CHAPTER XIXTHE MOTH AND THE CANDLETHEArchæological Society which reckoned the border country by the Black Mountain as its special hunting-ground met every winter or early spring; it had two places of assemblage, and those it took in turn, meeting one year at Llangarth, and the next at an insignificant township about twenty miles off across the further bank of the Wye.When the latter place was the base of operations for the enthusiasts, it had been for ages the custom of Mr. Fenton and his wife to invite the Vicar of Crishowell to Waterchurch, so that host and guest might attend the meeting together. Both men were members of the association, and the rendezvous was within comfortable driving distance. The Squire, it is true, had only a lukewarm interest to give to antiquities, but the Vicar, whose mind had a secret strain of romance, had thrown himself heart and soul into the fascinating subject, and contributed some of the most interesting papers the society possessed.Lady Harriet Fenton and her husband were in what the servants called “her ladyship’s boodore,” a cheerful apartment, where, as a matter of fact, most of the business of the Waterchurch estate was done, and Mr. Fenton stood on the hearthrug looking at his wife’s back, talking, as he talked nearly every day, of agricultural and money dilemmas and their solutions. He spoke sensibly enough, but the solutions had a way of being postponed until later, when he had gone off to look round the stables and Lady Harriet could settle down to her usual morning’s work.The Squire was one of those happy and consistent people who have one real vocation in life, and follow it with no deviations. He was a figure-head. His fine features, height, and the gallant bearing he had kept until well on into late middle age, singled him out from those less ornamented by nature, and the excellent sense of his conversation impressed all those with whom he was thrown. Devoted to field sports, he was popular in the hunting-field; an excellent shot, an ideal companion. Such was the universal verdict. And, in spite of the fact that he was a figure-head, his wife had also found him an ideal companion, or very nearly so, partly because he was less exacting than persons of this profession generally are, and partly because she herself had one of those natures to whom idleness means misery. He talked and was pleasant, and she worked and was indispensable, and between them they kept things going. If sometimes her shoulders ached and she longed for a rest, she kept these things to herself, and no one but Llewellyn suspected them; for her endurance was great, as great as the loyalty which had held up the figure-head for twenty-five odd years to the gaze of an admiring world. She managed all business except the few little things that it amused him to undertake himself, and he leaned upon her, liked her better than any one he knew, and occasionally had fleeting suspicions that she was superior to most women, though other matters generally intervened in his mind and forbade him to follow out the idea.Lady Harriet was the daughter of a well-known sporting peer, and it was her horsemanship which had first attracted him, combined with the knowledge that she had a little money. She had never possessed beauty of any sort, being a woman of short and almost stumpy figure, with strong hands and square shoulders; what had alone redeemed her from absolute ugliness were her masses of dark hair and the sympathy of expression in her eyes, which could be appealing, steadfast, humorous, or soft. Years had intensified this grace in her; it was a lasting one, and had endured while the thick hair had become silver-grey.She had always been a keen lover of outdoor life and sports, and had hunted regularly with her husband and sons, until the Squire’s straitened means had made it difficult to mount the whole family; then she had quietly given her hunting up, saying that she was getting too old for long days.In the minds of her sons she was connected with everything they had liked best in their childhood. Their father had not been disposed to trouble himself with youngsters, so she had taken them bird’s-nesting, scrambling, fishing, and had taught them all as little boys to ride to hounds. She had not gone much into society of late years, having no daughters to take out, and not conceiving it to be her duty to form one of a row of gossiping dowagers at county balls. In her secret heart Llewellyn was the dearest to her of her four boys; he was the youngest child, and there was a likeness in disposition between them which, had they been of one sex, would have forced them apart, but which, as they were mother and son, drew them together. Besides, as his business kept him at home, he knew her far more intimately than did his brothers, and with that greater impartiality which comes when the boy grows into the man and meets his parents more on common ground.“Do you know that the Archæological Society meets next week, and that we must ask Mr. Lewis to come over?” inquired Lady Harriet, looking out of the window upon a border of snowdrops which were just coming up.“By Jove, yes; I had forgotten,” exclaimed Mr. Fenton. “I suppose we ought to ask the niece too.”“I did not know he had one.”“A very pretty one. I saw her dancing with Harry at the yeomanry ball. I forget her name; somebody told me something about her, but I can’t remember that either.”His wife looked thoughtful. “We shall have to ask her at any rate,” she said; “she can’t be left out very well. I hope she is nice.”