And thus, while the whole family honestly united in keeping up this delusion, could the admiral be blamed for sharing it?
Among the domestic servants of the Anchorage two deserve mention—Mr. Jessup, late of Her Majesty’s Service, now in that of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton, to whom he filled the relation of confidential attendant, and Mistress Barbara Broadsides, the housekeeper.
Jessup was tall, thin, pale-faced, and grey-haired in person; and narrow, prejudiced and authoritative in mind.
Mrs. Broadsides was short, fat, rosy, and fair-haired in person; and liberal, merciful, and yielding in disposition. As might be expected, there was a strong attraction of antagonism between these two opposite natures that led to a matrimonial engagement that was to be consummated after the death of the admiral and his mother and grandmother; but as the sibyls and their descendant had fallen into “a confirmed malady of living on for ever,” Jessup and Mrs. Broadsides were growing old as betrothed lovers.
Such, with the necessary number of men and maid servants, was the household of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton at the time he invited the Italian princess to honor his mansion with her presence.
The admiral had gallantly given up his coach for the accommodation of the princess and her attendant, while he himself escorted them on horseback.
It was a lovely summer afternoon, and when they emerged from the dark, wooded vale, and ascended the high grounds lying between it and the sea-coast, nothing could be more animated than the sudden change of scene from deep shadow and circumscribed view to open sunshine and a boundless landscape. The princess and her attendant enjoyed it exceedingly, and despite all adverse circumstances, felt their spirits rise accordingly.
The admiral frequently rode up to the side of the carriage to point out some object of interest in the landscape, such as the bright little lake, Eden, lying like a clear mirror in the bosom of its green valley, and reflecting in its deep waters its lovely, embracing hills, and its crowning villa of Edenlawn.
And upon these occasions the admiral ever addressed his illustrious guest with the profoundest respect as “your highness,” until at length the princess, with a sweet and mournful look and tone, said:
“Do not mock me with that title, best friend. I am a widow and a fugitive, dependent on your bounty for the roof that shelters my head and the bread that maintains my life. Do not mock me, therefore, with any titles of honor. I am poor Gentilescha Pezzilini; no more than that. I do not even permit my servants to address me by any other title than the simple one of madame, that a matron of any rank may bear.”