Memoirs of a griffin

by Francis John Bellew

And I forthwith set out on my voyage of discovery. It was a sweet summer’s evening, glorious, tranquil, sad. I heard with delight the cuckoo’s voice, the tinkle of the sheep-bell, and the cry of the jackdaws, as they sported about the burnished vane of the old weather-stained steeple. I was in no hurry, but loitered in the quiet village churchyard, where naught was moving save some two or three little ragged sheep; and oh! who could describe the sensations, the sadly pleasing, confused, but undefinable sensations, which crowded upon me during the little half-hour that I spent there?

Seated on an old grey tombstone, alone, and looking up at that rustic monitor, the village clock—whilst the soft summer air played on my face, and soothing rural sounds fell on my ear—the events of my past life, the images of friends departed—all I had done and left undone—passed like visions—dissolving views—before me. Brother Indians, try sometimes, after your period of toil is o’er, the effect of a summer’s musing in a rural churchyard—’twill calm the perturbation of your spirits, place things in their true lights before you, and act as oil on troubled waters. But, to be brief, I found Miss Belfield’s cottage—neat, modest, elegant, and retiring, just as I remembered herself. The parrot screamed in the little hall, and a very antiquated dowager of a spaniel, with an opaque eye, emitted a husky bark as I entered.

“Be pleased to take a seat, sir,” said the tidiest and modestest of little maids, “and my mistress will be with you immediately.”

I took a seat—my spirits were in a flutter, almost bordering on pain. The door opened, and the hand of Miss Belfield was locked in mine. We both started a little.

“Most truly glad to see you,” said she, with deep emphasis, her eyes full of tears. I placed my other hand over the one of hers which I held in my grasp, and answered her by a soft and earnest pressure, which told how deeply I reciprocated the feeling.

“Well,” said she, smiling, after a pause, “I suppose we must not compliment each other on looks, for I am almost afraid to think how long it is since we parted—but I hope our mutual regard has not suffered by the lapse of time.”

I assured her that my respect and esteem for her were as fresh as ever. Years and ill-health had given me a slight curve in the shoulders. The freshness of my complexion had long been converted into a delicate yellow; my hair was grey beyond the power of Macassar oil to restore, and crows’ feet had dug their ineffaceable marks at the angles and corners of my face.

Miss Belfield’s eyes I once or twice caught resting on me, as if involuntarily—for she instantly averted them on their encountering mine. She was doubtless comparing me to my former self—and exclaiming inwardly, “Oh! what a falling off is here!”

If she was struck by my changed appearance, I was no less so with hers. Time and Care, rival ploughmen, had deeply furrowed her brow—her embonpoint was gone; and the iron-grey locks peeped here and there through the muslin of her cap. Still, as of old, the ease, the urbanity, the refinement, and, at the same time, the simplicity of the gentlewoman, shone in Miss Belfield as conspicuously as ever.

As we stood near the fire, and during the pause which followed the ardour of question and answer incident to a first meeting, Miss Belfield drew my attention to a portrait over the mantelpiece; it was that of an officer, in somewhat old-fashioned regimentals.