_MONICA KNOLLYS_
Punctually Lady Knollys arrived. She was accompanied by her nephew, Captain
Oakley.
They arrived a little before dinner; just in time to get to their rooms and
dress. But Mary Quince enlivened my toilet with eloquent descriptions of
the youthful Captain whom she had met in the gallery, on his way to his
room, with the servant, and told me how he stopped to let her pass, and how
'he smiled so 'ansom.'
I was very young then, you know, and more childish even than my years; but
this talk of Mary Quince's interested me, I must confess, considerably. I
was painting all sort of portraits of this heroic soldier, while affecting,
I am afraid, a hypocritical indifference to her narration, and I know I was
very nervous and painstaking about my toilet that evening. When I went down
to the drawing-room, Lady Knollys was there, talking volubly to my father
as I entered--a woman not really old, but such as very young people fancy
aged--energetic, bright, saucy, dressed handsomely in purple satin, with a
good deal of lace, and a rich point--I know not how to call it--not a cap,
a sort of head-dress--light and simple, but grand withal, over her greyish,
silken hair.
Rather tall, by no means stout, on the whole a good firm figure, with
something kindly in her look. She got up, quite like a young person, and
coming quickly to meet me with a smile--
'My young cousin!' she cried, and kissed me on both cheeks. 'You know who
I am? Your cousin Monica--Monica Knollys--and very glad, dear, to see you,
though she has not set eyes on you since you were no longer than that
paper-knife. Now come here to the lamp, for I must look at you. Who is she
like? Let me see. Like your poor mother, I think, my dear; but you've the
Aylmer nose--yes--not a bad nose either, and, come! very good eyes, upon
my life--yes, certainly something of her poor mother--not a bit like you,
Austin.'
My father gave her a look as near a smile as I had seen there for a long
time, shrewd, cynical, but kindly too, and said he--
'So much the better, Monica, eh?'
'It was not for me to say--but you know, Austin, you always were an ugly
creature. How shocked and indignant the little girl looks! You must not be
vexed, you loyal little woman, with Cousin Monica for telling the truth.
Papa was and will be ugly all his days. Come, Austin, dear, tell her--is
not it so?'
'What! depose against myself! That's not English law, Monica.'
'Well, maybe not; but if the child won't believe her own eyes, how is she
to believe me? She has long, pretty hands--you have--and very nice feet
too. How old is she?'
'How old, child?' said my father to me, transferring the question.
She recurred again to my eyes.
'That is the true grey--large, deep, soft--very peculiar. Yes, dear, very
pretty--long lashes, and such bright tints! You'll be in the Book of
Beauty, my dear, when you come out, and have all the poet people writing
verses to the tip of your nose--and a very pretty little nose it is!'
I must mention here how striking was the change in my father's spirit while
talking and listening to his odd and voluble old Cousin Monica. Reflected
from bygone associations, there had come a glimmer of something, not
gaiety, indeed, but like an appreciation of gaiety. The gloom and
inflexibility were gone, and there was an evident encouragement and
enjoyment of the incessant sallies of his bustling visitor.
How morbid must have been the tendencies of his habitual solitude, I think,
appeared from the evident thawing and brightening that accompanied even
this transient gleam of human society. I was not a companion--more childish
than most girls of my age, and trained in all his whimsical ways, never to
interrupt a silence, or force his thoughts by unexpected question or remark
out of their monotonous or painful channel.
I was as much surprised at the good-humour with which he submitted to
his cousin's saucy talk; and, indeed, just then those black-panelled and
pictured walls, and that quaint, misshapen room, seemed to have exchanged
their stern and awful character for something wonderfully pleasanter to me,
notwithstanding the unpleasantness of the personal criticism to which the
plain-spoken lady chose to subject me.
Just at that moment Captain Oakley joined us. He was my first actual vision
of that awful and distant world of fashion, of whose splendours I had
already read something in the three-volumed gospel of the circulating
library.
Handsome, elegant, with features almost feminine, and soft, wavy, black
hair, whiskers and moustache, he was altogether such a knight as I had
never beheld, or even fancied, at Knowl--a hero of another species, and
from the region of the demigods. I did not then perceive that coldness of
the eye, and cruel curl of the voluptuous lip--only a suspicion, yet enough
to indicate the profligate man, and savouring of death unto death.
But I was young, and had not yet the direful knowledge of good and evil
that comes with years; and he was so very handsome, and talked in a way
that was so new to me, and was so much more charming than the well-bred
converse of the humdrum county families with whom I had occasionally
sojourned for a week at a time.
It came out incidentally that his leave of absence was to expire the
day after to-morrow. A Lilliputian pang of disappointment followed this
announcement. Already I was sorry to lose him. So soon we begin to make a
property of what pleases us.
