_Treherne Court_.
Where, after another month's pause, I resume my journal.
Papa and I have been here a week. At the last moment Penelope declined
going, saying that some one ought to keep house at Rock-mount. I
wished to do so; but she would not allow me.
This is a fine place, and papa enjoys it extremely. The enforced
change, the complete upsetting of his former solitary ways, first by
Lisabel's marriage, and then by his own illness, seem to have made
him quite young again. Before we left, Doctor Black pronounced
him entirely recovered; that he might reasonably look forward to a
healthy, green old age. God grant it! For, altered as he is, in so
many ways, by some imperceptible influence; having wider interests--is
it wrong to write affections?--than he has had for the last twenty
years, he will enjoy life far more than ever before. Ah me; how can
any body really enjoy life without having others to make happy, and to
draw happiness from?
Doctor Black wished, as a matter of professional etiquette, that papa
should once again consult Dr. Urquhart, about his taking this long
northern journey; but on sending to the camp we found he was “absent
on leave,” and had been for some time. Papa was disappointed and a
little annoyed. It was strange, rather; but might have been sudden and
important business, connected with the plans of which he told me, and
which I did not quite feel justified in communicating further, till he
informs papa himself.
I had a week of that restless laziness, which I suppose most people
unaccustomed to leave home experience for the first few days of a
visit: not unpleasant laziness, neither, for there was the Christmas
week to anticipate and plan for, and every nook in this beautiful
place to investigate, as its own possessors scarcely care to do; but
which I, and other visitors, shall so intensely enjoy. I am trying to
feel settled now.
In this octagon room, which Lisabel--such a thoughtful, kindly
hostess, as Lisa makes! has specially appropriated mine, I take up my
rest. It is the wee-est room attainable in this great, wide, wandering
mansion; where I still at times feel as strange as a bird in a crystal
palace; such birds as in the Aladdin Palace of 1851. we used to see
flying about the tops of these gigantic, motionless trees, caught
under the glass, and cheated by those green, windless, unstirred
leaves into planning a natural wild-wood nest. Poor little things!
To have once dreamed of a nest, and then never to be able to find or
build it, must be a sore thing.
This grand “show” house has no pretensions to the character of “nest,”
or “home.” To use the word in it seems half-ridiculous, or pathetic;
though Lisa does not find it so. Stately and easy, our girl moves
through these magnificent rooms, and enjoys her position as if she
were born to it. She shows good taste and good feeling too--treats
meek, prosy, washed-out Lady Augusta Treherne, and little, fussy,
infirm Sir William, whose brown scratch-wig and gold spectacles rarely
appear out of his own room, with unfailing respect and consideration.
They are mightily proud of her, as they need to be. Truly the best
thing this their patrician blood could do, was to ally itself with our
plebeian line.
But, thank goodness that Lisa, not I, was the victim of that union!
To me, this great house, so carefully swept and garnished, sometimes
feels like a beautiful body without a soul: I should dread a demon's
entering and possessing it, compelling me to all sorts of wild and
wicked deeds, in order to break the suave harmony of things. For
instance, the three drawing-rooms, _en suite_, where Lis and I spend
our mornings, amidst a labyrinth of costly lumber--sofas, tables and
chairs, with our choice of five fires to warm at, glowing in steel and
gilded grates, and glittering with pointed china tiles; having eleven
mirrors, large and small, wherein to catch, at all points, views of
our sweet selves--in this splendid wilderness, I should, did trouble
seize me, roam, rage, or ramp about like any wild animal. The
oppression of it would be intolerable. Better, a thousand times, my
little room at Rockmount, with its little window, in at which the
branches wave; I can see them as I lie in bed. My own dear little
bed, beside which I flung myself down the night before I left it, and
prayed that my coming back might be as happy as my going.
This is the first time since then, that I have suffered myself to cry.
When people feel happy causelessly, it is said to be a sign that the
joy cannot last, that there is sorrow coming. So, on the other hand,
it may be a good omen to feel one's heart aching, without cause. Yet,
a tear or two seems to relieve it and do it good. Enough now.
I was about to describe Treherne Court. Had any of us seen it before
the wedding, ill-natured people might have said, that Miss Lisabel
Johnston married the Court and not the master--so magnificent is it.
