CHAPTER IV.
The Waxen Image.—The Hostess's Story.
We have alluded before the commencement of our late story to a clapping of hands proceeding from the club-room, announcing the termination of some tale from our hostess.
It will be remembered that the tale of our landlady had come to an end previous to the commencement of our artist's narrative. Let us entreat our reader, then, to take a retrospect glance, and imagine himself seated in the club-room, in the company of its worthy members and our buxom hostess, whilst the painter was deeply absorbed in his portrait of the fair Helen.
Dame Hearty, after continued pressing, and some diffidence on her part, seemed finally to be collecting her ideas, which process was performed by casting down her eyes and toying with the corners of her apron; then as if suddenly inspired, she abruptly smoothed down her apron on her lap, and dovetailing the fingers of each ruddy hand within those of the other, she hemmed once or twice and proceeded in the following strain.
When I was a girl, gentlemen, about the age of my Helen, I was just such another as she, though I dare say you would hardly believe it, to look at me now; but ask my good man and he'll tell you the same. Look at my Helen, and you will see what your humble servant was at her age. I had the same rosy cheeks, like two ripe apples, the same laughing blue eyes and sunny hair, and as for spirits, why, Lord bless you, the dear child ain't nothing to what her mother was at her age.
Well, gentlemen, I was always for gaming and romping, and folks would say that there wasn't a lass like Molly Sykes for miles round. In fact, I used to be called the pride of the village, though I say it, that shouldn't. At the time I speak of, I was at the village school, and there was hardly a young man in the village that did not come a courtin' after me, but I paid no attention to none of them, as I had been attached from childhood to my Jack, then a spruce lad of some eighteen summers, but I laughed and joked with all, so I was always popular.
The only school friend I ever had was a young girl about my own age—an orphan, one Claribel Falkland, of an extremely delicate and sensitive nature, the sweetest temper in the world, and of a beauty which in my heart I felt surpassed my own, for it was more the beauty of a high-born lady. I see before me now her pale oval face with her large lustrous hazel eyes, her smooth dark nut-brown hair, and her slim graceful figure which seemed to glide rather than walk about. I recollect, too, her low soft voice that had music in the very tone of it, and her sweet look radiant with the innocence of her heart. I know not how two beings of such opposite temperaments should ever have become such fast friends, for Claribel was pensive and melancholy, and of a studious turn, poring over every book she could get hold of, whilst I, on the contrary, was a perfect hoyden, always laughing and playing the fool when I ought to have been at work.
However strange it may appear, it is certain that a sympathy stronger than that generally found between two sisters grew up between us. But let me pass on to describe certain peculiarities in the constitution of my young school friend. In the first place, she had been from childhood a sleep walker, a phenomenon that I soon discovered, for poor Claribel being an orphan and having no home of her own, used to live with us, and we two always slept together.