A Day at Ashden
Thursday was as fair a day as English eyes had ever looked upon.
“Queen’s own weather,” said Dr. Norton at the early breakfast, which
was taken hours before the usual time in order to lengthen out the long
day of pleasure.
Even the rector was persuaded to join the party which started in such
gay spirits, in the order proposed, except that Rose gave her seat in
the carriage to her uncle and rode by her father’s side on a shaggy
little pony hired for the occasion, which was to be ridden by Lillie on
the return trip.
Ashden Park was like a fairy domain to the children, with its running
streams spanned by fragile-looking bridges, mimic waterfalls, dense
labyrinths and shady walks; but Aunt Delia advised them to delay
exploring the grounds till they had seen the wonders of the house.
The housekeeper met them at the door, looking so very grand in her
black silk dress and lace cap with floating strings that Philip was
quite awe-struck, and thought she must be a duchess at the very least.
But she was very gracious, and, having been told by her master of their
expected visit, was prepared to be extremely civil.
“His lordship left word, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Seldon, “that he was
very sorry he couldn’t ’ave been ’ome in time to see you, but I was to
show you every attention, and after you ’ad seen the house, or before,
just as it pleased you, I was to beg you to take some lunch.”
“Oh, thank you,” said the rector, coming forward to shake hands with
Mrs. Hardy, who was one of his parishioners, although she lived so far
from Lowdown. “You and Lord Ashden are both very kind, but we have
brought a bite with us, and, if it is not a liberty, propose to give
the children a picnic under some of those royal old oaks.”
“Well, sir, his lordship will not be half pleased, I’m afraid, and
perhaps you will change your mind after you ’ave looked through the
’ouse. I’ll show you the first floor myself, and then if you won’t mind
I’ll let one of the men go over the rest with you, for my rheumatism
makes me so clumsy.”
They begged her not to take the trouble to show them any part herself,
but she evidently took a delight in escorting them through the lofty
rooms and halls, which they gratified her by admiring immensely.
Going through the entire house was more than the elder members of the
party cared to attempt, so Mrs. Norton, Miss Acton, and the children
went upstairs, enjoying the confusing and involved galleries and
passages that led to suite after suite of rooms. Those in the centre
of the castle were furnished with modern elegance and lightness, but
in the wings the rooms were dark, and filled with ancient furniture of
gloomy grandeur.
“This is the room in which his blessed Majesty King James the First
slept when he was entertained, with nobles and gentlemen, by the noble
ancestor of his present lordship,” said the servant who accompanied
them, precisely as if he were reciting a lesson.
“Did a king really sleep in that great, high, black bed?” said Rose,
who was deeply impressed with the grandeur of the place.
“I suppose he did, as the man says so,” said her mother, smiling.
“I don’t half care so much for the bed the king slept in as for the
room where the ghost lives,” said Lillie.
“Ghosts don’t live,” said Miss Acton, laughing.
“Oh, yes, she do, miss!” said the man, thinking she was throwing a
doubt over one of the attractions of the place. “She stops in the
tower-room just up them stairs at the end of this gallery, and if the
ladies are not too tired there’s a beautiful outlook from the window.”
And there was a superb view from the upper window of the tower, that
well paid them for the labor of mounting the high stairs.
“This ghost shows good taste in the selection of a room,” said Mrs.
Norton, panting and out of breath as she came behind the others to look
from the window, “that is, if ghostly persons don’t mind stairs.”
“They say,” began the servant, assuming the recitative tone and
manner, “that ’er ’eart was broken along of ’er great attachment
to Another, but ’er brother compelled ’er to marry a juke’s son who
treated ’er ill on account of ’er love for Another. So she took ’er
vengeance on ’im by giving ’im chopped ’orse ’air hin ’is provisions,
which consumed ’im in great agony. As soon as ’er husband was killed,
she wrote to Another and learned that ’is love was ’ers no longer,
for ’is marriage with a rival ’ad just taken place; whereupon the
unfortunate lady was seized with deep repentance, and, leaving the
rooms she ’ad formerly occupied, she secluded herself in this lofty
tower chamber, refusing to eat or drink, till one day the maid,
knocking for admittance and receiving no answer, ’ad the door broke
down, and found ’er lady a raving lunatic, which she flew past ’er down
the stairs, and, running out the door, drowned ’erself in the lake by
the park gate, and ’er uneasy spirit is said to ’aunt the precincts
ever since.”
This breathless narrative was received with much amusement by the
ladies; but the children were quite awe-stricken at being in the haunts
of a ghost with a regular stopping-place.
“I didn’t suppose there were any real ghosts,” said Philip doubtfully.
“Neither did I,” said Aunt Grace, laughing, “and I cannot say that I
quite believe in them yet.”
The servant, whose faith in his ghost was implicit, here pointed out
to them in the most respectful manner a fracture in the door which was
made when it was “broke down,” evidently thinking that was proof enough
to convince the most sceptical. So, out of civility, his audience
forbore to appear to question the evidence of their own eyes, and
followed their cicerone through the other rooms, each of which, in the
old part of the castle, had its story of family or historical interest.
