A QUIET HOME.
I ARRIVED at Mrs. Lyell's on the last day of May, having on my way
thither stayed for a few days in London, at Miss Carefull's. During
that interval, I to some extent shook off the inevitable sadness
that fell upon me as I closed a chapter in my book of life by saying
farewell to my dear old home. I was looking forward with somewhat of
interest and curiosity to my sojourn with Mrs. Lyell when I stepped
from the train on to the East Weylea, platform that afternoon in May.
I knew that the house was close by; but having luggage with me, I took
the solitary fly that was waiting outside the station. I was driven,
it seemed to me, about a hundred yards along the broad, main road to
London—the metropolis was not more than six miles distant—ere the
driver turned his horse into a narrower, more rural road, and drew up
before two high iron gates which, dismounting, he proceeded to throw
open.
Whilst he did so, I had time to take in the appearance of a long,
two-storied house built of pale brick, and wearing an expression—for
houses as well as persons have expressions—of neat, staid
respectability. There were two wings to the house: that to the left, as
I afterwards learned, contained the kitchens and servants' rooms; that
to the right, which had false windows, the coach-house and stables.
Between the house and the iron gates lay a garden bright with flowers,
unlike most gardens in having a pond set in the centre of its circular
lawn, round which on either hand swept a broad carriage drive to the
house.
As I drove by, I caught sight of the white and green buds of
water-lilies floating on the surface of the pond, and noted the tree
it seemed to me a kind of ash—quaintly clipped to the form of an open
umbrella, which stood on the lawn between the pond and the sweep of
gravel in front of the house.
But ere I could observe more, the fly came to a standstill before the
square porch, and I saw that the don was open, and an elderly woman
attired in black, with white cap and apron, was waiting to receive me.
"Miss Carmichael, I suppose," she said, coming forward to assist me to
alight. "My mistress is expecting you. If you will walk this way, miss,
I will see to your luggage."
So saying, she took my bag and led the way across a square hall into
which a broad shallow staircase descended.
Even in those few seconds I received an impression of dainty purity
as I crossed the hall with its shining oilcloth, soft rugs, spotless
paint, and was conscious of the exquisite country freshness which
pervaded the house. Throwing open a door on the left, the servant
announced me, and I entered a long, lofty room with a large French
window at its further end, overlooking, as I saw at a glance, another
garden at the back of the house.
But my attention was immediately engaged by a little form which rose
from an easy chair and came towards me with outstretched arms. How
can I describe Mrs. Lyell as I then saw her? It is not always easy to
recall our first impressions of a face we have learned to love—a friend
who has become most dear to us; but I will try.
I saw a tiny woman wearing a black stuff gown, relieved by a soft grey
shawl and a widow's cap of snowy white. Her face was withered and
wrinkled, her hair silvery, the hands which clasped mine so tenderly
were shrunken and bony from age. I had not expected to see so aged
a woman. Mrs. Lyell was nearly eighty, and eighty seems very old to
nineteen. I was wont to shrink from the very old, but Mrs. Lyell's
appearance inspired me with neither awe nor repugnance, for the aged,
furrowed face was radiant with goodwill, and the faded eyes shone with
the light of a pure and loving soul.
"Welcome, dear Dorothy," she said, in her gentle, quavering tones; "you
are welcome both for your own and for your parents' sake. Your father
has often spoken to me of you, and I am very glad to see you at last."
It was natural to me to restrain emotion in the presence of others.
Since my father's death scarce anyone had seen me weep; but now tears
rose in my eyes as I stooped to receive Mrs. Lyell's warm kisses, and
I had hard work to keep from crying. She saw how I was moved and was
silent for a few moments, merely showing her sympathy by stroking my
hand which she held in hers.
"How tall you are, my love!" she said, presently. "I had no idea you
were such a tall girl."
And indeed I felt very tall and big as I stood before that wee,
fragile-looking old lady.
"I am dreadfully tall!" I said, apologetically. "A great deal too tall."
"Never mind, dear, that is a matter beyond our control. The Bible
reminds us, does it not, that we cannot add one cubit to our stature?
And it makes no difference whether we are short or tall as long as we
try to be good. But here comes Sarah; I daresay you will like her to
take you to your room. We shall have tea in half an hour's time."
The servant who had admitted me now appeared. She was a thin, sallow
woman, almost as tall as I was, but rather crooked of figure. She must
have been many years younger than her mistress, but she looked old to
me, for her hair was grey, and there were wrinkles on her forehead,
and crow's-feet about her eyes. I caught her black eyes examining me
with a hard, narrow gaze, which was not agreeable, and though she was
very polite as she attended me upstairs, her voice and manner were not
pleasing to me.
