposed of at
once; politics occupied almost as short a time; church matters were
settled as briefly; in short every conceivable topic was touched upon
before I had an opportunity of leading the conversation to the niece.
‘I have two nieces under my charge,’ said Miss Langdale—‘Lilian, whom
you have seen; the younger still a child at school; also a nephew,
who I assure you is more trouble than both the girls together; but
I am happy to say my brother has now sent him abroad with a tutor,
so we must hope he will return much improved.’ The voluble lady then
proceeded to inform me that Mr Langdale had lost his wife when ‘Rosa’
was born, and that she, the aunt, had resided with the family ever
since—a period of ten years. ‘So I have had the entire charge of the
children, and now look upon them as my own,’ she added.
‘The niece I have had the pleasure of seeing,’ I observed, ‘does
infinite credit to her training; I think her perfectly charming.’
‘I am very glad to hear you say so,’ said Miss Langdale; ‘it is
certainly the general opinion, and I naturally like to think so myself;
but it is possible I may be blinded by partiality. To me, Lilian
appears guileless as a child with the sense of a woman, a combination
which makes her manners very fascinating. But she is really almost too
fearless; I never met with a girl with so much self-reliance.’
Longing to hear more, yet not feeling at liberty to ask questions, I
merely murmured some commonplace truism about a ‘noble quality.’
‘So it is,’ replied the sedate aunt, ‘when not carried too far; that
journey, for instance. I positively shudder when I think of a girl like
Lily, brought up as she has been, undertaking it quite alone.’
‘With the exception of’——I stammered.
Taking advantage of my hesitation, the talkative lady interrupted,
as if to help me to my meaning: ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Farquhar. She
certainly was fortunate enough to meet with a companion who would,
I feel sure, have protected her from any annoyance. But think how
different it might have been; and she left home expecting to take care
of herself.’
Much vexed at being misunderstood, I was hastening to explain, when
the door was thrown open and visitors were announced. I had already
exceeded the orthodox limits of a morning call, so I rose to take
leave, disappointed, yet consoled by an invitation to call again. ‘When
I hope,’ said my hostess, ‘that Lily will be at home.’
I need scarcely say that the invitation was accepted; and I made my
next visit at an earlier hour than I had ventured upon at the first,
which was necessarily more ceremonious. I was on this occasion shewn
into a small, exceedingly pretty morning-room, with glass doors opening
into a garden, fragrant with mignonette and gay with autumn flowers. I
was standing at these open doors inhaling the perfumed air, when Miss
Langdale joined me.
‘You are admiring our garden, I see,’ said that lady. ‘I assure you
we are very proud of it; for though other people have recently found
out that flowers will flourish at Brighton, my brother has always
cultivated his. Being his own, he has spared no pains upon the
property. We live here almost as much as at Kensington; and he comes
to us as often as business will permit.’
This information was interesting in its way; but my thoughts were with
the fairest flower of them all. A slight rustle of silk behind us made
me aware of her presence. I held the tiny gloved hand which was placed
so frankly in mine a moment longer than was necessary, while I noticed
that she was more elaborately dressed than I had before seen her, her
hat being of white felt, with a long fleecy ostrich feather lying upon
her burnished hair.
‘You are going out, I perceive, Miss Lilian,’ I observed, preparing
regretfully to take leave; ‘pray do not let me detain you.’
‘You are not detaining us at all,’ she replied, ‘for you see my aunt
has not even begun to dress; but as we generally take a drive in the
afternoon, and not knowing you were here, I thought I might as well be
ready for it.’
‘We shall be extremely pleased if you will accompany us,’ said Miss
Langdale, addressing me; ‘that is, if it will not bore you.’
Bore me indeed! I was in ecstasies.
‘Then, if you will excuse me, I will dress at once.—In the meantime,
Lily, you can shew Mr Farquhar the garden. I shall not be long.’
Dear, good lady; she might have been all day at her toilet as far as I
was concerned; for was I not at last alone with my fairy! Walking up
and down the broad gravel walk, we chatted for some time before I found
an opportunity of mentioning a subject to which no allusion whatever
had been made since the never-to-be-forgotten day of our journey to
Brighton.
‘I ought to apologise,’ I began, ‘for not having before asked after our
young fellow-traveller. I hope the baby’——
‘Oh, pray do not mention it,’ cried my companion, a vivid blush
overspreading face and throat. ‘I have heard quite enough of that baby,
I assure you, already.’
This was startling. But I was destined to be still more perplexed,
for she added earnestly: ‘Promise me, Mr Farquhar, never to allude to
that subject before my aunt, or Papa when he comes; he will be here on
Saturday. So promise me, or I shall never hear the last of it.’