Estate, extending goodness knows where; park, with deer; avenue,
two miles long; plantations, sloping down to the river--one of the
“principal rivers of England,” as we used to learn in Pinnock's
Geography--the broad, quiet, and yet fast-running Dee. How lovely it
must look in summer, with those great trees dipping greenly into it,
and those meadows dotted with lazy cows.
There are gardens, too, and an iron bridge, and statues, and a lawn
with a sun-dial, though not half so pretty as that one at the Cedars,
and a quadrangular stable, almost as grand as the house; and which
Augustus thinks of quite as much importance. He has made Lisa a
first-rate horse-woman, and they used to go careering half over the
country, until lately. Certainly, those two have the most thorough
enjoyment of life, fresh, young, animal life and spirits, that it is
possible to conceive. Their whole existence, present and future, seems
to be one blaze of sunshine.
I broke off here to write to Penelope. I wish Penelope were with
us. She will find her Christmas very dull without us all; and,
consequently, without Francis; though he could not have come
to Rockmount under any circumstances, he said. “Important
business.”--This “business” alack, is often hard to brook. Well!=
````"Men must work, and women must weep."=
No, they ought not to weep; they are cowards if they do. They ought
to cheer and encourage the men, never to bemoan and blame them. Yet,
I wish--I wish Penelope could get a sight of Francis this Christmas
time. It is such a holy time, when hearts seem “knit together in
love”--when one would like to have all one's best-beloved about one.
And she loves Francis--has loved him for so long.
Dr. Urquhart said to me once, the only time he ever referred to the
matter--for he is too delicate to gossip about family love-affairs;
“that he wished sincerely my sister and Mr. Charteris had been
married--it would have been the best thing which could have happened
to him--and to her, if she loved him.” I smiled; little doubt about
that “if.” In truth, though I once thought differently, it is one of
the chief foundations of the esteem and sympathy which I take shame
to myself for not having hitherto given to my elder sister. I shall do
better, please God, in time to come; better in every way.
And to begin:--In order to shake off a certain half-fretful
dreaminess that creeps over me, it may be partly in consequence of
the breaking-up of home-habits, and the sudden plunge into a life
so totally new, I mean to write regularly at my journal; to put down
everything that happens from this time; so that it may be a complete
history of this visit at Treherne Court; if at a future time, I, or
any one, should ever read it. Will any one ever do so? Will any one
ever have the right? No; rights enforced are ugly things; will any
one ever come and say to me, “Dora,” or “Theodora,”--I think I like my
full name best--“I _should like_ to read your journal.”
Let me see: to-night is Sunday; I seem always to choose Sunday for
these entries, because we usually retire early, and it is such a
peaceful family day at Rockmount; which indeed is the case here. We
only went to church once, and dined as usual at seven, so that I had
a long afternoon's wander about the grounds; first with papa, and then
by myself. I hope it was a truly Sunday walk; that I was content and
thankful, as I ought to be.
So endeth Sunday. Let us see what Monday will bring.
_Monday._--It brought an instalment of visitors; the first for our
Christmas, week.
At church-time a fly drove up to the door, and who should leap out of
it, with the brightest faces in the world, but Colin Granton and his
mother. I was so surprised--startled indeed, for I happened to be
standing at the hall-door when the fly appeared; that I hardly could
find two words to say to either. Only my eyes might have shewn--I
trust they did--that, after the first minute, I was very glad to see
them.
I tucked the dear old lady under my arm, and marched her through
all the servants into the dining-room, leaving Colin to take care of
himself, a duty of which the young man is well capable. Then I had
a grand hunt after papa and Lisa; finally way-laying the shy Lady
Augusta, and begging to introduce to her my dear old friend. Every
friend's face is so welcome when one is away from home.
After lunch, the gentlemen adjourned to the stables; while Mrs.
Treherne escorted her guest in hospitable state through the long
corridors to her room, and I was glad to see the very best bed-room of
all was assigned to the old lady. Lisa--bless the girl!--looked just
a little bit proud of her beautiful house, and not unnatural either. A
wife has a right to be proud of all the good things her husband's
love endows her with; only they might be better things than houses and
lands, clothes and furniture. When Lisa has said sometimes, “My dear,
I am the happiest girl in the world. Don't you envy me?” my heart has
never found the least difficulty in replying.