“You had better write at once, my dear,” said the Squire, making for the door. “I am going off to the stables.”So Lady Harriet wrote.The letter, when it arrived at Crishowell, produced the most lively effect upon Isoline. First a perfect agony of apprehension that her uncle should refuse—a thing that he had no thought of doing—then, a secret hope that Harry had been the originator of the plan, and had persuaded his parents to send the invitation; and finally, a mental trying-on of every frock in her wardrobe to decide the momentous question of which should be chosen for the coming visit. This imaginary review was followed by a real one, even more interesting.She had not been altogether dull at Crishowell of late, for her meeting with the person whom she thought of as Robert Kent had been the first of several. The Vicar, who spent his afternoons in reading while daylight lasted, only went out just before dusk, and as his visits to distant cottages brought him home generally at a very late hour, she had ample time to take off her outdoor clothes and install herself by the fire before his return. For a few days after meeting Rhys Walters she had hesitated whether to go in the direction of the Pedlar’s Stone again, but the prospect of being appreciated and the want of something to do had been too much for her, and she set out one evening for the farm which Rhys had indicated, and found her way there by short cuts pointed out by those whom she met in the lanes. Taken that way, the distance was not great, and when she set foot upon the short turf of the plateau she was surprised at feeling so little tired, and walked on westwards. The desertedness of the place awed her a little, and once or twice she was on the verge of fleeing homewards, but a figure loomed out of the dusk as she had hoped it might, and her fears vanished under the protection of her new admirer.Rhys was very respectful to her, a wholesome fear having filled his mind that his rather bold remarks had prevented her from returning, but he had haunted the place of their meeting patiently, and had reaped the reward of it in seeing her timid approach through the failing light. This had happened two or three times.But it was not to be supposed that the excitement of these meetings could be compared to the legitimate and settled glory of a visit to Waterchurch Court. Isoline had no love of adventure for adventure’s sake, and the prospect of being able to show herself to Harry and Harry’s relations in her prettiest frocks entirely drove from her head the semi-sentimental interest she was beginning to feel for Rhys. She counted the days till they should start.It was a blowy, showering afternoon on which uncle and niece jogged along the road, the Vicar driving and Isoline tucked up beside him under the ungainly hood, with her hands buried in her muff. Behind the vehicle her box was roped on in some strange manner only known to Howlie Seaborne, who had secured it there, and under their feet was Mr. Lewis’ modest carpet-bag.“I hope Lady Fenton is not very stiff,” remarked Isoline, when they had turned their backs to the wet south wind, and it was again possible to talk.“She is Lady Harriet Fenton, not Lady Fenton, my dear.”“But what must I call her then?”“Lady Harriet.”“That sounds very familiar,” said the girl.“It is the custom, nevertheless.”They were coming within sight of the house, which had the appearance of a small town, for its outbuildings, as well as the mansion itself, had a surprising amount of chimneys protruding from the trees and giving a false idea of size. Glimpses of red brick were to be seen through gaps in the shrubberies, making subdued patches of colour in a rather solemn general aspect. Three tall fir-trees stood in front of the façade, and on the roof was an old-fashioned arrangement of wrought-iron, from which hung a large bell. A little shelter was over its head like a canopy over the head of an idol. A bank sloped down to the Wye, which ran in a shallow ford over the road, making a singular foreground to the place.As they drew up at the door Harry’s figure appeared fromround a corner of the house, and a brilliant blush overspread Isoline’s face as she saw him; it was a good beginning to her visit. She wondered whether he had been watching for their approach. He took them through the hall, carrying the Vicar’s bag himself, so much uplifted by their arrival that he forgot to put it down, and ushered them into the drawing-room with it still in his hand.“My dear boy,” exclaimed his father, when they were all seated, and Isoline had taken off her wraps, “why not send that up-stairs? Mr. Lewis may prefer a more convenient place than this to change his clothes in.”Isoline sat looking out of the corners of her grey eyes at Lady Harriet, and taking in every detail of her appearance; she had never seen any one in the least like her, and she was almost shocked by her simplicity of manner and generally untitled appearance; this simplicity made her feel more shy than the stiffness she had anticipated. She could not talk to Harry with much ease in the presence of his parents, and they were so much engrossed in her uncle that she had a good opportunity of examining her surroundings. The drawing-room interested her very much. The ceiling was high, and the furniture solid, like all the furniture of that date. Some heavy gilt-framed fire-screens