A thick fog obscures the whole of London. You grope your way through
Liverpool Street station with considerable risk, now colliding with a
truck full of luggage, anon canoning against an angry passenger. Not a
yard can be seen in advance, more by good luck than good guiding the
right train is somehow found, and, half an hour later, it is delightful
to find the enemy is left behind, and that there is once more cheerful
daylight. The sun at first looks like a sullen ball of fire, but
presently, shaking off, as it were, the heavy clouds, he begins to shine
out brightly, as, after a drive of something under a mile from the
station, the carriage turns into the old-fashioned lodge gates of
wrought iron on the left. A long road between two low wire fencings,
running nearly straight through the park, which is dotted about with
clumps of trees and spinneys, suddenly rounds into a wide space in front
of the house, and breaks off into one of those quaint old rights-of-way
which are so common in this part of Essex.
Cranbrooke Hall is a substantial red-brick, many-windowed building,
dating nearly two centuries back, but it has been greatly added to
and improved during recent years. The lofty, spacious entrance-hall,
laid down with parquet, branches out into five reception rooms, opening
one into another, all facing south, and overlooking some
seven-hundred-and-fifty feet of lawn, bordered by a lake formed of
clear, running water, the overflow of a spring which is a
hundred-and-fifty feet deep, and has never yet been known to run dry.
This is, in its turn, bounded by a shrubbery, which leads round to one
of the principal features of the Cranbrooke Gardens, the "Lovers' Walk,"
an ivy colonnade, carpeted with thick, soft moss.
Passing through the ante-room, a door opens on the left, and the picture
which presents itself to the eye is a thoroughly domestic one. A huge
fire, heaped with acacia logs, blazes brightly in the low deep grate,
flanked with brass dogs; tall standard lamps shed a soft light over a
merry family group; a silver urn stands on the cosy five o'clock tea
table, where a young, fair girl presides. A few guests are present, and
two younger daughters of the house are flitting in and out with plates
of Scotch scones, cakes, and muffins. The three nursery little ones have
come down to say good-night; the youngest, a fair-haired, blue-eyed
little maiden of four years, is nestling on her mother's lap. Rising
from amidst them, Mrs. Walford comes forward to welcome you. She wears a
pretty steel-blue tea-gown, richly embroidered in silks by her own hand;
for your hostess loves needlework, and looks on it as a great resource
for a weary brain. She has a clear, fair complexion, dark brown hair,
and laughing grey-blue eyes; and the bright, sunny smile, which in
childhood gained for her the pet name of "the laughing girl," lights up
her expressive countenance, and just reveals two rows of white, even
teeth. She gives you the impression of being a thoroughly happy,
contented, and sweet-tempered woman, and her subsequent conversation
assures you that your judgment has been correct.
Mrs. Walford is of Scottish birth. Her father was the second son of Sir
James Colquhoun, the tenth Baronet of Luss, to whom Burke wrote on one
occasion that he was "_the_ Baronet of Scotland, just as Sir William
Watkin Wynn was _the_ Baronet of Wales." For seven hundred years the
Colquhouns of Luss have held the same lands, and, unlike those of many
other ancient families, they are still in as flourishing, or, rather,
more flourishing condition, than they have ever been. The Sir James
Colquhoun who--with four of his keepers and a ghillie boy--was drowned
in Loch Lomond, nearly seventeen years ago, was a widower with an only
son, the present baronet. Mrs. Walford's mother was the daughter of Mr.
Fuller-Maitland of Stanstead, Essex.
Whilst the other visitors are leaving, the opportunity arises of
examining the room more minutely. The polished oak floor is covered here
and there with Persian carpets; near the door is a lovely Dutch
marqueterie bureau, a husband's gift to a busy wife, and at which most
of her well-known novels were written. Mrs. Walford says they
"furnished their home as a jackdaw does his nest, stick by stick. From
many an old farm-house and wayside inn they collected piece after piece,
handsome old oak cabinets, chests and chairs, scarcely a single article
having passed through the dealers' hands," indeed, you shrewdly suspect
that the large carved settle whereon you are seated has been part of
some despoiled church or sacred edifice.
On a table yonder stands a miniature set of china under glass, "Jane
Eyre's own doll's tea service," by which Mrs. Walford sets great store,
as she became possessed of it when visiting the house of Charlotte
Bronte. The dainty, antique spinning-wheel known as "Lady Helen's wheel"
(it belonged to an ancient dame of the Colquhoun family) is so old that
the woodwork has begun to crumble away; but a more modern specimen
opposite, covered with a cloud of flax, is often used by your hostess's
own nimble fingers. The relic she treasures above all, however, is a
gold "mazer," inherited by Mr. Walford through a long line of ancestors.