Yet she is happy. There is a look of contented matronhood growing
in her face day by day, far sweeter than anything her girlhood could
boast. She is very fond of her husband too. It was charming to see the
bright blush with which she started up from Mrs. Granton's fireside,
the instant Augustus was heard calling outside, “Lis! Lis! Mrs.
Treherne! Where's Mrs. Treherne?”
“Run away to your husband, my dear. I see he can't do without you. How
well she looks, and how happy she seems!” added the old lady, who has
apparently forgotten the slight to “my Colin.”
By the way, I do not suppose Colin ever actually proposed to our Lisa;
only it was a sort of received notion in our family that he would. If
he had, his mother never would have brought him here, to be a daily
witness of Mrs. Treherne's beauty and contentment; which he bears with
a stoicism most remarkable in a young man who has ever been in love
with her. Do men so easily forget?--Some, perhaps; not all. It is
oftentimes honorable and generous to conquer an unfortunate love; but
there is something discreditable in totally ignoring and forgetting
it. I doubt, I should rather despise a man who despised his first
love, even for me.
Let me see: where did I leave myself? Oh, sitting by Mrs. Granton's
fire; or helping; her to take off her things--a sinecure office, for
her “things”--no other word befits them--are popped off and on with
the ease and untidiness of fifteen, instead of the preciseness of
sixty-five: order and regularity being omitted by Providence in
the manufacture of this dear old lady. Also listening--which is
no sinecure; for she always has plenty to say about everything and
everybody, except herself.
I may never have said it in so many words, but I love Mrs. Granton.
Every line in her nice old withered face is pleasant to me; every
creak of her quick footstep; every angular fold in her everlasting
black silk gown--a very shabby gown often, for she does not care
how she dresses. She is by no means one of your picturesque,
ancient gentlewomen, looking as if they had just stepped out of a
gilt-frame--she is only a little, active, bright old lady. As a girl,
she might have been pretty--I am not sure, though she has still a
delicate expressive mouth, and soft grey eyes; but I am very sure that
she often looks beautiful now.
And why?--for, guessing what all the grand people at the dinner
to-night will think of her and myself, I cannot help smiling as this
application of the word--because she has one of the most beautiful
natures that can adorn an old woman--or a young one, either: all
loving-kindness, energy, cheerfulness. Because age has failed to sour
her; affliction to harden her heart. Of all people I know, she is the
quickest to praise, the slowest to judge, the gentlest to condemn. A
living homily on the text, which, specifying the trinity of Christian
virtues, names--“these three--_but the greatest of these is charity_.”
Long familiarity made me unmindful of these qualities in her, till,
taught by the observations of others, and by my own comparison of the
people I meet out in the world, which may be supposed to mean Treherne
Court, with my good old friend.
“Have you much company, then?” asked she, while I was trying to
persuade her to let me twist into a little more form the shapeless
“bob” of her dear old grey hair, and put her cap not quite so much
on one side. “And do you enjoy it, my dear? Have you seen anybody you
liked very much?”
“None that I liked better than myself, be sure. How should I?”
A true saying, though she did not understand its under-meaning. I have
set more value on myself of late, and taken pains to be pleasant to
every one. It would not do to have people saying, “What a disagreeable
girl is that Theodora Johnston! I wonder how anybody can like her?”
Has Mrs. Granton an idea that anybody--nay, let it come out--that
anybody does like me?
Her eyes were very sharp, and her questions keen, as I entertained
her with our doings at Treherne Court, and the acquaintances we had
made--a large number--from county nobility to clerical dignitaries,
and gay young officers from Whitchester, which seems made up entirely
of barracks and cathedral. But she gave me no news in return, except
that Colin found the Cedars so dull that he had never rested till he
had got his mother away here; which fact did not extremely interest
me. He was always a restless youth, but I trusted his late occupations
had inclined him to homequietness. Can his interest in them have
ended?--or is there no friend at hand to keep him steadily at work?
We sat so long gossipping, that Lisabel, ready for dinner, with
Treherne diamonds blazing on her white neck and arms, called us to
order, and sent me away to dress. As I left, I heard her say, Augustus
had sent her to ask if Mrs. Granton had seen Doctor Urquhart lately?
“Oh, yes! Colin saw him a few days since. He is quite well, and very
busy.”
“And where is he? Will he be here this week; Augustus wants to know?”
