But perhaps the group best worth looking at, was that formed by Algernon and his sister; at least so thought Sir Charles Temple, though he could hardly be accounted a fair judge, as he certainly looked at no other. On entering the room the brother and sister were not together, Algernon being in the van, and Florence in the rear of the party. The boy, who in fact had never been in a handsome room dedicated to books before, stood as if spellbound as soon as he had entered it; then stepping onward to the middle of the floor, he stopped again, gazed upward to the stately dome, and round and round, upon the gallery that at “mid-height threaded” the walls; and then at the rich walls themselves, and at the tables, desks, and chairs with which the room was studded; till at last, his eyes fixed themselves upon the picture, and there rested with an avidity of interest that seemed to render him perfectly unconscious that he was not alone. When Florence entered, her first glance around almost startled her, by the novel species of splendour it displayed, and her first thought was unbounded admiration; but the next was of her brother. With a quick but quiet step she approached him, and without addressing to him a single syllable, stood gazing at his face with a soft dimpling smile about her mouth, and a look of observant watchfulness in her eyes, which told, better than any words could have done, how very happy she knew that he must be, and how very determined she was not to interrupt him.
It was this which had invited Sir Charles Temple’s attention, and ere he withdrew his eyes, he felt, that he knew more of the character and history of them both, than many an hour of common intercourse might have taught him. He felt convinced, that however irregular and imperfect the sickly boy’s education might have been, his mind was already greatly developed, and fully awake to that rarely found, but powerful passion for reading, which renders books the great joy of existence. And in Florence, he saw as beautiful a feminine reflection of her brother’s mind, as it was possible to imagine. With enough of genius within herself to comprehend, and sympathise in his sensations, Florence seemed conscious of their existence only in him, and on feeling her heart beat, and her spirit dilate, at the sight of this marvellous accumulation of what they both loved so dearly, she seemed to forget that she could have anything more to do with it, than watch the emotions which it caused in her brother.
“How intolerably affected that girl will be in a year or two,” said the eldest Miss Wilkyns to her sister Eldruda. “For Heaven’s sake, just look at her! Take my word for it, she is trying to do picture, and she knows that Temple is looking at her just as well as I do. How can he be fool enough to be taken in by her pretended childishness!.... I never saw a more thorough-paced coquette in my life. She is perfectly detestable.”
As Mr. Spencer was the only one of the party who had made a remark that seemed to indicate a power of judging the merits of a plan that had been almost entirely his own, Mr. Thorpe having patted the curly head of the humble Sophy, and said “Dear child!” turned to his elegant brother-in-law, and entered with him into a very learned discussion on Moorish, Grecian, and Gothic architecture; and if the treasury gentleman knew but little of the matter; he had tact sufficient to conceal his ignorance, and to render Mr. Thorpe exceedingly well pleased at having one guest who knew what a handsome room was.
The long darkness of Christmas eve had begun to envelope the party before the novelty of the library and its appurtenances was exhausted: lights were then ordered in the drawing-room, and the company streamed thitherward, not knowing particularly well what to do with themselves till it was time to dress for a six o’clock dinner. On this occasion, however, the three heiresses showed themselves by far the wisest ladies there. They knew the value of a quiet restorative two hours before dinner, if nobody else did; and having stolen one by one up stairs, they assembled in the room of the eldest, rang for lights, and made up a blazing fire. Had they been sufficiently advanced in civilization to have ordered tea and bread and butter, which, let them lunch when they will or dine when they may, can never be resisted by London-bred young ladies, they would have been quite perfect in their manner of passing this interval, so often intolerable to “staying company” of less experience. This last, best touch of refinement, however, they had still to learn; but they were not wanting in that valuable talent which gives to such hours of domestic separation from the world, a charm and a zest, productive of as much enjoyment perhaps as the most crowded saloon could afford. They were not wanting either in the power or inclination of making savory mincemeat of the party from whose presence they had thus judiciously retired.