The room in which she left me was furnished according to old-fashioned
ideas of comfort. There was a huge four-post bedstead hung with snowy
dimity, and holding a mountainous feather bed, covered with a heavy
knitted counterpane. White textures, too, curtained the window,
shrouded the looking-glass, and enveloped in voluminous folds the
dressing-table. A large Bible lay on a table at the foot of the bed,
and beside the table stood a high-backed, luxuriously cushioned
elbow-chair. I smiled as my eyes fell on it. It was the chair for an
old lady or an invalid, but hardly one in which I should care to sit
often.
On taking possession of a new room, I always hasten to the window, for
it is a matter of importance to me what sort of outlook my bedroom
commands. I did so now, and, drawing back the curtain, looked down
upon another garden, even pleasanter than that through which I had
approached the house. My eyes rested on a large, well-kept lawn, soft
as velvet, green as emerald, in the centre of which stood a fine
mulberry tree not yet in full leafage. At each extremity of the lawn
on the side fronting the house rose, like a giant sentinel, a tall
walnut tree, still brown and irresponsive to the touch of spring,
though the other trees In the garden were showing their freshest green.
I could see little more of the garden save a deep border of flowers
and a laurel hedge behind it, above which rose the trunks and foliage
of sundry fruit trees; but the prospect held me long at the window. I
dearly loved a garden, and there was more than the garden to be seen,
for beyond it stretched a fair expanse of fields and hedgerows, with
wooded uplands faintly visible in the distance, through a veil of blue
haze.
Suddenly I remembered the punctuality practised in that house, and that
I had to unpack some of my things, and rearrange my dress ere going
downstairs. I was as expeditious as possible; but when I entered the
dining-room, tea was waiting, and Mrs. Lyell had already taken her
place at the table.
She requested that I would be kind enough to pour out the tea. Of
course, I willingly complied; but how strange I felt as I seated myself
before the handsome antique silver equipage! Then Mrs. Lyell folded
her hands and bent her head with a reverent, childlike air, and, to my
surprise, offered up, not a formal grace, but a short prayer, in which
she thanked God for bringing me there in safety, and prayed that His
blessing might rest on me.
I knew not what to think of this proceeding, it seemed to me so
odd. I scarcely liked it, and yet I could not help being touched by
the simple, trustful spirit the prayer breathed. I grew accustomed
afterwards to Mrs. Lyell's habit of thus, at the beginning of a meal,
pouring forth in brief but earnest prayer the thoughts and desires
uppermost in her heart.
It was very pleasant, that first meal I took with Mrs. Lyell. The
dainty nicety of the table arrangements, the homemade bread, the
delicious butter, the rich cake and sweet biscuits on which the cook
prided herself, were all duly appreciated by me. Whilst I took my tea,
my eyes wandered to some portraits placed on the mantelshelf. There
was a miniature painting of a lady in a very short-waisted gown, with
her hair piled in a high crown above her brows, which, greatly as the
little wrinkled face beside me had altered since then, I could yet
recognise as representing Mrs. Lyell in early life! The portrait,
wrought in similar style, of a gentleman wearing the straight-cut
coat and stiff stock of a previous age, I concluded to be that of the
deceased Mr. Lyell. Between these, in a pretty morocco frame, was a
portrait which was quite modern, the photograph of a young man with a
bright, animated countenance. The face seemed to smile as I looked at
it; but the smile was in the eyes alone; the strong, well-cut mouth was
firmly closed.
This portrait attracted me. It had a fascination which drew my eyes to
it again and again, so that Mrs. Lyell, who sat with her back to the
mantelpiece, seeing my glance constantly turning in that direction,
asked me at length—
"What do you see there, my dear, that interests you so much?"
"Oh!" I stammered, a little embarrassed by the question. "I was only
looking at that likeness."
"Whose likeness? My nephew's? Ah, you may well admire that; a good
face, has he not? He is my grand-nephew, Leonard Glynne by name. His
father died in India years ago when Leonard was a mere child, and his
mother did not survive her husband many years. She was my dearly loved
niece."
I looked at the portrait with still more interest. Leonard! I liked the
name. It suited him, I fancied, for I felt sure that he was brave and
strong.
"It was very sad for him to lose both his parents," I said.
"Yes, a great loss; but he was brought up in the home of his father's
brother at Bournemouth, and his uncle was very good to him. Since he
grew into manhood, he has lived in London, for he does business in the
city."
"Do you see him often?" I asked.
"Not very. He spends his Sundays with me when he has no other
engagement, and he drops in now and then to ask how I am. But he has
many friends, and his company is so much in request that I do not see
him very often, although he lives near. I do not complain of that. An
old woman's society is not very enlivening to a young man, and there is
little to interest him here. But Leonard is very good and kind when he
comes, dear fellow!"