“I have not the slightest idea. He did not say a word about it.”
Lisabel inquired no further, but began exhibiting her velvet dress,
and her beautiful point-lace ruffles, Lady Treherne's present--to
her a far more interesting subject. Verily gratitude is not the most
lasting of human emotions in young women who have homes, and husbands,
and everything they can desire.
Quite well and very busy; though not too busy to write to Colin
Granton. I am glad. I have sometimes thought he might be ill.
The dinner-party was the largest since we have been here. Two long
rows of faces; not one in whom I took the slightest interest, save
Mrs. Granton and Colin. I tried to sit next the former, and the
latter to sit next to me; but both designs failed, and we fell among
strangers, which is sometimes as bad as falling among thieves. I did
not enjoy my evening as much as I expected; but I hope I behaved well;
that, as Mrs. Treherne's sister, I tried to be attentive and courteous
to the people, that no one need have been ashamed of poor Theodora.
And it was some comfort when, by the merest chance, I overheard Mrs.
Granton say to Lisabel, “that she never saw a girl so much improved as
Miss Dora.”
Improved! Yes, I ought to be. There was room for it. Oh, that I
may go on improving--growing better and better every day! Too good I
cannot be.
“Quite well and very busy.” Again runs in my head that sweet sad
ditty:--=
````"Men must work and women must weep,
````For there's little to earn and many to keep.” =
Oh! to think of any one's ever working _for me!_
_Tuesday_.--Nothing at all happened. No letters, no news. Colin drove
out his mother and me towards the Welsh hills, which I had expressed
a wish to see, and after lunch, asked if I would go with him to the
river side in search of a boat, for he thought we may still have a
row, though it is December, the weather being so mild. He remembered
how I used to like his pulling Lisabel and me up and down the ponds in
the moorland--we won't say how many years ago. I think Colin also is
“improved.” He is so exceedingly attentive and kind.
_Wednesday_.--A real event happened to-day--quite a surprise. Let me
make the most of it; for this journal seems very uninteresting.
I was standing, “flattening my nose,” as children say, against the
great iron gates of the avenue; peering through them at the two
lines of bare trees, planted three deep, and the broad gravel-drive,
straight as an arrow, narrowing in perspective almost to a point--the
lodge plainly visible at the end of the two miles, which seems no
distance at all; but when you have to walk it, it's “awfu' lang,” as
says the old Scotch gardener, who is my very particular friend, and
my informant on all subjects, animal, vegetable, and historical,
pertaining to Treherne Court. And, looking at it from these gates, the
road does seem “awfu' lang,” like life. I was thinking so, when some
one touched me, and said, “Dora.”
Francis startled me so: I am sure I must have blushed as much as if I
had been Penelope; that is, as Penelope used to blush in former days.
The next minute, I thought of her, and felt alarmed.
“Oh, Francis, nothing is the matter--nothing has happened to
Penelope?”
“You silly girl, what should happen? I do not know anything about
Rockmount, was not aware but that you were all at home, till I saw
you here, and knew by the sentimental attitude it could be nobody but
Dora. Tell me, when did you come?”
“When did _you_ come? I understood it was impossible for you to leave
London.”
“I had business with my uncle, Sir William. Besides, if Penelope is
here--”
“You must know quite well, Francis, that Penelope is not here.”
I never scruple to speak my mind to Francis Charteris. We do not
much like one another, and are both aware of it. His soft, silken
politeness often strikes me as insincere, and my “want of refinement,”
as he terms it, may be quite as distasteful to him. We do not suit,
and were we ever so fond of one another, this incompatibility would be
apparent. People may like and respect one another extremely, yet
not suit, even as two good tunes are not always capable of being
harmonised. I once heard an ingenious performer try to play at once,
“The Last Rose of Summer,” and “Garry Owen.” The result resembled many
a conversation between Francis and me.
This promised to be one of them; so, as a preventive measure, I
suggested luncheontime.
“Oh, thank you, I am not hungry, I lunched at Birmingham.”
Still, it might have struck Francis that other people had not.
We crossed the gardens towards the river, under the great Portugal
laurels, which he stood to admire.
“I have watched their growth ever since I was a boy. You know, Dora,
once this place was to have been mine.”
“It would have given you a vast deal of trouble, and you don't like
trouble. You will enjoy it much more as a visitor.”
