THE VISIT TO THE HALL.
“The tulip and the butterfly
Appear in gayer coats than I;
Let me be dressed fine as I will,
Flies, flowers, and worms excel me still.”
WATTS.
The visit of the sisters Aumerle, or rather the message which they had
brought, had caused great excitement in the mind of Cecilia Bardon. One
thought was now uppermost there, thrusting itself forward at all times,
interfering with domestic duties, taking her attention even from her
prayers; that thought was—how should she persuade her father to pay a
visit to Dashleigh Hall!
Dr. Bardon held out against entreaties for two days; on the third he
yielded, having probably all along only made show of fight to avoid
seeming eagerly to catch at an invitation from a titled acquaintance.
The next question was—How was the visit to be paid? Four miles was a
distance too great to be traversed on foot by Cecilia Bardon.
“We could get a neat clarence from Pelton,” suggested the lady.
“Pelton!” exclaimed the doctor,—“why, Pelton is six miles off! You’ll not
find me paying for a clarence to go twenty miles to carry me to a place
to which I could walk any fine morning. I’ve not money to fling away
after that fashion.”
“If only the Aumerles kept a carriage!” sighed Cecilia.
“If they kept fifty I’d not ask for the loan of one,” said the doctor,
with all the pride of poverty.
“Dear me! how shall we ever get to Dashleigh Hall!” cried Cecilia.
“I’ll tell you what, I’ll hire our neighbour the farmer’s
donkey-chaise,—that won’t ruin even a poor man like me.”
“A donkey-chaise!” exclaimed Miss Bardon in horror.
“Why, you’ve been glad enough of it before now to carry you over to
Pelton, when you had shopping to do in the town.”
“Pelton,—why, yes,—shopping,—but to call on a countess!”
“A countess, I suppose, is made of flesh and blood like other people;
if she’s such an idiot as to care whether her friends come to her in
chariots or donkey-chaises, the less we have to do with her the better,
say I.”
“But to drive through the park—to go up to the grand hall, to—to—to be
seen by all the fine liveried servants—”
The doctor actually stamped with impatience. “What is it to us,” he
cried, “if all the lackeys in Christendom were to see us? We’re doing
nothing wrong—nothing to be ashamed of. I should be as much a gentleman
in a chaise, or a cart, drawn by a donkey or a dog, as if I’d fifty
racers in my stables, and a handle a mile long to my name.”
The pride of the father and the daughter were at variance, but it was the
same passion that worked in both. Cecilia sought dignity in accessories,
Dr. Bardon found it in self. She would climb up to distinction in the
world by grasping at every advantage held out by the rank and wealth
of her friends; he would rise also, but by trampling under foot rank
and wealth as things to be despised. The pride of the daughter was most
ridiculous—that of the father most deadly. Reader, do you know nothing of
either?
One of the things on which Bardon prided himself was on being master
in his own house—no very difficult matter, as his subjects consisted
but of one gentle-tempered daughter, and one old deaf domestic. On the
present occasion Cecilia soon found that she must go to Dashleigh Hall
in a donkey-carriage, if she intended to go at all; and after a longer
struggle than usual, which ended in something like tears, she yielded
to the pressure of circumstances, and consented to accompany her father
the next day in the ignoble vehicle which he had selected. This point
settled, her mind was free to give itself to the darling subject of
dress. Half the day was devoted to touching and retouching last summer’s
bonnet, which looked rather the worse for wear, and selecting such
articles of attire as might give a distinguished and fashionable air to
the lady of Milton Cottage. Cecilia was not unsuccessful. Never, perhaps,
had a more elegantly dressed woman stepped into a donkey-chaise before.
Her flounced silk dress expanded to such fashionable dimensions as
scarcely to leave space in the humble conveyance for the accommodation of
the doctor.
If her dress was an object of triumph to Miss Bardon, it was also one
of solicitude and care. Never, surely, were roads so dusty, and never
was dust more annoying. Her nervous anxiety and precautions irritated
the temper of the doctor, who found more than enough to try it in the
obstinacy of the animal that he drove, without further provocation from
his companion. Both father and daughter were well pleased when they at
length reached the ornamental lodge of Dashleigh Park.
“Papa,” suggested Cecilia timidly, “could we not leave the donkey to
graze in the lane, and go through the grounds on foot?”
“Leave the hired donkey to be carried off by any party of tramping
gipsies! I’m not such a fool,” said the doctor.
The lodge-keeper obeyed the summons of the bell, which was rung with more
force than was needful; he stood still, however, without opening the
gate, to inquire what the occupants of the donkey-chaise wanted.
“Open the gate, will you?” cried the doctor, in his rough, domineering
manner.
“For Dr. and Miss Bardon, of Milton Cottage, friends of the countess,”
said Cecilia nervously, feeling very uncomfortable at her own position.