I could not wonder that Mr. Leonard Glynne was popular with his
acquaintances, for his looks seemed to testify to a happy, genial
nature. When should I see this nephew of Mrs. Lyell's?
"He has just gone off for a month's tour in Switzerland," Mrs. Lyell
said, as if in answer to my thought. "He came in last night to bid me
good-bye. I see more of him than I used to since I made him the present
of a horse. My motives for doing so were rather interested; but he was
delighted with the gift. Now he need no longer complain of the distance
Weylea is from the city. He can ride to and fro and see his friends,
and is to a great extent independent of the railway."
"It was a happy thought of yours," I said, longing to ask some
questions but too shy to do so.
"Yes," said Mrs. Lyell, smiling; "I forget now what made me think of
such a thing. I suppose he gave me a hint that he should like a horse."
"It must be lovely in Switzerland at this time," I said, with a little
sigh.
"It is a most beautiful country at any time, I suppose; but in June the
flowers are said to be so lovely," replied Mrs. Lyell. "Leonard has
been there before. He is very fond of travelling; rather too fond, I
think, sometimes; but, perhaps, I should not say so, for it is a pure
and elevated pleasure he finds in beholding the grandeur and beauty of
the works of God."
When we rose from the table, Mrs. Lyell asked me if I should like to
take a turn in the garden. Perhaps she caught some wistful glance I
cast in that direction, for I was longing to get amongst the trees and
flowers. She could not accompany me, she said, with a smile, for she
was so feeble and so susceptible to cold that she rarely went out, and
then only in a bath chair or carriage.
With what pleasure I opened the window, stepped on to the little stone
balcony, and ran down the steps into the garden! Our dear old garden
at home was a wilderness compared with this well-kept, well-ordered
ground; but somehow the one reminded me of the other. Ah, how I came to
love Mrs. Lyell's garden in after days! At this hour, I could almost
weep to think how it has vanished, and of the commonplace, suburban
houses which stand, row after row, on the ground where roses once
flourished, and apples and pears mellowed in the autumn sunshine.
And yet it was an ordinary garden enough; there were no tortuous mazes,
no leafy alcoves or miniature glens. Straight down, on either side, ran
a broad gravel path, intersected here and there by other paths, equally
straight. Best I liked the lower part, where apple and pear trees grew
amidst cabbages and kitchen stuff, where fruit trees were trained
against the walls; where there were thickets of gooseberry and currant
bushes, and where a bed of strawberry plants promised a fine crop of
that luscious fruit.
As I paced the garden paths on that fair May evening, whilst a
thrush perched on the mulberry tree made the air ring with his
sweetly-thrilling notes, my heart was content. So elastic are our
spirits when we are young, that in spite of the sorrowful changes
I had recently experienced, I was not unhappy. Mrs. Lyell and her
surroundings were different from what I had expected. Everything was
much pleasanter than Mabel's representations, or rather my imagination
enlarging upon Mabel's representations, had led me to expect. Already I
loved the dear old lady, and believed that I should be happy with her.
I was not afraid of the quietude and monotony which Mabel had warned me
I should find hard to bear.
Presently, however, I felt constrained to go indoors. Mrs. Lyell was
seated in her easy chair knitting. I fetched some needlework, and sat
down beside her. She talked to me very kindly about my father and
mother, and asked questions concerning Mabel and Edmund. I must confess
that the hour we spent thus seemed long to me.
At a quarter to nine Sarah appeared, bringing a couple of tall candles.
She closed the shutters, lighted the candles, wheeled her mistress's
chair to the table, and placed a Bible and prayer-book before her. Then
the household came in for family worship. How old everyone about the
place seemed! I had encountered in the garden an old gardener, bent
double with years, who had scowled at me, as though he thought so young
a being had no right to be there, and now as I saw that the cook was
even older than Sarah, and the housemaid, supposed to be young, was a
woman considerably past thirty, I felt myself ridiculously juvenile
compared with everyone about me.
Immediately after prayers Mrs. Lyell retired to her own room, where,
as she explained to me, she took her supper of gruel. She begged me
to excuse her leaving me, saying that she found it necessary for her
health to live by rule, and never on any account deviated from her mode
of life. As she said this, Sarah stood waiting to lead her upstairs.
I half suspected that she, even more than her mistress, believed in a
strict observance of rule.
Mrs. Lyell kissed me tenderly as she said good-night. The younger
servant brought in a light repast for my solitary consumption. I ate it
contentedly, and, not long after, I too went to bed. I laid my head on
the pillow that night with a feeling of deep thankfulness. I had gained
the quiet, peaceful shelter I needed till I could furnish myself with
the means of winning independence.