Francis made no reply, and when I asked the reason of his sudden
change of plans, and if Penelope were acquainted with it, he seemed
vexed.
“Of course Penelope knows; I wrote today, and told her my purpose in
coming here was to see Sir William. Cannot a man pay his respects to
his uncle without being questioned and suspected?”
“I never suspected you, Francis,--until now, when you look as if you
were afraid I should. What is the matter? Do tell me.”
For, truly, I felt alarmed. He was so extremely nervous and irritable,
and his sensitive features, which he cannot keep from telling tales,
betrayed so much inward discomfiture, that I dreaded some ill,
threatening him or Penelope. If one, of course both.
“Do tell, me, Francis. Forgive my rudeness. We are almost brother and
sister.”
“Which tie is supposed to excuse any rudeness. But really I have
nothing to tell--except that your ladyship is growing blunter
than ever, under the instruction, no doubt, of your friend, Doctor
Urquhart. Pray, is he here?”
“No.”
“Is he expected?”
“You had better ask Captain Treherne.”
“Pshaw! What do men care for one another? I thought a young lady
was the likeliest person to take an interest in the proceedings of a
young--I beg his pardon--a middle-aged gentleman.”
If Francis thought either to irritate or confuse me, he was
disappointed. A month ago it might have been. Not now. But probably,
--and I have since felt sure of it--he was merely pursuing his own
ends without heeding me.
“Now, Dora, seriously, I want to know something of Doctor Urquhart's
proceedings, and where a letter might reach him. Do find out for me,
there's a good girl.”
And he put his arm round me, in the elder-brotherly caressing manner
which he sometimes adopted with Lisa and me, and which I never used to
mind. Now, I felt as if I could not endure it, and slipped away.
“I don't see, Francis, why you should not ask such a simple question
yourself. It is no business of mine.”.
“Then you really know nothing of Doctor Urquhart's whereabouts lately?
He has not been to Rockmount?”
“No.”
“Nor written?”
“I believe not. Why do you want to know? Have you been quarrelling
with him?”
For, aware that they two were not over fond of one another--a
sudden idea, so ridiculously romantic that I laughed at it the next
minute--made me, for one second, turn quite sick and cold.
“Quarrelling, my dear child--young lady, I mean--am I ever so silly,
so ungentlemanly, as to quarrel with anybody? I assure you not. There
is the Dee! What a beautiful view this is!”
He began to expatiate on its beauties, with that delicate appreciative
taste which he has in such perfection, and in the expression of
which he never fails. Under such circumstances, when he really seems
pleased--not languidly, but actively, and tries to please others, I
grant all Francis's claims to be a charming companion--for an hour's
walk. For life--ah! that is a different matter! When with him, I often
think of _Beatrices_ answer when _Don Pedro_ asks if she will have
him as a husband?--“_No, my lord, unless I might have another for
working-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day._”
Love--fit for constant wear and tear, able to sink safely down=
`````"to the level of every day's ```Most quiet need; by sun and
candle-light,"=
must be a rare thing, and precious as rare.
“I think I never saw such a Christmas-eve. Look, Dora, the sky is blue
as June. How sharp and clear the reflection of those branches in the
river. Heigho! this is a lovely place. What a difference it would have
made to me if Sir William had never married, and I had been heir to
Treherne Court.”
“No difference to you in yourself,” said I, stoutly. “Penelope would
not have loved you one whit the more, only you would have been married
a little sooner, which might have been the better for both parties.”
“Heaven knows--yes,” muttered he, in such anguish of regret, that I
felt sorry for him. Then, suddenly: “Do you think your sister is tired
of waiting? Would she wish the--our engagement broken?”
“Not at all. Indeed, I meant not to vex you. Penelope wishes no such
thing.”
“If she did,” and he looked more vexed still, “it would be quite
natural.”
“No, indeed,” I cried, in some indignation, “it would not be natural.
Do you suppose we women are in such a frightful hurry to be married,
that love promised and sure, such as Penelope has--or ought to
have--is not sufficient to make us happy for any number of years?
If you doubt it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. You don't know
women; least of all such women as my sister Penelope.”
“Ay, she has been a good, faithful girl,” said he, again sighing.
“Poor Penelope.”
