CHAPTER XIV.
When the poet, in the pursuit of his fancy, eulogised the stately homes of England, he must have forgotten or totally ignored a class of dwelling dearer to my mind than all the marble halls the taste or vanity of man ever designed. The Duke of Stilton doubtless prefers his ancestral home, with its towers and turrets, its capacious stables—which, by-the-bye, seem the first consideration in the Brobdingnagian erections of the hour; he may wander with an air of pride through the Raphael hall and the Teniers gallery or the Cuyp drawing-room. For me, he can have his art treasures, his Carrara marbles, his priceless Wedgwood, his Dresden. He may enjoy his drawing-rooms—blue, red, and every colour in the universe. He may dine in the bosom of his family on every delicacy a cordon bleu can devise to tickle the palate and stimulate the appetite, with its accompaniment of rose-patterned silver and dainty china. Let him luxuriate in it all, if he will.
I have in my mind’s eye a house far different from His Grace’s, but which, nevertheless, if not rich in costly bric-à-brac, has an appearance of harmony and refinement refreshing beyond belief. It is the house, or, if you will, the villa of Eastwood. Against the main road is a rugged stone wall, moss-incrusted and lichen-strewn, and surmounted by dense laurel. Opening the old-fashioned wooden gate, a broad path leads to the door, which is some forty yards away, at the side of the house. It is a low, gray stone house, clustered with ivy and clematis, and climbing roses twisting round the long double row of windows. In front is the lawn, quite half an acre in extent, and shut off from a garden by a brick wall, covered with apricot and nectarine. On the right, leading towards the house, is a sloping bank, all white and fragrant in spring with violets; and above this bank, approached by an ancient horse-block, is the old-world garden. It is a large garden, with broad green paths, sheltered by bowers of apple-trees, and the borders gay with wall-flowers, mignonette, stocks, pansies, London-pride, Tom-Thumb, and here and there great bushes of lavender and old-man. Far down is a walk of filbert trees, where the wily squirrel makes merry in the harvest-time, and the cherry-trees all melodious with the song of the blackbird. There is a balmy smell here of thyme and sage and endive, and the variety of sweet herbs which our grandmothers were wont to cull in autumn, and suspend in muslin bags from the kitchen rafters.
Opening the heavy hall door with the licensed freedom of the novelist, we find ourselves in the hall, whence we reach the drawing-room. Here we find our friends, awaiting the arrival of Miss Wakefield. They have been talking and chatting gaily; but as the time for that lady’s arrival draws near, conversation becomes flat, and there is an air of expectation and suppressed excitement about them, which would at once convince the observer that something important was on hand.
Mr Carver rose from his seat, and, for about the fiftieth time, walked to the window and looked out. It was amusing to note his easy air and debonair appearance, which was palpably assumed to impress the spectators with the idea that he was by no means anxious. The only member of the party who really could be said to be at ease was Mr Bates. He wore his best clothes, and had an air of resigned settled melancholy, evidently expecting the worst, and prepared to have his cup of joy—representing in his case his partnership—dashed from his lips at the last moment.
Felix was discussing the affair with Edgar in a low voice, and Eleanor sat white and still, only showing her impatience ever and anon by a gentle tap upon the floor with her heel. Mr Slimm was whistling softly in a low key, and industriously engaged in whittling a stick in his hand. Mr Carver returned from his post of observation and threw himself back in his chair with an involuntary sigh. Slimm put up his knife.
‘I vote we begin,’ said Edgar at length.
‘No, no; it would not do—it really would not do,’ interposed Mr Carver, seeing the company generally inclined to this view. ‘The lady whom we await is capable of anything. If we found a will in her absence, she would not be above saying we put it there.’
‘Judging from my limited experience of the lady, I calculate you are about right, sir,’ said Mr Slimm. ‘No; after so many years’ patience, it would certainly be unwise to do anything rash now.’
‘It is the last few moments which seem so hard,’ Eleanor said. ‘Suppose, after all, we should find nothing!’
‘For goodness’ sake, don’t think of such a thing!’ Edgar exclaimed. ‘Fancy, after all this bother and anxiety!’
The party lapsed into silence again, and once more Mr Carver strolled towards the window. It is strange, when one is anxiously waiting for anything, how slowly time goes. Edgar took his watch out of his pocket every other minute, like a schoolboy who wears one for the first time.
‘I think I will walk down the road and see if she is coming,’ Slimm observed. ‘It would look a little polite, I think.’
Edgar murmured something touching love’s young dream, and asked the American if the fascination was so strong.
‘Well, no,’ he replied. ‘I don’t deny she is fascinating; but it is not the sort of glamour that generally thrills the young bosom. One thing we all agree upon, I think, and that is, that we shall be all extremely pleased to see the lady.’
‘That is a strange thing in itself,’ Edgar replied drily. ‘The damsel is evidently coy. She is at present, doubtless, struggling with her emotion. I fancy she does not intend to come.’
At this moment there was a sound of wheels, and a coach pulled up at the gate. After a moment, a tall black figure was seen approaching the house. A few seconds later, Miss Wakefield entered the room.