stood on either side of the fender, and over the mantelpiece was a full-length portrait of the Squire’s mother in high-waisted muslin, her lovely face smiling down into the room in which she had lived and moved thirty years ago, and which knew her no more.Afternoon tea had not been invented in those days, and people dined earlier than they do now; so, as the travellers had arrived late, it was almost time to dress for dinner when Isoline was shown up to her bedroom. A housemaid was lighting some high candles on the dressing-table as she entered, and the fire in the grate shone on the panelled walls; at one end of the room was a large four-post bed hung with dark chintz of a large pattern. Outside, a streak of wet, yellow sky could be seen beyond the trees. It was a dismal place,she thought, as she began to unpack her box and to lay out her dresses.As she stood before the looking-glass ready for dinner she made a radiant picture against the vague darkness which the sunken fire had almost ceased to illumine. The wax candles on either side of her reflection lit her up, a vision of youth framed in by the large oval of the mirror. She had put on a low white muslin dress with transparent folds surrounding the shoulders, in which she looked like some beautiful woodland sprite rising from a film of thistledown. A string of scarlet coral was round her neck, matching her red lips. She looked at herself intently, and her eyes seemed to be dreaming a dream of her own beauty. Presently she took a scarlet geranium, which stood in a little glass on the table with a piece of maidenhair, and fastened it on her bosom; then she turned away, looking back at herself over her shoulder. Dinner would not be ready for twenty minutes, and she wondered what she could do until it was time to go down. It was so dark out of the radius of the candles, and the lugubriousness of a piece of tapestry let into the panelling and representing an armed warrior in the act of cutting off an enemy’s head made her shiver; she determined to have a roaring fire when bed-time came. Then she thought she would go down to the drawing-room; it would be lighter there, and she might amuse herself by looking at the things in it until the rest of the world was dressed.The strangeness of the house made her feel shy, and she went down-stairs softly, meeting no one, and entered the drawing-room to find Harry standing at the window whistling softly as he stared out into the dark. Though the curtains were not drawn he could not have got much profit from his observations, for all outside was an indistinguishable mass of black. His face lit up as he turned and saw her.“I hoped you might be early,” he said. “I dressed as quickly as I could on the chance of your coming down soon.”“What made you think I should?” she asked, lowering her eyelids.“You went up so long ago. You can’t take more than an hour dressing, surely?”“Oh, but one can if one wants to look nice.”“You have done that to-night, at any rate,” said he.“You are very complimentary, Mr. Fenton.”“It’s quite true,” replied he, with fervour, cursing inwardly as he heard a footstep nearing the door.It was only a servant come to draw the curtains, and the two sat in rather a conscious silence while the shutters were fastened up and the heavy rings sent rattling along the curtain-poles.“Are you coming to Crishowell again?” asked Isoline, when the servant had gone.“I should like to come every day if I could,” he replied.He was falling very deeply in love; never had she looked so beautiful to him, and seeing her in his own familiar surroundings added to his infatuation. To keep her there always would be to locate heaven.“Why do you say ‘if I could’? Cannot you do as you please?” she inquired, with a pout.“Of course I can,” he said rather stiffly, thinking of Llewellyn. “Who is to prevent me? I shall come next week.”She smiled archly. “On business for your father?” said she, playing with the geranium in her bodice.“No; on business of my own.”As Isoline sailed in to dinner on the arm of Mr. Fenton, she wished heartily that her aunt in Hereford could have seen her, and she took her place with a little air of deprecating languor; she was anxious to impress the servants with the fact that she had been waited on all her life, and that no genteel experience could be anything but stale. Afterwards, when dinner was over and she retired with Lady Harriet to the drawing-room, she felt herself for the first time unequal to theoccasion, though she chatted away, helped by the elder woman’s efforts to put her at her ease. But both stifled a sigh of relief when the men came in.It was a dull, solemn evening, she thought, though she enjoyed the rapture with which Harry turned over the leaves of her music as she sang. Her clear, thin voice sounded like a bird’s when she trilled her little operatic airs; it was true, too, which is more than can be said for many one has to listen to in drawing-rooms.She got into the impressive four-poster in her panelled room, sighing to think that one of her evenings at Waterchurch was over, though, as far as actual enjoyment went, it had not been remarkable. But we follow ideas, not actualities—at least, those of us who have souls above the common.She soon fell asleep, tired by the excitement of seeing new faces, and well satisfied with herself; but Harry sat up late in his room. It was long past midnight when he went to bed, and, when he did, he could not sleep for thinking of her.