Happily for Mr. Spencer the cross-post had just arrived wi letters and newspapers; and he established himself, very greatly to his satisfaction, within a foot of the drawing-room fire, with a separate table and lights, and a chair which might have served as an emblem of the place he held under government, being rich and easy. The gigantic squire, by some accident or other, turned wrong in his intended passage from the library to the drawingroom, and found himself in the east parlour; but rather liking the stillness that reigned there, he sat him down in an arm-chair by the fire, and fell into a sleep which lasted till the dinner-bell rang.
Major Heathcote, on beholding the candles, uttered a military expletive or two, indicative of his astonishment and remorse at having passed the whole morning without exercise; and having demanded the hour of dinner, seized his hat and stick, and walking forth into the palpable obscure was no more seen till he resumed his place at the dinner-table.
Algernon, who, for some reason or other which he would have found it difficult to explain, had conceived that Sir Charles Temple would be likely to prove a friend in need to him, whispered an inquiry in his ear as they left the library together, whether he thought he might take out any of the books to read?
“All of them in succession, my dear Algernon,” was the reply, “if you will but take care to put them back again. I believe I know pretty well how they are all classed, and there is still light enough for us to find anything you want; so let us go back and see about it.” And back they went, laying the foundation of much mutual liking, by the manner in which the serving and the served conferred and received obligation.
Poor Mr. Thorpe, meanwhile, perceiving the party thus scattered, and finding himself considerably more fatigued than was agreeable by the unwonted exertions he had made in his character of host, quietly mounted by a little escalier de service to his own dressing-room, and remained there in stillness and meditation till the time arrived when he was sure of finding his guests assembled again in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Heathcote, Florence, and Sophia thus left to dispose of themselves, very notably set to work round a table, at a civil distance from the treasury-place man, and were soon occupied by baby-frocks and boyish pinafores in a style of usefulness as unlike as possible to the needlework of their elegant relatives.
While thus employed, with only an occasional whisper by way of conversation, Sir Charles Temple and his new friend Algernon joined them, each carrying a book.
“Sir Charles Temple says I may read the books, Florence,” said the boy, his countenance glowing with delight. “I am glad I have seen the waterfall, for I do not greatly think I shall like to leave the house much now.”
“Then if I am to lose my walking companion, I think you must contrive to let me have some books too,” returned Florence very nearly as delighted as himself. “And what,” she added, holding out her hand for the volume he carried, “what are you going to begin with?”
“It is Milton,” he replied, “Milton’s Paradise Lost. You know how I have been longing to get it!”
“You have get Milton? Happy boy! Will you ask my uncle to let me have it when you have done?” replied Florence.
“I have forestalled your wish, Miss Heathcote,” said Sir Charles Temple. “When your brother told me that you both knew Milton only by extracts, and had just tasted enough of him to make you wish for more, I ventured to bring you this volume of his minor poems to employ you, while he was bounding away through the great work. H
e will not read it tamely, or very deliberately at first; that I foresee. The operation of weighing each pregnant word, and endeavouring to follow the stupendous design from beginning to end, must come after. It should not come at first, for that would be to lose a separate pleasure. In the first flight we take with Milton, we should content ourselves by following him as he sails upwards through a flood of light, without pausing to examine whither he is going or how his wings are made. The rest comes after.”
“And do you think Algernon, or I either, shall have power to follow him?” said Florence, eagerly.
“Yes, I do,” replied Sir Charles, — and there was something in his manner of saying so that made Miss Martin, shy as she was, look up at him, — but it was only for an instant; in the next her attention was again riveted to her hemming. “Do you not think, Algernon, that you could establish yourself at Mr. Spencer’s table yonder, and begin your flight, while I read Comus to the ladies? I will not read at all boisterously, so you shall not be disturbed.”