In the chamber of an ancestress who had been maid of honor to the queen
of one of the Georges stood a harp, swathed in its ghostly white-linen
cover.
“What is it?” whispered Philip, whose eye was caught by the uncovered
pedals.
“A harp, to be sure,” answered Rose, with a superior air.
“A harp!” repeated Philip, with his eyes shining. “Oh, if I could only
see it with the cover off!”
“’Twouldn’t do you any good if you did,” said Rose unsympathizingly;
“it would be all unstrung and out of tune.”
“But I would be so glad just to look at it,” said Philip, still
lingering by the muffled instrument.
“Do you really so much want to see a harp?” said Lillie, coming over
from an inlaid cabinet where the beautiful maid of honor kept her
trinkets.
“Oh, so very much,” said Philip, in the earnest way he had sometimes.
“Well, I am not afraid to ask the servant to take off the case,”
said Lillie, skipping up to the man and making her request, with
which he complied without hesitation, slipping off the Holland cover
and revealing to Philip’s eager eyes the old-fashioned, long-silent
instrument. Over it hung a copy of a picture they had seen in the
picture gallery on the floor below. It was a portrait of the owner
of the harp; a pretty figure in a fanciful shepherdess costume, with
a preternaturally white lamb clasped in her lovely fair arms, and a
simpering complacency on her pretty pink and white face that disposed
the gazer to doubt the possibility of her ever having awakened the
true soul of music; but none of the party were treasonable enough to
contradict the flunkey, who remarked, as he noticed Mrs. Norton’s study
of the portrait:
“The Lady Blanche was said to ’ave played ’er ’arp like a hangel.”
“I would give anything to hear it played,” said Philip, half to himself.
“There’s a new ’arp in the music-room,” said the servant civilly, “if
the ladies would like to play for the young gentleman.”
“Well, Philip,” said Mrs. Norton, “I don’t play oftener than once in
six months nowadays, but when we go down I will try to gratify you.”
Philip was happy then, and felt as if he could hardly wait till
they reached the music-room; but at last the tour of the house was
completed, and the servant led the way to the chapel-like apartment in
the western wing, and there his aunt tried her skill in tuning the more
modern-looking instrument that had belonged to the late Lady Ashden.
Her performance, after she had put the harp in moderately good tune,
was not of a high order, but it delighted Philip, who listened in
ecstasy as she struck the chords, a little uncertainly it is true, but
still with a sweetness that thrilled the sensitive child.
“Do you think you could play on it?” asked Rose of her cousin.
“No,” said Philip, shaking his head sadly. “I could not play on it, but
I wish I could listen to it always.”
“You would soon tire of my miserable playing, child,” said his aunt;
“but when you come to see us you shall go to the concerts and hear some
music that is worth listening to.”
While Philip was shyly wondering whether even the pleasure of listening
to the best of music would compensate for the trial of seeing
strangers, his uncle came in to say that Aunt Delia had prepared
their lunch, and was waiting for them in one of the little rustic
summer-houses that studded the park.
The lunch was a marvel of daintiness, for Mrs. Hardy had insisted upon
sending out the creams which had been frozen in preparation for the
repast they were expected to take within doors, and a splendid display
of pines and other fruit from the hot-houses. The whole party were in
the best of spirits, and sufficiently hungry to do ample justice to
Aunt Delia’s good things.
Suddenly, just as they were finishing, Mrs. Norton announced that she
had lost her handkerchief and notebook. “I must have left them in the
maid of honor’s room,” she declared, “or else in the music-room.”
“May I go and look for them?” said Philip, springing up.
“If you are quite sure you have eaten all the cream you want,” said
his aunt. “But don’t try to find your way; get that servant with the
cockney accent to show you again.”
Off ran Philip, glad to be of service; and the party, to give old
Peter an opportunity to lunch, adjourned to an arbor in view, which
was near enough to a little natural lake for the children to run to
the margin with crumbs for the stately swans that were sailing about.
The rector and Dr. Norton sat talking rather sadly of the days when
old Lord Ashden was living; then they spoke of his son, and of the sad
ending of his short and happy married life, and in the midst of their
reminiscences they were surprised by the sudden appearance of the one
they had been speaking of--Lord Ashden himself. He had returned a day
before he expected, and had come out to look for them. His greeting to
his old teacher and fellow-pupil was warm and cordial, and after paying
his respects to the ladies he joined them in recalling incidents and
exploits of his boyish days.
“And you have taken poor Philip’s child, I hear. It was brave and kind
of you to acknowledge him,” said he, looking affectionately at the
rector.
“It was a kindness we should have shown before,” said Dr. Norton.
“Where is the boy? Does he inherit his father’s genius and beauty?”
“Yes,” said Aunt Delia, turning her sweet, benevolent face upon the
speaker, “our little Philip seems to have taken every pleasant trait
of his father’s, and a sweeter child I never saw.”
“I must see Philip’s boy,” said Lord Ashden, with a sigh of
retrospection. “Poor Philip! He literally threw away his life; and
such a life--so full of hope and promise. I hope this boy’s life may
be a happier one than his father’s was.” And he strode off toward the
house, where they told him Philip would be found, impelled by a feeling
of real interest, the first he had experienced in many sad and weary
months.