And here I am, in the snuggest of dressing-rooms, on the first floor of the Stone House, overlooking a charming Italian garden, something in the Haddon Hall style, that is beautiful even in winter, with bright masses of evergreens forming backgrounds to its “storied urns and animated busts.” And this dressing-room opens into a delightful bed-room, and also into a warm, thickly carpeted gallery, into which, also, open three other spare bed-rooms, one of which is at present occupied by Miss Pevensey, another by Arbell; chiefly, I believe, that I may not fancy myself lonely, as a door at the end of the gallery shuts off this wing from the rest of the house.
Lonely!—in a house with eight children and sixteen servants! A likely thing! Here, however, I may be as solitary, if I like, as a nun in her cell; but as it is now ascertained that I enjoy the family ways, I am continually having little visits from one and another. Firstly, Mrs. Kent peeps in before I am up, to see whether the under-housemaid has lighted my fire, and to inquire how I have slept; and to ask whether I will have tea, coffee, or chocolate, in bed or out of it. Then, the aforesaid housemaid (Mary, her name is) helps me to dress, as nicely as Mrs. Kent could do. Then I step into the dressing-room, where I find a clear fire, and breakfast for one awaiting me; chocolate and rusks, may-be, or milk-coffee and French roll; or tea, toast, and a new-laid egg. After this I commence my little prayer-service and Bible-reading, as at home, while a prayer-bell, in some far-off quarter, which they tell me is much too cold for me, summons the household to prayers.
Immediately after this, the three little ones steal in from the nursery, saying,—“Will oo like to—to—hear our texts?” Of course I say “Yes;” and then one little creature says, “God is love;” and another reverently repeats, “Little children, love one another;” and another, “Live peaceably with all men.” They learn something fresh every day. Then Arbell comes in, and we have long, delightful talks, till Mrs. Pevensey, who sleeps late, is ready to hear her read a portion of Scripture: I think they talk it over a good deal together afterwards. Meanwhile, cheerful “Aunt Kate” looks in on me; brings me The Times, or “Pinelli’s Etchings,” or something by the Etching Club, or Dickens’ last number, or anything she thinks I shall like; makes up the fire, and has a cheerful chat; but she does not stay long.
After this, I see no one till the one o’clock dinner, except Rosaline and Flora, who are happy to give me as much of their company as they may, till called off for their walk. At one, we all assemble to a very bountiful meal, presided over by Miss Pevensey and Arbell, who, I am happy to see, already carves neatly and quickly. Then they generally carry me off to the conservatory, music-room, or library, the weather not inviting the delicate to indulge even in carriage exercise. Towards dusk, comes the grand treat of all: Miss Pevensey, Arbell, and I, repair to Mrs. Pevensey’s dressing-room, where we find her lying like a statue, perfectly still and colourless, but with her active mind ready to enter on any subject, gay, or grave, that may be started. These conversations are truly enjoyable. They insist on my occupying a couch opposite Mrs. Pevensey’s; Miss Pevensey establishes herself between us, in her brother’s easy-chair, and Arbell sits on a cushion at her mother’s feet. By the uncertain light of the fire, we harmoniously discuss all sorts of subjects, in a style not quite equal to that of “Friends in Council,” but that suits our requirements equally well.
The Swiss tour affords inexhaustible subjects of interest and entertainment. Sometimes Arbell tells what profound astonishment her tooth-brush excited among the country girls; at other times, they speak of the wonders of Mont Blanc, and Monte Rosa; and describe their arrival at the hospice of the Great St. Bernard—the hospitable reception of the good monks—their cheerful chat round the fire after supper—their attendance at morning prayers, before dawn, in the chapel—and afterwards witnessing the substantial breakfast given to the peasants who had received a night’s shelter, before they descended the pass.
Sometimes Mr. Pevensey comes in while they are thus talking, and exclaims—
“What! still among the mountains? Mrs. Cheerlove must be quite bored!”
“Oh no!” they boldly reply, “she is such a good sympathizer!”
Then he, his sister, and Arbell, go down to their two hours’ dinner, which I privately think it a privilege to escape. Mrs. Pevensey and I have ice, fruit, cakes, and coffee. And then I see her no more, for Mr. Pevensey spends the rest of the evening with her; and I say good-night, and retreat to my own room, though not always to bed, if I have an interesting book.
Though Mrs. Pevensey is not well enough to receive visitors (except such a quiet one as myself), it has been very interesting to witness the benefactions to the poor, the Christmas-tree loaded with presents for the children and servants, the school-children’s treat, the servants’ feast, &c., which ushered in Christmas in this hospitable house. In connection with these, something very mysterious was to take place on Christmas Eve, in the largest drawing-room, which was known only to Mr. Pevensey, Arbell, and a few assistants. Great expectations were raised, and most absurd guesses made, as to what could be going on,—much peeping, prying, and tittering outside the carefully-locked door, and many conjectures hazarded on the occupations of those who passed in and out. A good deal of hammering added excitement to the scene; and Mrs. Pevensey said, with some anxiety, she hoped they were not hurting the new white and gold paper; a tinkling bell was also heard.