The gate-keeper looked hesitatingly at the lady, then at the chaise, then
at the lady again. It is possible that her appearance decided his doubts,
or that the impatience of the doctor overbore them, for the gate slowly
rolled back on its hinges, and the donkey-chaise entered the park.
Cecilia could scarcely find any charm in the beautiful drive, magnificent
timber, verdant glades, broad avenues affording glimpses of distant
prospects, sunny knolls on which grazed the light-footed deer. She could
not, however, refrain from an exclamation of delight as a sudden bend in
the road brought her unexpectedly in sight of the lordly Hall.
Dr. Bardon surveyed the splendid building before him with a gloomy,
dissatisfied eye. What was it compared to Nettleby Tower, in the mind of
the disinherited man? “Mere gingerbread! mere gingerbread!” he muttered
to himself, as he drew up at the lofty entrance. He saw more beauty in a
ruined buttress of the ancient home of his fathers than in all the florid
decorations of the countess’s magnificent abode.
Cecilia Bardon was well-nigh overpowered by the sense of the grandeur
before her. The presence of three or four of the earl’s powdered footmen
was enough in itself to make her seat in the donkey-chaise almost
intolerable to the lady.
“Lady Dashleigh at home?” inquired the doctor from his low seat, in a
tone that would have sounded haughty from a prince.
The countess was happily at home; and Cecilia, hastily descending,
breathed more freely when no longer in contact with the odious
conveyance. She felt something as a prisoner may feel when he has left
the jail behind, his connection with which he desires to forget, wishing
that all others could do so likewise. Dr. Bardon flung the rein on the
neck of the donkey, and followed his daughter into the Hall.
They were introduced into a splendid apartment, fitted up with
magnificence and taste. Poor Cecilia, as she there awaited the countess,
painfully contrasted the room with its glittering mirrors and gilded
ceiling, painted panels and velvet cushions, with the homeliness of her
own humble abode. Pride, who revels in human misery, would not omit the
opportunity of inflicting an envious pang. But his barbed dart went
deeper—far deeper into the heart of the unhappy Bardon—the man who would
have scornfully laughed at the idea of the possibility of such as he
envying any mortal in the world.
[Illustration: Her greeting to Dr. and Miss Bardon was most gracious and
cordial.
_Page 57._]
Cecilia had scarcely time to gaze around her, shake out her dusty
flounces, and glance in a mirror to see if her scarf fell gracefully,
when Annabella herself appeared from an inner apartment.
The appearance of the youthful countess was rather attractive than
striking. Her figure was below the middle height, and so light and
delicate in its proportions as to have earned for Annabella in girlhood
the title of Titania, queen of the fairies. Her complexion had not the
purity of that of her cousin Ida; but any emotion or excitement suffused
her cheek with a beautiful crimson, and lit up the vivacious dark eyes,
which were the only decidedly pretty feature in a face whose chief
charm lay in its ever-varying expression. The irregular outline of the
countess’s profile deprived her countenance of all claim to absolute
beauty, but no one when under the spell of her winning conversation,
could pause to criticise or even notice defects where the general effect
was so pleasing. The dress of the countess was not such as might have
been expected in one of her rank. It was picturesque rather than costly,
fanciful rather than fashionable. Annabella had just been bending over
her desk, busy with a romance which she was writing; her tresses were
slightly disordered, and a small ink stain actually soiled the whiteness
of one little delicate finger.
Her greeting to Dr. and Miss Bardon was most gracious and cordial. She
came forward with both hands extended, and welcomed her old friends to
Dashleigh Hall with a frank kindliness which at once set Cecilia at her
ease. “She is not changed in the least; she is the same fascinating being
as ever,” was the reflection of the gratified guest.
Dr. Bardon was not so easily won. He was out of temper with himself and
all the world. The touch of pride had turned indeed his wine of life
into a concentrated acid. Annabella could not but notice the hardness
of his manner, but she was neither surprised nor offended, for she knew
the character of the man. “I will conquer the old lion!” thought she,
and she exerted all her powers to do so. How thoughtfully attentive the
countess became, how she humoured her guest’s little fancies, how she
avoided jarring upon his prejudices, and talked of old times, old scenes,
old friends, till she fairly beat down, one after another, every barrier
behind which ill-humour could lurk!
Annabella took the arm of the doctor, and with Cecilia at her side,
sauntered down the marble terrace into the garden. She consulted Timon
Bardon about the disposition of her flower-beds, asked advice concerning
the management of plants, and finally overcame the old lion altogether
by begging for a slip from his Venice Sumach. The moment that the doctor
found that he could confer a favour instead of accepting one, all
his equanimity returned; and when the party re-entered the beautiful
drawing-room, the only shadow on the enjoyment of any of the three was
Cecilia’s consciousness that the gravel-walks had impaired the beauty of
her fawn-coloured boots.
“What a sweet creature the countess is!” was Miss Bardon’s silent
reflection; “prosperity has done her no harm; she has not a particle of
pride!”