CHAPTER XIII. HER STORY.
Papa and Penelope are out to dinner—I, myself, was out yesterday, and did not return till they were gone; so I sit up for them; and, meantime, shall amuse myself with writing here.
The last date was Sunday, and now it is only Tuesday, but much seems to have happened between. And yet nothing really has happened but two quiet days at the Cedars, and one gay evening—or people would call it gay.
It has been the talk of the neighbourhood for weeks—this amateur concert at the camp. We got our invitation, of course. The such and such Regiments (I forget which, all but one) presenting their compliments to the Reverend William Henry and the Misses Johnston, and requesting their company; but papa shook his head, and Penelope was indifferent. Then I gave up all idea of going, if I ever had any.
The surprise was almost pleasant when Mrs. Granton, coming in, declared she would take me herself, as it was quite necessary I should have a little gaiety to keep me from moping after Lisabel. Papa consented, and I went.
Driving along over the moors was pleasant, too—even though it snowed a little. I found myself laughing back at Colin, who sat on the box, occasionally turning to shake the white flakes off him like a great Polar bear. His kindly, hearty face was quite refreshing to behold.
I have a habit of growing attached to places, independently of the persons connected with them. Thus, I cannot imagine any time when it would not be an enjoyment to drive up to the hall-door of the Cedars, sweeping round in the wide curve that Colin is so proud of making his carriage-wheels describe: to look back up the familiar hill-side, where the winter sun is shining on that slope of trees,—-then run into the house, through the billiard-room, and out again by the dining-room windows, on to the broad terrace. There, if there is any sunshine, you will be sure to get it,—any wind, it will blow in your face; any bit of colour or landscape beauty, you will catch it on this green lawn; the grand old cedars—the distant fir-woods, lying in a still mass of dark blue shadow, or standing up, one by one, cut out sharply against the brilliant west. Whether it is any meteorological peculiarity I know not; but it seems to me as if, whatever the day has been, there is always a fair sunset at the Cedars.
I love the place. If I went away for years—if I never saw it again—I should always love it and remember it. Mrs. Granton too, for she seems an integral part of the picture. Her small, elderly figure, trotting in and out of the rooms; her clear loud voice—she is a little deaf—along the upstairs passages; her perpetual activity—I think she is never quiet but when she is asleep. Above all, her unvarying goodness and cheerfulness—truly the Cedars would not be the Cedars without my dear old lady!
I don't think she ever knew how fond I was of her, even as a little girl. Nobody could help it; never anybody had to do with Mrs. Granton without becoming fond of her. She is almost the only person living of whom I never heard anyone speak an unkind word; because she herself never speaks an ill word of any human being. Every one she knows, is “the kindest creature,” “the nicest creature,” “the cleverest creature” —I do believe if you presented to her Diabolus himself, she would only call him “poor creature;” would suggest that his temper must have aggravated by the unpleasant place he had to live in, and set about some plan for improving his complexion, and concealing his horns and tail.