‘You may trust me, indeed you may. But surely you will not refuse to
tell me.’
A velvet dress and feathered bonnet now appeared in view, and Miss
Langdale approaching, told us that the carriage was at the door. We had
a perfectly lovely drive, not dawdling up and down the Parade, but far
away over the fresh breezy downs; and when it was over I returned to my
rooms a bewitched and bewildered man.
The following Saturday I was introduced to Mr Langdale. He was very
cordial, and immediately asked me to dinner. I found him a capital
host; and I think we were mutually pleased with the acquaintance.
From that time I was a frequent visitor at the house, and the more
I saw of Lily the more passionately I loved her. But for that one
forbidden subject, I should have been supremely happy, for I could
see that she liked my society; and when her lovely eyes met mine with
the open truthful expression which was their characteristic, I could
scarcely believe that she had a secret in the world. Sometimes I
forgot it altogether; sometimes it haunted me even in the happiest
moments of our intercourse, when, as I relapsed into reverie, she would
innocently ask why I was ‘so absent.’
I hope I shall not therefore be thought guilty of impertinent curiosity
when I confess that I became intensely anxious to solve this provoking
mystery. It was not easy to do so; as though almost daily now in Lily’s
society, I was never alone with her, and I was bound by my promise in
the presence of others. The wished-for opportunity, however, occurred
at last. It was Saturday, and Mr Langdale was as usual expected by an
afternoon train. It was the custom for Miss Langdale and Lily to take
the carriage to meet him at the station, and it was at the door when
I happened to pass the house. The ladies came out at the same moment.
I was about to assist them into the carriage, when Miss Langdale, who
looked very ill, said: ‘I am afraid, my dear, I am not well enough to
go with you; I would rather lie down. With this headache the glare is
insupportable.’
‘I told you so, dear aunt,’ replied Lily. ‘We need not go; the carriage
can be sent for Papa without us.’
But Miss Langdale would not hear of Lily giving up her drive and
also disappointing Papa; so after many affectionate remonstrances,
Miss Lily was obliged to depart. Just as the footman was closing the
carriage-door, Miss Langdale said: ‘Will you go with her, Mr Farquhar?
We know,’ she added smiling, ‘by experience that you can take care of
her.’
Overjoyed, I sprang into the vacant seat beside Lily, who as we drove
off exclaimed: ‘What a careful old darling aunt is! She seems to think
I am never to be trusted alone; and is more particular than ever
since—since,’ she added, slightly hesitating, ‘that unlucky journey.’
‘Will you trust me, Lily?’ I asked, for the first time addressing her
by that familiar name. ‘Will you trust me, and grant me a favour?’
‘Certainly, I will, if possible,’ she replied. ‘What do you wish me to
do?’
‘I wish you to tell me why that journey from London was unlucky,
and—about—the baby.’
‘Do you really care to know?’ she asked, apparently quite amused.
‘I care for everything which concerns you, Lily,’ I replied very
seriously.
‘Then I suppose I must tell you,’ said she with a sigh, the glowing
colour mantling over her fair young face. ‘But I must say it is rather
hard to have to proclaim one’s own folly, at the risk too of’——
‘Of what?’ I asked anxiously.
‘Well, I was going to say, of forfeiting your good opinion; but I
daresay you think me frivolous as it is.’
‘I think, Miss Lilian,’ I replied, now greatly excited, ‘that you are
amusing yourself at my expense.’
Startled by my sudden change of manner, she gazed at me in evident
amazement, then said: ‘What _can_ you mean, Mr Farquhar? I am only
surprised that you should feel any curiosity on the subject; I thought
men were never curious.’
‘Then I am an exception,’ I exclaimed. ‘How can I help being interested
in all that concerns you? So pray, fulfil your promise at once, as we
ought to be at the station in a few minutes.’
‘Oh, there is not much to tell,’ she quietly observed. ‘But if I am to
constitute you my father-confessor, I must tell you _all_, that you may
understand the motives which actuated my conduct.’
‘Yes, yes,’ I muttered; ‘as you please; only, pray, pray go on.’