This is a real curiosity, there being but few of these "mazers" now left
in England. The little "silver table" holds many a prized bit of old
Highland silver, including one which was picked up on the field of
Bannockburn. Big bowls of Oriental china are filled with _pot-pourri_,
which gives out a delicious fragrance. This, Mrs. Walford adds to afresh
every year from an old recipe. Her children laughingly declare that
"whenever they go out to gather flowers for the tables, mother, with a
pair of scissors in hand, has snipped off all the finest roses and
quietly slipped them into her pocket."
Mrs. Walford has inherited her literary tastes. Her father's well-known
book, "The Moor and the Loch," now in its eighth edition, and full of
spirited engravings, is considered as a classic amongst sportsmen; and
who has not read and laughed over, in by-gone days, "Holiday House," and
other delightful stories, by her grand-aunt, Catherine Sinclair,
daughter of Sir John Sinclair of Ulbster, himself one of the most
distinguished men of his day? In spite of Catherine Sinclair and her
sister being authors (the latter was known as the "good" Lady Colquhoun,
and the writer of many religious books for the Scottish poor), so little
was literary reputation then thought of by some members of the family
that, when Sir Walter Scott appeared at Rossdhu to take notes for "Rob
Roy," he was shown round _by the butler_, and never forgave the affront.
In consequence he never mentioned the Colquhouns in that great romance
or in the "Lady of the Lake."
Speaking of Rossdhu, you tell your hostess that you have been taken over
those ancestral halls and round the great picture galleries, and had
noticed with much surprise that there was no portrait of her to be seen.
This omission may however some day be repaired.
Mrs. Walford remarks that it was not until after her marriage that she
took seriously to novel writing. Whilst yet in her teens she was wont to
steal out into the shrubbery with paper and pencil and write short
stories, one of which was called "Macgregor, our Chieftain," but as she
burnt these early effusions as fast as they were written, nothing
remains of Macgregor's adventures. In 1872 delicacy of health prevented
her pursuing the active out-of-door life which she had always enjoyed;
so, as the necessity arose for finding vent for her energy, the young
author spent a long period of bodily rest in mental activity, its first
fruits being "Mr. Smith: A part of his Life." This character was drawn
from life; even the name was the same, and he was found dead as
described in the book. She sent the MS. anonymously to Mr. John
Blackwood, the late distinguished editor of _Blackwood_, who--much
struck with its promise--at once accepted and published it.
Brought up from her childhood in the stately homes of her own people,
now in Scotland, now in England, and reared in the atmosphere of healthy
country life, Mrs. Walford has been enabled to write with the frankness
and accuracy which make her books so thoroughly characteristic and
enjoyable.
_A propos_ of "Mr. Smith," an amusing anecdote is told. The Queen had
had the story read to her twice, and, being much interested in it,
expressed a wish to see the author. She was presented on her marriage by
the Duchess of Roxburghe, who on the occasion happened to take the place
of the Mistress of the Robes, absent from indisposition. It is said that
as the young novelist made her curtsey before the Royal presence, the
Duchess softly breathed into Her Majesty's ear the words, "Mr. Smith."
A series of short stories soon followed this first success and appeared
in _Blackwood_, beginning with "Nan, a Summer Scene," and under this
name they have since been collected and published in one volume.
"Pauline" next ran through the same magazine as a serial; "Cousins" was
written in 1879; "Troublesome Daughters" followed in the ensuing year.
"The Baby's Grandmother," which is perhaps the most popular of all, was
written in 1885. Then came "A Stiff-necked Generation," "A Mere Child,"
"A Sage of Sixteen," "The Havoc of a Smile" "The Mischief of Monies."
The latter book is more on the lines of "Mr. Smith" than any of Mrs.
Walford's recent works of fiction, and proved a great success in
_Longman's Magazine_. Then came "A Pinch of Experience," and later on,
she wrote a series of Biographical studies on "Famous Authoresses of
Bygone Days," for _Far and Near_, an American Magazine. This is coming
out as a Christmas gift or prize book. A little volume of Christmas
Tales illustrated by T. Pym (Mrs. Levett) is shortly to appear, and will
be called "For Grown-up Children," being stories _about_ children _for_
grown-up people. Besides this, she is a constant contributor to the _St.
James's Gazette_. She also writes a weekly letter for the American
_Critic_ on literary subjects; one called an "Epidemic of Smartness"
made a special sensation; and she has, in addition, stories in two
Christmas numbers, _The Queen_ and _Atalanta_.
One great aim of this author has ever been to make herself thoroughly
acquainted with all the details of her subject. So particular is she to
ensure absolute accuracy, that every item of military life is submitted
to one or other of her soldier brothers (two of these were respectively
in the 4th Dragoon Guards and the 42nd Black Watch), and every detail of
sport to her father; indeed, so well up was she in the latter, that a
reviewer of "Mr. Smith"--when the sex of the author was yet
unknown--caustically observed, that the writer was "more up in woodcock
shooting than in religion!" the young author not having yet learnt to
verify a quotation, even from Holy Writ.