THEArchæological Society which reckoned the border country by the Black Mountain as its special hunting-ground met every winter or early spring; it had two places of assemblage, and those it took in turn, meeting one year at Llangarth, and the next at an insignificant township about twenty miles off across the further bank of the Wye.
When the latter place was the base of operations for the enthusiasts, it had been for ages the custom of Mr. Fenton and his wife to invite the Vicar of Crishowell to Waterchurch, so that host and guest might attend the meeting together. Both men were members of the association, and the rendezvous was within comfortable driving distance. The Squire, it is true, had only a lukewarm interest to give to antiquities, but the Vicar, whose mind had a secret strain of romance, had thrown himself heart and soul into the fascinating subject, and contributed some of the most interesting papers the society possessed.
Lady Harriet Fenton and her husband were in what the servants called “her ladyship’s boodore,” a cheerful apartment, where, as a matter of fact, most of the business of the Waterchurch estate was done, and Mr. Fenton stood on the hearthrug looking at his wife’s back, talking, as he talked nearly every day, of agricultural and money dilemmas and their solutions. He spoke sensibly enough, but the solutions had a way of being postponed until later, when he had gone off to look round the stables and Lady Harriet could settle down to her usual morning’s work.
The Squire was one of those happy and consistent people who have one real vocation in life, and follow it with no deviations. He was a figure-head. His fine features, height, and the gallant bearing he had kept until well on into late middle age, singled him out from those less ornamented by nature, and the excellent sense of his conversation impressed all those with whom he was thrown. Devoted to field sports, he was popular in the hunting-field; an excellent shot, an ideal companion. Such was the universal verdict. And, in spite of the fact that he was a figure-head, his wife had also found him an ideal companion, or very nearly so, partly because he was less exacting than persons of this profession generally are, and partly because she herself had one of those natures to whom idleness means misery. He talked and was pleasant, and she worked and was indispensable, and between them they kept things going. If sometimes her shoulders ached and she longed for a rest, she kept these things to herself, and no one but Llewellyn suspected them; for her endurance was great, as great as the loyalty which had held up the figure-head for twenty-five odd years to the gaze of an admiring world. She managed all business except the few little things that it amused him to undertake himself, and he leaned upon her, liked her better than any one he knew, and occasionally had fleeting suspicions that she was superior to most women, though other matters generally intervened in his mind and forbade him to follow out the idea.
Lady Harriet was the daughter of a well-known sporting peer, and it was her horsemanship which had first attracted him, combined with the knowledge that she had a little money. She had never possessed beauty of any sort, being a woman of short and almost stumpy figure, with strong hands and square shoulders; what had alone redeemed her from absolute ugliness were her masses of dark hair and the sympathy of expression in her eyes, which could be appealing, steadfast, humorous, or soft. Years had intensified this grace in her; it was a lasting one, and had endured while the thick hair had become silver-grey.She had always been a keen lover of outdoor life and sports, and had hunted regularly with her husband and sons, until the Squire’s straitened means had made it difficult to mount the whole family; then she had quietly given her hunting up, saying that she was getting too old for long days.
In the minds of her sons she was connected with everything they had liked best in their childhood. Their father had not been disposed to trouble himself with youngsters, so she had taken them bird’s-nesting, scrambling, fishing, and had taught them all as little boys to ride to hounds. She had not gone much into society of late years, having no daughters to take out, and not conceiving it to be her duty to form one of a row of gossiping dowagers at county balls. In her secret heart Llewellyn was the dearest to her of her four boys; he was the youngest child, and there was a likeness in disposition between them which, had they been of one sex, would have forced them apart, but which, as they were mother and son, drew them together. Besides, as his business kept him at home, he knew her far more intimately than did his brothers, and with that greater impartiality which comes when the boy grows into the man and meets his parents more on common ground.
“Do you know that the Archæological Society meets next week, and that we must ask Mr. Lewis to come over?” inquired Lady Harriet, looking out of the window upon a border of snowdrops which were just coming up.
“By Jove, yes; I had forgotten,” exclaimed Mr. Fenton. “I suppose we ought to ask the niece too.”
“I did not know he had one.”
“A very pretty one. I saw her dancing with Harry at the yeomanry ball. I forget her name; somebody told me something about her, but I can’t remember that either.”
His wife looked thoughtful. “We shall have to ask her at any rate,” she said; “she can’t be left out very well. I hope she is nice.”
“You had better write at once, my dear,” said the Squire, making for the door. “I am going off to the stables.”