I was shy, but not awkward. I was flattered by the attention of this
amusing, perhaps rather fascinating, young man of the world; and he plainly
addressed himself with diligence to amuse and please me. I dare say there
was more effort than I fancied in bringing his talk down to my humble
level, and interesting me and making me laugh about people whom I had never
heard of before, than I then suspected.
Cousin Knollys meanwhile was talking to papa. It was just the conversation
that suited a man so silent as habit had made him, for her frolic fluency
left him little to supply. It was totally impossible, indeed, even in our
taciturn household, that conversation should ever flag while she was among
us.
Cousin Knollys and I went into the drawing-room together, leaving the
gentlemen--rather ill-assorted, I fear--to entertain one another for a
time.
'Come here, my dear, and sit near me,' said Lady Knollys, dropping into an
easy chair with an energetic little plump, 'and tell me how you and your
papa get on. I can remember him quite a cheerful man once, and rather
amusing--yes, indeed--and now you see what a bore he is--all by shutting
himself up and nursing his whims and fancies. Are those your drawings,
dear?'
'Yes, very bad, I'm afraid; but there are a few, _better_, I think in the
portfolio in the cabinet in the hall.'
'They are by _no_ means bad, my dear; and you play, of course?'
'Yes--that is, a little--pretty well, I hope.'
'I dare say. I must hear you by-and-by. And how does your papa amuse you?
You look bewildered, dear. Well, I dare say, amusement is not a frequent
word in this house. But you must not turn into a nun, or worse, into a
puritan. What is he? A Fifth-Monarchy-man, or something--I forget; tell me
the name, my dear.'
'Papa is a Swedenborgian, I believe.'
'Yes, yes--I forgot the horrid name--a Swedenborgian, that is it. I don't
know exactly what they think, but everyone knows they are a sort of pagans,
my dear. He's not making one of _you_, dear--is he?'
'I go to church every Sunday.'
'Well, that's a mercy; Swedenborgian is such an ugly name, and besides,
they are all likely to be damned, my dear, and that's a serious
consideration. I really wish poor Austin had hit on something else; I'd
much rather have no religion, and enjoy life while I'm in it, than choose
one to worry me here and bedevil me hereafter. But some people, my dear,
have a taste for being miserable, and provide, like poor Austin, for its
gratification in the next world as well as here. Ha, ha, ha! how grave the
little woman looks! Don't you think me very wicked? You know you do; and
very likely you are right. Who makes your dresses, my dear? You _are_ such
a figure of fun!'
'Mrs. Rusk, I think, ordered _this_ dress. I and Mary Quince planned it. I
thought it very nice. We all like it very well.'
There was something, I dare say, very whimsical about it, probably very
absurd, judged at least by the canons of fashion, and old Cousin Monica
Knollys, in whose eye the London fashions were always fresh, was palpably
struck by it as if it had been some enormity against anatomy, for she
certainly laughed very heartily; indeed, there were tears on her cheeks
when she had done, and I am sure my aspect of wonder and dignity, as her
hilarity proceeded, helped to revive her merriment again and again as it
was subsiding.
'There, you mustn't be vexed with old Cousin Monica,' she cried, jumping
up, and giving me a little hug, and bestowing a hearty kiss on my forehead,
and a jolly little slap on my cheek. 'Always remember your cousin Monica is
an outspoken, wicked old fool, who likes you, and never be offended by her
nonsense. A council of three--you all sat upon it--Mrs. Rusk, you said, and
Mary Quince, and your wise self, the weird sisters; and Austin stepped in,
as Macbeth, and said, 'What is't ye do?' You all made answer together, 'A
something or other without a name!' Now, seriously, my dear, it is quite
unpardonable in Austin--your papa, I mean--to hand you over to be robed and
bedizened according to the whimsies of these wild old women--aren't they
old? If they know better, it's positively _fiendish._ I'll blow him up--I
will indeed, my dear. You know you're an heiress, and ought not to appear
like a jack-pudding.'
'Papa intends sending me to London with Madame and Mary Quince, and going
with me himself, if Doctor Bryerly says he may make the journey, and then I
am to have dresses and everything.'
'Well, that is better. And who is Doctor Bryerly--is your papa ill?'
'Ill; oh no; he always seems just the same. You don't think him
ill--_looking_ ill, I mean?' I asked eagerly and frightened.
'No, my dear, he looks very well for his time of life; but why is Doctor
What's-his-name here? Is he a physician, or a divine, or a horse-doctor?
and why is his leave asked?'
'I--I really don't understand.'
'Is he a what d'ye call'em--a Swedenborgian?'
'I believe so.'
'Oh, I see; ha, ha, ha! And so poor Austin must ask leave to go up to town.
Well, go he shall, whether his doctor likes it or not, for it would not do
to send you there in charge of your Frenchwoman, my dear. What's her name?'
'Madame de la Rougierre.'