‘Then,’ said Lily composedly, ‘I must begin with the day you and I
travelled together from London. Papa was to have accompanied me, my
aunt and the servants having gone the day before; but unexpected
business came in the way, and when he came in to luncheon, he told me
that he could not possibly go to Brighton till the following week, and
asked me if I could also remain in town. I told him it was impossible;
the house was dismantled, my clothes sent away, and I was actually
dressed for the journey. Papa saw how awkward it was for me; and when I
represented to him that I should be little more than an hour alone in
the train if I went, while I should be all day by myself in the great
empty house if I remained at home, he somewhat reluctantly gave his
consent to my going without him. He then desired my brother to take
me to the station, and see me safe into a carriage, gave me a book to
read, which he said would prevent any one talking to me, and wished me
good-bye; and with many injunctions to “take great care of myself,”
he left me with Harry, who grumbled very much at being detained on my
account, as he was also going from home, and had promised to meet some
friends who would be waiting for him. I had Papa’s permission, however,
and was determined to go. Then Harry told me that I should not be
allowed to have my dog with me, that it would be put into a dark place,
where it would be sure to howl all the way. This was almost too much
for me; and I was on the point of giving way to Harry’s persuasion,
and wait for the escort of Papa, who would be sure to prevent that, as
he is known to all the officials on the Brighton line, when a sudden
thought struck me. I flew up-stairs to Rosa’s room, took her doll,
which is as big as a baby, out of its box, and quickly taking off its
long robes, I dressed poor little dear struggling Sprite in them.’
‘Lily, Lily!’ I exclaimed, almost too vexed with myself to laugh at
this absurd solution of the mystery. ‘Why did you not tell me this
before?’
‘I did not know you would care about such a trifle, for one thing,’ she
replied; ‘and really aunt was so angry with me at the time that I did
not wish to renew the subject in her presence; so you see this has been
the first opportunity I have had for telling you; and now I suppose you
will think me as childish as aunt did—worse than childish, she said.’
‘Shall I tell you what I think, Lily?’ I asked.
‘Yes,’ she said, laughing; ‘I should like to know the worst.’
‘I think then that you are much too charming to travel alone, and that
I should like to take care of you always. Tell me, my darling, if I may
hope to do so?’
‘Always?’ she asked wonderingly, as if scarcely understanding me.
‘Yes, Lily, as your devoted and adoring husband.’
At this moment the carriage drove into the station, and stopped at
the usual place of meeting. We were not too soon, for the train had
just arrived, and Lily’s quick eyes caught sight of her father coming
towards us. ‘There’s Papa!’ she exclaimed, starting up in the carriage.
I took her hand, and gently drawing her back to her seat, I implored
her to answer me.
Her lovely face was flushed, the ready tears trembled on the long
lashes which veiled her eyes; she hesitated for a moment, then in two
words made me happy. ‘Ask Papa,’ she whispered.
I could only thank her by a silent pressure of her tiny hand, as ‘Papa’
at that moment joined us, and neither of us was sufficiently composed
to explain the reason of my presence.
Lily and I quite understood each other; and I was able to satisfy Mr
Langdale as to my position and prospects; but he would only consent to
an engagement on condition that our marriage should not take place till
his daughter was of age. I pleaded that it would be quite impossible
for me to bear the delay of so many years.
‘How old,’ he inquired, ‘do you imagine the child to be?’
‘Certainly not more than seventeen.’
‘Then let me tell you for your comfort that Lily has reached the mature
age of nineteen and a half,’ replied her father.
I was equally surprised and pleased, for it made the disparity between
us so much less than I thought, as well as the proposed time of
probation.
It was a favourite joke of Mr Langdale’s that it was my darling’s
childish trick with the little dog, and not her appearance, which
had given me an erroneous opinion of her age. Miss Langdale always
pretended to agree with her brother. That good lady highly approved of
our engagement, declaring that she had taken a fancy to me from the
first. This was not exactly true, but no doubt she thought it was when
she said it.
One evening when we were talking over the memorable journey, it
occurred to me to ask Lily why she had travelled second-class on that
occasion, her ticket being for the first.
‘Hush!’ she whispered, placing her little hand upon my lips. ‘Aunt does
not yet know of that flagrant impropriety; but I assure you I had a
good reason.’
She told me afterwards that her brother was so charmed with ‘the lark,’
as he called it, that he quite forgot his ill-humour, and tried to
assist her to carry out her plan in every possible way; he had taken
her ticket and selected a carriage, when it occurred to him that she
would look more like a nursemaid in the second-class; to which she
agreed. Lily a nursemaid! Did my darling expect to travel only with the
blind?
On the twenty-first anniversary of her birthday, our marriage took
place at Brighton, where the first happy days of our courtship were
passed. Rosa, a pretty little girl quite as tall as her sister, was the
chief bride’s-maid, looking scarcely younger than the bride, who is now
the beloved mistress of a large establishment. My mother, who resides
with us, never interferes with my clever little wife, whom she loves
as a daughter; and as for me, I believe—well, I am sure that I am the
most obedient as well as the most devoted of her servants.