So Lady Harriet wrote.
The letter, when it arrived at Crishowell, produced the most lively effect upon Isoline. First a perfect agony of apprehension that her uncle should refuse—a thing that he had no thought of doing—then, a secret hope that Harry had been the originator of the plan, and had persuaded his parents to send the invitation; and finally, a mental trying-on of every frock in her wardrobe to decide the momentous question of which should be chosen for the coming visit. This imaginary review was followed by a real one, even more interesting.
She had not been altogether dull at Crishowell of late, for her meeting with the person whom she thought of as Robert Kent had been the first of several. The Vicar, who spent his afternoons in reading while daylight lasted, only went out just before dusk, and as his visits to distant cottages brought him home generally at a very late hour, she had ample time to take off her outdoor clothes and install herself by the fire before his return. For a few days after meeting Rhys Walters she had hesitated whether to go in the direction of the Pedlar’s Stone again, but the prospect of being appreciated and the want of something to do had been too much for her, and she set out one evening for the farm which Rhys had indicated, and found her way there by short cuts pointed out by those whom she met in the lanes. Taken that way, the distance was not great, and when she set foot upon the short turf of the plateau she was surprised at feeling so little tired, and walked on westwards. The desertedness of the place awed her a little, and once or twice she was on the verge of fleeing homewards, but a figure loomed out of the dusk as she had hoped it might, and her fears vanished under the protection of her new admirer.
Rhys was very respectful to her, a wholesome fear having filled his mind that his rather bold remarks had prevented her from returning, but he had haunted the place of their meeting patiently, and had reaped the reward of it in seeing her timid approach through the failing light. This had happened two or three times.
But it was not to be supposed that the excitement of these meetings could be compared to the legitimate and settled glory of a visit to Waterchurch Court. Isoline had no love of adventure for adventure’s sake, and the prospect of being able to show herself to Harry and Harry’s relations in her prettiest frocks entirely drove from her head the semi-sentimental interest she was beginning to feel for Rhys. She counted the days till they should start.
It was a blowy, showering afternoon on which uncle and niece jogged along the road, the Vicar driving and Isoline tucked up beside him under the ungainly hood, with her hands buried in her muff. Behind the vehicle her box was roped on in some strange manner only known to Howlie Seaborne, who had secured it there, and under their feet was Mr. Lewis’ modest carpet-bag.
“I hope Lady Fenton is not very stiff,” remarked Isoline, when they had turned their backs to the wet south wind, and it was again possible to talk.
“She is Lady Harriet Fenton, not Lady Fenton, my dear.”
“But what must I call her then?”
“Lady Harriet.”
“That sounds very familiar,” said the girl.
“It is the custom, nevertheless.”
They were coming within sight of the house, which had the appearance of a small town, for its outbuildings, as well as the mansion itself, had a surprising amount of chimneys protruding from the trees and giving a false idea of size. Glimpses of red brick were to be seen through gaps in the shrubberies, making subdued patches of colour in a rather solemn general aspect. Three tall fir-trees stood in front of the façade, and on the roof was an old-fashioned arrangement of wrought-iron, from which hung a large bell. A little shelter was over its head like a canopy over the head of an idol. A bank sloped down to the Wye, which ran in a shallow ford over the road, making a singular foreground to the place.
As they drew up at the door Harry’s figure appeared fromround a corner of the house, and a brilliant blush overspread Isoline’s face as she saw him; it was a good beginning to her visit. She wondered whether he had been watching for their approach. He took them through the hall, carrying the Vicar’s bag himself, so much uplifted by their arrival that he forgot to put it down, and ushered them into the drawing-room with it still in his hand.
“My dear boy,” exclaimed his father, when they were all seated, and Isoline had taken off her wraps, “why not send that up-stairs? Mr. Lewis may prefer a more convenient place than this to change his clothes in.”
Isoline sat looking out of the corners of her grey eyes at Lady Harriet, and taking in every detail of her appearance; she had never seen any one in the least like her, and she was almost shocked by her simplicity of manner and generally untitled appearance; this simplicity made her feel more shy than the stiffness she had anticipated. She could not talk to Harry with much ease in the presence of his parents, and they were so much engrossed in her uncle that she had a good opportunity of examining her surroundings. The drawing-room interested her very much. The ceiling was high, and the furniture solid, like all the furniture of that date. Some heavy gilt-framed fire-screens stood on either side of the fender, and over the mantelpiece was a full-length portrait of the Squire’s mother in high-waisted muslin, her lovely face smiling down into the room in which she had lived and moved thirty years ago, and which knew her no more.
