My reader will easily recognise the characters through the thin veil which I have thrown over them. I have considerably flattered Lady Zelvia Ellrington. She is not nearly so handsome as I have represented her, and she strove far more vigorously to oust some one from another person’s good graces than I say. But her endeavours failed. Albion has hitherto stood firm. What he will do I cannot even pretend to guess; but I think that Marina’s incomparable superiority will prevail over her Frenchified rival, who, as all the world knows, is a miller, jockey, talker, blue-stocking, charioteer, and beldam united in one…
The conclusion is wholly destitute of any foundation in truth, and I did it out of revenge. Albion and Marina are both alive and well for aught I know.
One thing, however, will certainly break my heart, and that is the admission of any scandal against Tree (the publisher); but I hope my readers will pardon me for it, as I promise to make amends with usury the next time I write a book.
C. Wellesley,
October 12th, 1880.
I wrote this in four hours.—C. B.
CHAPTER I
ALBION
There is a certain sweet little pastoral village in the south of England with which I am better acquainted than most men. The scenery around it possesses no distinguishing characteristic of romantic grandeur or wildness that might figure to advantage in a novel, to which high title this brief narrative sets up no pretensions.
Neither rugged lofty rocks, nor mountains dimly huge, mark with frowns the undisturbed face of nature; but little peaceful valleys, low hills crowned with wood, murmuring cascades and streamlets, richly cultivated fields, farmhouses, cottages, and a wide river, form all the scenic features. And every hamlet has one or more great men.
This had one and he was ‘na sheep-shanks.’