The arrangement was made in a moment. Algernon seated himself so quietly within the benefit of Mr. Spencer’s wax-lights, that his approach was hardly perceived by that gentleman, who was deep in a debate upon a bill in which he took a personal interest; and then Sir Charles edged in a chair between Florence and her mother, and in a low rich voice, more impressive, perhaps, in its subdued tone than it would have been had he raised it, he read the inspired and inspiring lines beginning —
“Before the starry threshold of Jove’s court
My mansion is—”
The very frame of Florence thrilled as she listened to him; but such sensations, so made up of the bright but vague ecstasy which an unschooled, but genuinely poetic fancy, feels when awakened for the first time to the beauty of such lines, so read, must not be dwelt upon: it is not a subject for description. She spoke not a single word, nor did she even, after the first minute or two, venture to look at the reader. But there is, as we all know, great eloquence in silence; and there is a stillness deeper than the mere absence of speech, which has expression in it — for those who are in the mood to mark it.
The hour and half which elapsed before the swinging bell gave notice that it was time for everybody to look in the glass, stole very deliciously away for one, two, three, at least, of the drawingroom party. It may almost be doubted if the heiresses themselves, with their blazing fire, their meditated finery, and unmitigated gossip, enjoyed themselves more than did Algernon, Florence, and Sir Charles. By them, indeed, the bell, though probably heard, was not understood, or rather not noted. But the reasonable Sophia instantly rose from her chair, folded up her work, and laying it smoothly in the huge maternal sewing repository of her aunt, glided out of the room. Mr. Spencer started, looked at his watch, and rose too, and, equally silent with Miss Martin, quitted the apartment. Mrs. Heathcote lingered a minute or two, for she wanted to work up her needleful of thread, to prevent its tangling; but this done, she too folded up the little white garment on which she had been employed, and saying, “Come, Florence,” in the same accent that she would have done if Florence, too, had been thinking of her needleful of thread — the spell was broken, and the young girl started to her feet as obediently as the day before, but no longer the same very childish Florence that she had been.
Sir Charles Temple, too, felt, he hardly knew how. He had made one in many very clever coteries at Florence; but somehow or other, the classic Florence of the Arno had never inspired him with so much poetic feeling as the rustic Florence of Thorpe-Combe. The young man knew it too, and before he reached his dressing-room very frankly confessed to himself that he was falling in love with Miss Heathcote. But poor Temple was so accustomed to the necessity of checking wishes which his slender fortune made it impossible to gratify, that he only heaved one tolerably heavy sigh as he murmured, “It can’t be helped: I must bear it. I have no more power to marry than to fly with her in my arms to heaven.”
Florence followed her step-mother very quietly up stairs, but when she got there, totally forgot which way she was to turn, or why she was up stairs at all; and having at length reached her room, would have forgotten also the dressing process which she had to go through, had not one of the Abigails made her appearance, and roused her to something like a consciousness of where she was and what she was about.
As for Algernon, his enjoyment being of a more unmixed kind? he felt himself not puzzled at all. Being routed from the drawing-room, he carried his book up the two stories which led to his sleeping apartment, a candle in his hand, and his eyes on the page as steadily as was consistent with his arriving at his own particular door in safety; having entered which, he sat down before the fire, and read on very steadily till Jem ran up to tell him that all the company were gone in to dinner. Then he went down again, and probably no one but the two young Etonians remarked that he had not changed a single article of his dress, — no, nor even brushed his hair, “the great lout!” since the morning.
CHAPTER VIII.
The evening of this day, to all outward appearance, passed very nearly as the evening of the preceding one had done; — that is to say, the young ladies of the Wilkyns’ race played a little and sang a little, and talked to those very gentleman-like boys the Spencers rather more than the gentleman-like boys liked. The same partie carrée sat down to the card-table; Mrs. Heathcote and Florence again sat on the same sofa; Algernon again disposed of himself according to his own will and pleasure, which, on this occasion, was, of course, with his Milton in a corner; and Sir Charles Temple remained at liberty to go to the piano-forte, or to come away from it, just as he best liked: and it was herein that the chief difference between the two evenings lay, — for whereas he did very civilly stand up during great part of the musical performances of the first evening, he very rudely sat down by Mrs. Heathcote during the whole of this; and having made up his mind that the falling-in love with Florence was one of the misfortunes to which he was doomed, and that if he took care that neither herself nor anybody else found it out, he should be the only sufferer by it, he let matters take their course with him, and gently led her on to converse, till she did so with almost as little restraint as if she had been talking with Algernon.