And then he recurred to the beautiful scenery which I, feeling that
extreme want of topics of conversation which always appals me in
_tete-â-tetes_ with Francis Charteris--gladly accepted. It lasted till
we re-entered the house, and, not unwillingly, parted company.
After luncheon--being unable to find anybody in this great, wide
house--I sat in my own room awhile; till, finding it was not good to
be lazy and dreaming, I went to Mrs. Granton's and listened to her
pleasant gossip about people with whom she had been mixed up during
her long life. Who have every one this remarkable characteristic, that
they are all the very best people that ever lived. The burthen of her
talk is, of course, “my Colin,” who she makes out to have been the
most angelic babe, the sweetest school-boy, the noblest youth, and the
most perfect man upon this poor earth. One cannot smile at the fond
old mother. Besides, I am fond of Colin myself. Was he not my first
love?
Hush! let me not, even in jest, profane that holy word,
I sat with Mrs. Granton a long time--sometimes hearing, sometimes
not; probably saying, “yes,” and “no,” and “certainly,” to many things
which now I have not the least idea of. My thoughts wandered--lulled
by the wind, which began to rise into a regular Christmas blast.
Yes, to-night was Christmas-eve, and all the Christmas guests were
now gathering in country-houses. Ours, too; there were rings at the
resonant door-bell, and feet passing up and down the corridor. I like
to recall--just for a moment's delusion--the sensations of that
hour, between the lights, resting by Mrs. Granton's fire, lazy,
warm, content. The only drawback to my content was the thought of
Penelope--poor girl--all alone at Rockmount, and expecting nobody.
At the dressing-bell, I slipped through the long, half-dark
staircases--to my room. As it was to be a large party at dinner I
thought I would put on my new dress--Augustus's present; black velvet;
“horridly old-womanish” Lisa had protested. Yet it looked well--I
stood before the glass and admired myself in it--just a little. I was
so glad to look well.
Foolish vanity--only lasting a minute. Yet that minute was pleasant.
Lisabel, who came into my room with her husband following her to the
very door, must have real pleasure in her splendours. I told her so.
“Oh, nonsense, child. Why I am as vexed and cross as possible. So many
disappointments to-night. People with colds, and rheumatism, and dead
relatives.”
“Oh, Lisa!”
“Well, but is it not annoying? Everybody wanted, does not come; those
not wanted, do. For instance: Doctor Urquhart--who always keeps both
papa and Sir William in the best of humours, is not here. And Francis,
who fidgets them both to death, and whom I was so thankful was not
coming--he is just come. You stupid girl, you seem not the least bit
sorry. You are thinking of something else the whole time.”
I said, I was sorry, and was not thinking of anything else.
“Augustus wanted to see him particularly; but I forgot, you don't
know--however, you will soon, child. Still, isn't it a downright shame
of Doctor Urquhart neither to come nor send?”
I suggested something might have happened.
“A railway accident. Dear me, I never thought of that.”
“Nor I. Heaven knows, no!”
I had a time-table, and searched through it for the last train
stopping at Whitchester, then counted how long it would take to drive
to Treherne Court, and looked at my watch. No, he could not be here
to-night.
“And if there had been any accident, there was time for us to have
heard of it,” said Lisa, carelessly, as she took up her fan and gloves
to go downstairs. “So, child, we must make the best we can of your
friend's behaviour. Are you ready for dinner?”.
“In two minutes.”
I shut the door after my sister, and stood still, before the glass,
fastening a brooch, or something.
Mine, my friend. He was that. Whenever they were vexed with him, all
the family usually called him so.
It was very strange his not coming--having promised Augustus, for some
reason which I did not know of. Also, there was another reason--which
they did not know of--he had promised _me_. He once said to me,
positively, that this, the first Christmas he has kept in England for
many years, should be kept with us--with me.
Now, a promise is a promise. I, myself, would keep one, at all costs,
that involved no wrong to any other person. He is of the same mind.
Then something must have happened.
For a moment I had been angry, though scarcely with him; for wherever
he was he would be doing his duty. Yet, why should he be always doing
his duty to everyone, _except_ me? Had I no right? I, to whom even
Lisa, who knew nothing, called him my friend?
Yes, _mine_. Of a sudden I seemed to feel all that the word meant, and
to take all the burthen of it. It quieted me.
