MY ENGLISH HOME.
Of the two years I passed in the convent at Paris I shall say but
little--for although I made considerable progress in learning and music,
no other event than an occasional letter from Carlo diversified the
monotony of the hours and days. Yet I enjoyed the apparently dull life,
and even the constraint, and was rather sorry when my guardian came to
take me on a visit to some of my relations in England. I had seen him
several times during the two years, and was still less favourably
impressed by his countenance and manner. There was a cat-like quietness
in his walk, and stealthy expression in his downcast eyes, that provoked
me. Carlo had once contrived to see me at the home of one of my
schoolfellows by whose means the correspondence had been carried on. We
renewed our vows of eternal love, and he was still the hero of my
romantic dreams; and if anyone had told me that in the course of years
he or I should change, it would have aroused my utmost indignation.
I was to return to my mother at Sorrento after the visits to my English
relations were ended, and then we resolved that our marriage should take
place. I fancy that my guardian had discovered or suspected the
clandestine correspondence, for he took every opportunity of abusing
Italians in general, and the Marchese, as he would persist in calling
Carlo Spinola, in particular.
I could now speak English pretty well, for I had learnt quickly that and
other languages;--thanks to the judicious teachings of the good nuns. My
father’s place, Langdale Priory, which I was to inherit when I became of
age, had been let for many years to another of the Mordaunt family, and
my first visit was to him at Langdale, this home of my ancestors.
There was a large picture of Langdale Priory at our Italian home, and
also some good sketches made by my father, and he had often described to
me the different rooms. The south drawing-room, that looked on a broad
terrace walk, and down a grassy slope to the lake below, in one of his
sketches, was my favourite. I thought less of the north side, which, in
the large oil-painting, was not so attractive, although that was
evidently the principal or show side of the house, which had a fine
portico in the Italian style that succeeded the Elizabethan in England.
But on the south and garden side the building was more irregular, and a
fine old gable and window remained, which I heard had been part of a
much older house. My father had pointed out the nurseries in this; and a
little oriel window on a lower level, which he said had been his dear
mother’s boudoir, was my especial object of admiration.
It was fortunately a fine sunny evening when we drove through the park
gates, and as I caught a first sight of Langdale Priory, the whole
palatial front showed to great advantage against a background of fine
trees which grew on the rising ground beyond the lake. It was exactly
the point of view taken in the large picture, and I at once
distinguished the library windows on the left side of the broad portico,
and those of the dining-room on the right, and one of the windows of my
father’s bed-room over it at the western corner, looking towards the
stables, which was also a fine building, in the same kind of Italian
style, with a high clock-tower.
“Yes, it is a fine place,” said my guardian, in his slow, oily voice,
when he heard my exclamation of delight at the first sight of the
place. “But how little prospect there seemed to be, when your father
left England, that _you_ would ever inherit the property!”
“How was that?” I inquired, much startled at the idea. “My father never
gave me the slightest hint.”
“Oh! I can quite understand that, for he never would believe in the
possibility of his elder brother’s marriage. I always suspected it, and
that some fine day we should have a great deal of trouble. However, here
we are at the door, and I will not mar the joy I see you feel at your
arrival in your ancestral home, by any evil prognostications.”
“Oh! but do tell me all there is to know, pray.”
“Another time I will. See, here are actually Mr. and Mrs. Mordaunt, and
Miss Stanway, a tiresome old woman they call Aunt Jane, at the door,
come to have a look at the young heiress.”
He always called me the “young heiress,” and there was something in the
words and tone that grated on my ear particularly.
I liked the appearance of the Mordaunts, and was still more pleased with
the somewhat odd-looking but genial countenance of Aunt Jane.
“You are no relation of mine,” said the latter, as she gave me a warm
embrace, “but I like your face, and you must always call me Aunt Jane,
remember.”
“That I will,” said I, as I kissed her on both cheeks, according to the
French fashion I had been accustomed to see among my companions at the
convent.
As we had crossed over from Calais that morning, and travelled all the
day, Mrs. Mordaunt said that I must be so tired and starved, that I was
to go and lie down, and have some refreshment at once.
But Aunt Jane, who saw how eagerly I was looking round the large hall,
and devouring with my eyes every picture, and the finely-carved
chimney-pieces at each end, said,
“Oh! no, she is not tired; and, besides, she could not possibly rest
till she has seen the house and gardens. I know she is longing to be
inside, and outside, and everywhere all at the same moment. Come, I will
take charge of her, and show her the drawing-rooms, and her
grandmother’s old south boudoir.”
“Oh! do, for I always longed to be inside that beautiful oriel window I
saw in my dear father’s sketch.” And here the recollection of him, and
the feeling that every part of this house was hallowed by his presence,
that his eyes had rested on those very pictures of our ancestors, his
dear footsteps and harmonious voice must have echoed through these halls
from the time he could first crawl till he finally left the loved home
to accompany a still more loved wife to Italy, aroused emotion almost
beyond control.