Afternoon tea had not been invented in those days, and people dined earlier than they do now; so, as the travellers had arrived late, it was almost time to dress for dinner when Isoline was shown up to her bedroom. A housemaid was lighting some high candles on the dressing-table as she entered, and the fire in the grate shone on the panelled walls; at one end of the room was a large four-post bed hung with dark chintz of a large pattern. Outside, a streak of wet, yellow sky could be seen beyond the trees. It was a dismal place,she thought, as she began to unpack her box and to lay out her dresses.
As she stood before the looking-glass ready for dinner she made a radiant picture against the vague darkness which the sunken fire had almost ceased to illumine. The wax candles on either side of her reflection lit her up, a vision of youth framed in by the large oval of the mirror. She had put on a low white muslin dress with transparent folds surrounding the shoulders, in which she looked like some beautiful woodland sprite rising from a film of thistledown. A string of scarlet coral was round her neck, matching her red lips. She looked at herself intently, and her eyes seemed to be dreaming a dream of her own beauty. Presently she took a scarlet geranium, which stood in a little glass on the table with a piece of maidenhair, and fastened it on her bosom; then she turned away, looking back at herself over her shoulder. Dinner would not be ready for twenty minutes, and she wondered what she could do until it was time to go down. It was so dark out of the radius of the candles, and the lugubriousness of a piece of tapestry let into the panelling and representing an armed warrior in the act of cutting off an enemy’s head made her shiver; she determined to have a roaring fire when bed-time came. Then she thought she would go down to the drawing-room; it would be lighter there, and she might amuse herself by looking at the things in it until the rest of the world was dressed.
The strangeness of the house made her feel shy, and she went down-stairs softly, meeting no one, and entered the drawing-room to find Harry standing at the window whistling softly as he stared out into the dark. Though the curtains were not drawn he could not have got much profit from his observations, for all outside was an indistinguishable mass of black. His face lit up as he turned and saw her.
“I hoped you might be early,” he said. “I dressed as quickly as I could on the chance of your coming down soon.”
“What made you think I should?” she asked, lowering her eyelids.
“You went up so long ago. You can’t take more than an hour dressing, surely?”
“Oh, but one can if one wants to look nice.”
“You have done that to-night, at any rate,” said he.
“You are very complimentary, Mr. Fenton.”
“It’s quite true,” replied he, with fervour, cursing inwardly as he heard a footstep nearing the door.
It was only a servant come to draw the curtains, and the two sat in rather a conscious silence while the shutters were fastened up and the heavy rings sent rattling along the curtain-poles.
“Are you coming to Crishowell again?” asked Isoline, when the servant had gone.
“I should like to come every day if I could,” he replied.
He was falling very deeply in love; never had she looked so beautiful to him, and seeing her in his own familiar surroundings added to his infatuation. To keep her there always would be to locate heaven.
“Why do you say ‘if I could’? Cannot you do as you please?” she inquired, with a pout.
“Of course I can,” he said rather stiffly, thinking of Llewellyn. “Who is to prevent me? I shall come next week.”
She smiled archly. “On business for your father?” said she, playing with the geranium in her bodice.
“No; on business of my own.”
As Isoline sailed in to dinner on the arm of Mr. Fenton, she wished heartily that her aunt in Hereford could have seen her, and she took her place with a little air of deprecating languor; she was anxious to impress the servants with the fact that she had been waited on all her life, and that no genteel experience could be anything but stale. Afterwards, when dinner was over and she retired with Lady Harriet to the drawing-room, she felt herself for the first time unequal to theoccasion, though she chatted away, helped by the elder woman’s efforts to put her at her ease. But both stifled a sigh of relief when the men came in.
It was a dull, solemn evening, she thought, though she enjoyed the rapture with which Harry turned over the leaves of her music as she sang. Her clear, thin voice sounded like a bird’s when she trilled her little operatic airs; it was true, too, which is more than can be said for many one has to listen to in drawing-rooms.
She got into the impressive four-poster in her panelled room, sighing to think that one of her evenings at Waterchurch was over, though, as far as actual enjoyment went, it had not been remarkable. But we follow ideas, not actualities—at least, those of us who have souls above the common.
She soon fell asleep, tired by the excitement of seeing new faces, and well satisfied with herself; but Harry sat up late in his room. It was long past midnight when he went to bed, and, when he did, he could not sleep for thinking of her.