I went downstairs. There were the usual two lines of dinner-table
faces--the usual murmur of dinner-table talk; but all was dim and
uncertain, like a picture, or the sound of people chattering very far
off. Colin beside me, kept talking about how well I looked in my new
gown--how he would like to see me dressed as fine as a queen--and
how he hoped we should spend many a Christmas as merry as this--till
something seemed tempting me to bid him hold his tongue--myself to
start up and scream.
At dessert, the butler brought a large letter to Sir William. It was a
telegraph message--I recognized the look of the things we had several
during papa's illness. Easy to sit still now. I seemed to know quite
well what was coming, but the only clear thought was “mine--mine.”
Sir William read, folded up the message, and passed it on to Augustus,
then rose.
“Friends, fill your glasses. I have just had good news; not
unexpected, but still good news. Ladies and gentlemen, I have the
honour to give you the health of my nephew, Francis Charteris,
Esquire, Governor-elect of ------------.”
In the cheering, confusion, and congratulation that followed, Lisa
passed the telegram to me, and I saw it was from “Max Urquhart,
London.”
As soon as we got into a corner by ourselves, my sister burst out with
the whole mystery.
“Thank goodness, it's over; I never kept a secret before, and Augustus
was so frightened lest I should tell--and then what would Doctor
Urquhart have said? It's Doctor Urquhart's planning, and he was to
have brought the good news to-day; and I'm very sorry I abused him,
for he has been working like a horse for Fancis's interest, and--did
you ever see a young fellow take a piece of good fortune so coolly--a
lovely West Indian Island, with Government house, and salary large
enough to make Penelope a most magnificent governor's wife--yet he is
not a bit thankful for it--I declare I am ashamed of Francis
Charteris.”
She went on a good deal more in this fashion, but I had nothing to
say--I felt so strange and confused; till at last I leant my head
on her shoulder, and cried softly. Which brought me into great
opprobrium, and subjected me to the accusation of always weeping when
there was the least prospect of a marriage in the family.
Marriage! just at that moment, there might not have been such a thing
as marriage in the world. I never thought of it. I only thought of
life, a life still kept safe, labouring busily to make everybody
happy, true to itself and to its promises, forgetting nothing and no
one, kind to the thankful and unthankful alike. Compared to it, my own
insignificant life, with its small hopes and petty pains, all crumbled
down into nothingness.
“Well, are you glad, Dora?”
Ay, I was; very glad--very content.
Papa came in soon, and he and I walked up and down, arm-in-arm,
talking the matter over; till, seeing Francis sitting alone in a
recess, we went up to him, and papa again wished him all happiness.
He merely said, “thank you,” and muttered something about “wishing to
explain by-and-by.”
“Which means, I suppose, that I am shortly to be left with only one
girl to take care of me--eh! Francis,” said papa, smiling.
“Sir--I did not mean--I” he actually stammered. “I hope, Mr. Johnston,
you understand that this appointment is not yet accepted--indeed I am
uncertain if I shall accept it.”
Papa looked exceedingly surprised; and remembering some of
Francis's sayings to me this morning, I was rather more than
surprised--indignant. But no remark was made, and just then Augustus
called the whole party to go down into the great kitchen and see the
Christmas mummers or guizers, as they are called in that county.
We looked at them for a long half-hour, and then everybody, great
and small, got into the full whirl of Christmas merriment. Colin,
in particular, grew so lively, that he wanted to lead me under the
mistletoe; but when I declined, first gaily, and then seriously, he
desisted, saying he would not offend me for the world. Nevertheless,
he and one or two more kissed Lisabel. How could she endure it? when
I,--I now sometimes feel jealous over even a strange touch of this my
hand.
The revels ended early, and as I sit writing, the house is quite
still. I have just drawn up my blind, and looked out. The wind has
sunk; snow is falling. I like snow on a Christmas morning.
Already it is Christmas morning. Unto whom have I silently to wish
those good wishes which always lie nearest to one's heart? My own
family, of course; papa and Lisa, and Penelope, far away. Poor dear
Penelope! may she find herself a happy woman this time next year. Are
these all? They were, last Christmas. But I am richer now. Richer, it
often seems to me, than anybody in the whole world.
Good night! a merry--no--for “often in mirth the heart is sad”--a
happy Christmas, and a good new year!
I