"By-the-by, sir, perhaps you would like to see the picture gallery, although it is hardly worth seeing just now—most of the pictures having been removed to our house in Grosvenor Square last winter; and, being in this denuded state, I never think of showing it to visitors. There are, however, a few portraits of different members of the family still left, and these you may see if you have any curiosity regarding them."
Such curiosity I avowed I felt, and was immediately conducted into the presence of a number of the pictorial ancestry of the illustrious house of Wistonbury. The greater part of the pictures had been removed, as my conductor had informed me; but a few still remained scattered along the lofty walls of the gallery.
"That," said my cicerone, pointing to a grim warrior, clad from head to heel in a panoply of steel,—"that is Henry, first Earl of Wistonbury, who fell in Palestine during the holy wars; and this," directing my attention to another picture, "is the grandfather of the present Earl."
"A very handsome and pleasant-looking young man," said I, struck with the forcible representation of these qualities which the painting exhibited.
"Ay," replied the old man, "and as good as he was handsome. He is the pride of the house; and the country around yet rings with his name, associated with all that is kind and charitable."
"And who is this lovely creature?" said I, now pointing in my turn to the portrait of a young female of the most exquisite beauty—the face strikingly resembling some of the best executed likenesses of the unfortunate Queen Mary—which hung beside that of the Good Earl of Wistonbury, as the nobleman of whom my cicerone had just spoken was called throughout the country.
"That lady, sir," replied the latter, "was his wife—the Countess of Wistonbury. She was one of the most beautiful women of her time; and, like her husband, was beloved by all around her, for the gentleness of her manners and benevolence of her disposition."
"But what's this?" said I, advancing a little nearer the picture, to examine something in her attire that puzzled me. "A Scotch plaid!" I exclaimed in considerable surprise, on ascertaining that this was the article of dress which had perplexed me. "Pray, what has the Scotch plaid to do here? How happens it that we find a Countess of Wistonbury arrayed in the costume of Caledonia?"
"Why, sir, the reason is good—perfectly satisfactory," replied Mr. Grafton, smilingly. "She was a native of that country."