“Horses stout, and hounds healthy;
Earths well stopped, and foxes plenty!”
CHAPTER VI
MISS MERLIN
I always think convalescence is a more tedious process than actual illness. A man of active habits, who has lived a great deal out-of-doors, pines to be at work in the open air again; and although intellectual pleasures are doubtless very delightful, there is something in the sense of rapid motion, and strong physical exertion, which “leavens the blood” far more effectually than the richest mental food the Bodleian itself can afford. Before I had been confined to the inside of The Haycock for a week, or had digested a tenth of the contents of such new books as I had brought down with me in anticipation of occasional frosts, I had begun to loathe the very sight of the dust-coloured curtains in my bedroom, the staring paper in my sitting apartment, the smell of coffee that pervades the passages of an inn at all hours of the day and night—none the less because that beverage is seldom consumed within its precincts—and the general features of the prison I had chosen of my own accord. Nay, I almost caught myself, on more than one occasion, doubtful of my loyalty to Miss Lushington herself, censorious as to her appearance, sceptical on her excellence, and even insensible to her charms.
In this frame of mind I descended the stairs about ten days after my accident, with a strong feeling in favour of any novelty that might accidentally turn up, to divert the current of my thoughts.
During my late and protracted toilette, no whit accelerated by the difficulty of shaving in my crippled state (for I am no Volunteer, beared like the pard, and hold that a smooth chin denotes a respectable man), I had been disturbed and a little irritated by sundry bumpings and thumpings on the stairs and passages, which I attributed on reflection to the awkwardness of a new chambermaid. Expecting to meet, in my descent, nothing more formidable than this red-armed personage, I was surprised, not to say startled, to encounter on the landing one of the smartest ladies’-maids I have ever seen, who started—as ladies’-maids always do, at the unprecedented apparition of a stranger in the principal thoroughfare of an edifice erected for the accommodation of travellers—screamed faintly, placed her hand on her side, and turned away in an attitude of graceful and elaborate confusion.
Such a functionary, with the trimmest of figures, the most voluminous of crinolines, the neatest of boots, and a silver-spangled net gathering “the wandering tresses of her sun-bright hair,” was sufficiently in character with a couple of wide imperials, an enormous wicker basket covered with black oilcloth, looking like a trunk of considerable weight and substance, but which, instead of containing family jewels, plate, and valuables to a high amount, enclosed huge volumes of some cloudlike fabric, and when lifted, proved as light as a feather; two or more cap-boxes, a writing-case, a dressing-ditto, a leather bag, a square portfolio, several wraps, rugs, and shawls fastened together by a strap, and a bundle of parasols, en-tout-cas, and attenuated umbrellas, from the midst of which peeped an unaccountable but suggestive apparition in the shape of the sweetest little apology for a hunting-whip I have ever set eyes upon.
I am not a curious man—far from it; but it was to be expected that I should be at least interested in so extraordinary an arrival at a place like The Haycock: nor was it entirely unnatural that I should come to a halt on the landing with such a strategical disposition as brought me face to face with the well-dressed attendant, and satisfied me that the countenance over against mine own was an exceedingly pretty one. Ere I had half scanned it, however, a voice from an adjacent bedroom calling “Justine! Justine!” prompted me to identify its owner at once as a foreigner; but the accent in which Justine replied, “Coming in a minute, ma’am!” was so undoubtedly English, that my speculations were again completely at a loss; neither was the maid inclined to hurry herself, till she had given me an opportunity of perusing an extremely pretty face, with sparkling black eyes and an expression of determined coquetry, scarcely modified by dark hair dressed “à l’Impératrice,” and two little curls, something like those in a mallard’s tail, plastered down to her cheek-bones in a mode that I am given to understand is termed the “accroche cœur,” or “heart-hooker,”—not at all an inappropriate title.
“Justine! Justine!” repeated the same lady-like and pleasing voice, this time in accents of command rather than entreaty; and Justine, after thanking me with great sweetness for stopping up the way, was compelled to obey the summons of her invisible lady.