My mother could not stand the English climate, and this had been the
greatest trial of my father’s life, owing to his peculiarly deep
attachment to his ancestral home. He had let it at a very low rent to
the Mordaunts, in order to ensure some good inhabitants to enjoy
themselves in it, and to take care of the village poor. When Aunt Jane
took me out through the breakfast-room, along the south terrace, to the
farther corner, from whence my father had taken his painting, my tears
flowed so fast I could scarcely see.
“Now, sit down on this bench, and I will leave you alone to look round
on all the objects your father loved so well. You will find me in the
breakfast-room when you have wandered over the garden, where I am sure
you will like to go quite by yourself.”
I seized her hand, but could not speak, for a sudden pang of violent
despairing sorrow for my father’s loss seemed to paralyze my senses, and
I could scarcely refrain from throwing myself on the ground, and crying
out with agony. For I was wild and impetuous as ever, and had profited
but little in disposition or judgment from the convent life. Although I
was now what many people called learned and accomplished, my mind and
temper were still as entirely uncultivated and untrained as when I
selfishly shut myself up at my father’s death, and would not be
comforted.
The result of my solitary walk in the south garden was an increased
feeling of adoration for my father’s memory, and intense love for this
place. I knelt down and kissed the old high massive stone sundial,
where he used to climb up as a child to see the hour. A thousand little
stories of his boyhood and youth, long half forgotten, now returned; and
I heard the very tones of his voice as he had related them to me. A
longing to know more about him was mingled with a wonder that I had
hitherto been so strangely indifferent about it.
The sight of his old residence seemed to have developed suddenly a
number of new interests and ardent attachments. I felt that I loved that
old place better than anything in the world. And Carlo? A pang of almost
remorse seized me as I thought of him at last. I seemed to dread being
unfaithful to him, as it occurred to me that even his love would not
reconcile me, as love for his bride seemed to have done my father, to
live away from this enchanting place.
“Then I suppose I love my father even better than Carlo? Can this be
possible?” I thought. Strange that the first time I had ever really
analysed my feelings, or ever put them into words, was during that first
stroll through the Langdale Priory gardens. “But of course Carlo will
like to live here,” I continued to reflect. “I shall be rich, too, and
he values riches; and he will have even greater luxuries here--the fine
English horses and carriages which I had heard so much praised both in
Italy and Paris; and he has already spent more than his father can
afford to give him,” I reflected, too. “Yes, he will certainly be happy
here,” and I walked with a proud step towards the house, with the
foolish exultation of being able to confer all this on my betrothed.
At that moment I discerned my guardian’s face in the oriel window, and
the sneering and exultant smile on it reminded me most painfully of the
mysterious words he had uttered. “How little I thought this property
would ever be yours!” I fancy that he could read my exulting thoughts,
and saw the buoyancy of my step and proud bearing.
A shudder came over me as I felt that he might, by some mysterious
agency, have power to deprive me of all this. I had heard my father say,
“Mordaunt is a good, clever man of business--a lawyer that could make
people believe black was white. He would be sure to manage her property
well, and there may be difficulties.”
I now remembered his having one day said this to my mother, when he was
first taken ill, and he told her he had appointed Mr. Mordaunt my
guardian. She was to write to him at once if he got worse. I felt now
quite sick with apprehension, and determined I would ask Aunt Jane about
him, and why my father appointed his father my guardian--why it was
necessary to have such a clever man to manage it--why it might be
necessary to make people believe black was white. I now felt that if I
were ever deprived of this dear place, with all its hallowed
recollections, I should never be happy again--never could be happy
anywhere else.
The idea of its possible loss intensified my adoration for it. And that
horrible man evidently wanted me to love him. Could he really love me,
or was it for my riches? If the latter, why did his evil eyes glisten
with satisfaction when he said those mysterious words that cast a doubt
upon my inheritance? Yes, he had rapturously enjoyed the horror and
surprise which, I am sure, my countenance must have shown.
I ran into the breakfast-room, with the intention of asking Aunt Jane,
and was much disappointed at not finding her alone.
“Well, my dear little girl,” she said, “you have lived a good deal
during the last half hour. I really believe you have thought more in
that time than all the rest of your little life.”
“How could you know that? Does my face show all I have been thinking and
feeling?”
“Yes; you are several years older than you were yesterday. You have
thought, and you have put your feelings into thoughts and words for
almost the first time in your life; you have been very happy and very
miserable, and now you are in a kind of mysterious doubt, which it
annoys you to remain in.”
“You must be a perfect witch,” I said, “to discover all this, and I do
so long----”
“You do so long for a good talk with me?” said the old aunt. “Well, you
shall have it after dinner in my room, and I will tell you all I know,
or rather suspect.”
As she repeated the last word my guardian entered the room. I saw that
he turned pale, and he said, with oily politeness,
“What is it Miss Stanway suspects?”
“A great deal, and perhaps you can help me to unravel it; but I have no
time to relate it now, for we must all dress for dinner.”