As to all the discoveries which he made during this important evening, concerning the arch-angelic nature, soul and body, of the unconscious girl whom he sat gazing at, it would be useless to record them, because they proved nothing beyond what has been stated before.... namely, that he was falling violently in love with Florence Heathcote.
The following morning was that of Christmas-day, and the servants had been up half the night, for the purpose of decorating the hall with boughs and berries. The effect of this pretty mimicry of summer was so striking, that the whole party, pausing as they descended from their various rooms, remained there till they were all assembled together, declaring that they had never seen summer in so beautiful a masquerading dress before.
Sophia Martin did not enter this winter garden till all, save the master of the mansion, had reached it; and, having timidly greeted them in succession, she placed herself in an attitude which appeared perfectly natural, where the light fell, as she wished it should do, full upon her, and where she was sure of meeting the eye of Mr. Thorpe, when he too should descend, to join the meeting in Mrs. Barnes’s mimic grove of mistletoe and holly.
Mr. Thorpe’s first words on seeing them were, “A merry Christmas to you all!”.... The next, as his eye caught sight of Sophia, were rather screamed than spoken, and were only these—” Great Heaven! How extraordinary!”
The manner in which they were uttered, however, startled everybody, except Mr. Wilkins. Like the rest of the party, he had paused to look about him, as he passed from the stairs to the dining-room, and half raised his heavy eyes to see the gay wintry show. But waiting any longer than till the master of the house appeared, was quite out of the question; and moving on in quest of his breakfast, at a more rapid pace than he ever moved, except when in quest of his dinner, he
was already at the door which opened upon his favourite room, when Mr. Thorpe’s exclamation caused every one else to turn round, leaving him to take possession of it alone.
“You did not expect to see such a beautiful garden, did you, sir?” said Mrs. Heathcote.
“Do you marvel to see us all stand thus spell-bound?” demanded Mr. Spencer. “Were we a little farther Wales-ward, we might fancy the scene a resurrection of some Druid’s grove, and that your ancestors, Miss Wilkyns, might be expected to appear before us to condemn this application of their sacred mistletoe to decorate our modern rites.”
“What startles you, uncle?” said one niece.
“What is extraordinary?” said another.
“Then you do not have the hall dressed up so, every Christmas?” observed a third.
“Bravo! Mrs. Barnes,” cried Sir Charles.
“Oh! beautiful!” exclaimed Florence.
“Pretty, indeed, sir!” said the Major.
“My eye!” cried the Etonians id a duet.
But Algernon said nothing, he only laughed; and Sophia Martin said nothing, she only smiled; but smiled in such a sort that a tear started into the eyes of the old gentleman, and he shook his head sadly as he turned away; but he said nothing more; and after looking out of the window for a moment, he quietly, and almost as if by accident, offered his arm to Sophia, and motioning to the rest of the company that they should precede him, led her to the place next himself, which she had before occupied at the breakfast-table.
Whatever might have caused the emotion which he had testified, M. Thorpe soon shook it off, and gaily entered upon the task of marshalling the party for their expected attendance at the village church. Fortunately the edifice was not far distant; and as Florence declared that she would rather walk, and Sophia that she did not mind walking at all, it was voted that “one turn” of the Thorpe-Combe vehicle would do, instead of the two or three which Mr. Thorpe had civilly proposed, and even that its ample size would permit the venerable owner himself to be conveyed by it. The other gentlemen of course all walked, excepting, indeed, Mr. Spencer, who declared that he dared not venture, on account of some latent cold, of which he lived, he said, in constant dread, and he therefore was constrained to endure the mortification of remaining at home beside the fire, with nothing but the newly imported cargo of novels, reviews, and magazines to console him.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 289