An ardent lover of the old Scottish kirk, Mrs. Walford says that she
"would go any distance to hear a good, long sermon from some of its
divines." She is an indefatigable walker, and has traversed on foot
twenty-three miles, from Arrochar to Inveraray--"from milestone to
milestone" she is careful to add, knowing what Scotch and Welsh miles
are supposed to be. She is extremely fond of poetry, and has a good
collection of her chief favourites, whilst she keeps habitually on her
own table copies of Tennyson, Jean Ingelow, and Coventry Patmore's work.
In earlier days your hostess gave much of her time to water-colour
drawing, but her children have claimed for the decoration of their
schoolroom all her pictures, the majority of which, they proudly remark,
were "exhibited and hung on the line in the R.A. of Edinburgh." Mrs.
Walford is just saying that she was married at St. John's, Edinburgh,
when the door opens and in comes the bridegroom on that occasion. He is
a native of another part of Essex, in which county his forefathers have
held lands for several centuries, his grandfather having been High
Sheriff in the famous "Waterloo year." He is a magistrate for the part
in which he now lives, and, amidst the claims of a busy life, he finds
time to sit on the bench perhaps oftener than do many of his less
occupied colleagues. Looking at the noble, genial face, you secretly
wonder if he can ever find it in his heart to pass severe sentences on
offenders. He is extremely popular, has made a distinct mark for himself
in his own circle, and it is his wife's pride to recognise that he will
never be known as "Mrs. Walford's husband."
An hour later you are taken into the dining-room, through the ante-room,
in the latter, a table near the great bay windows is filled with all the
newest books and magazines; these are regularly changed and brought up
to date by Mrs. Walford, and are a constant source of attraction to
visitors. On your left at dinner sits your host's elder son,
"Desborough," a fine manly young fellow, just of age; he is full of
intelligence, and possesses great powers of observation. He is
delightfully entertaining throughout the meal, and asking him about the
pictures, which literally cover the walls, he explains that they are a
complete collection of Boydell's fine old Shakespearian engravings, and,
he adds modestly, these, and all the many etchings and pictures in the
house, were framed by his father.
It is quite apparent in this happy home that there is perfect love and
sympathy between the parents and the children. The children are as proud
of their good, distinguished-looking father as they are of their pretty,
gifted mother; the elder ones are keenly interested in her books, and
look out eagerly for the new copies, each confiscating one for his or
her own room. Mr. and Mrs. Walford have ever been in touch with each
individual member of their family. The children have never been put
aside for her work, and they are constantly with their mother. They have
all inherited her talent for drawing, and many of them bid fair to be no
mean proficients in the art.
On the following morning your hostess announces that she has "given
herself a holiday," and she proposes to take you out for a turn. The
season is late and, though within but a very few weeks of Christmas, the
sun is shining brightly over the grounds and the air is pleasantly warm.
What was once said of a famous lawn at Oxford may well be applied to
Cranbrooke Hall. A stranger inquired of a solemn old gardener what was
done to keep it so fine and smooth? "Well, sir," was the reply, with the
utmost gravity and good faith, "first we sows the seed, and then we
rolls it and we mows it for three hundred years." Skating will soon be
largely indulged in on the glittering lake, and many merry moonlight
parties are looked forward to during the coming severe weather, which is
predicted by the great holly trees covered with red berries. After a
stroll round the pleasant demesne, and a peep into the vineries, in
which is the old black Hamburg vine, sister of the famous one at Hampton
Court, you return through the billiard-room into the Camellia house,
which, a little later on will be a mass of bloom, sometimes as many as
two thousand being in flower at a time, in every variety of colour.
The billiard table is decorated at the sides with groops of
hand-painted flowers, exquisitely designed, and the cues are arranged in
a round oak niche, which you feel sure once contained the image of a
saint in some old cathedral. Just above the seat backs, and extending
all round the room, is a perfect picture gallery of friends'
photographs, placed closely side by side, and above these there is a
wealth of engravings and etchings which would take days to examine.
Mrs. Walford has had three old-fashioned predecessors in the paths of
literature in her own neighbourhood, namely, Thomas Day, who, exactly a
hundred years ago, wrote "Sandford and Merton," at the little village of
Aybridge, within half a dozen miles of Cranbrooke; Anne and Jane Taylor,
whose "Original Poems" were, according to Sir Walter Scott, "known to
four continents."
Before leaving, you ask to see your hostess's own special portrait
gallery of her seven children. First comes "Desborough," then the eldest
daughter, in her _debutante's_ drawing-room dress of last season; next,
two young girls yet in the schoolroom,
Standing with reluctant feet
Where the brook and river meet,
and then the three "nursery" children, one of whom is taken in her
mother's arms. Lastly, you are shown a faded portrait of the famous
author herself, taken at the age of fourteen, and called "A
Yellow-haired Lassie," and, in the bright, radiant smile, you recognise
the appropriateness of her childish cognomen of "The Laughing Girl."
[Illustration: Rhoda Broughton]