of the old wall-flower farm front, I saw little Mabel
Sweetwinter, often my playfellow and bedfellow, a
curly-headed girl, who would have danced on Sunday
for a fairing, and eaten gingerbread nuts during a
ghost-story. She was sitting by a furze-bush
in flower, cherishing in her lap a lamb that had been
worried. She looked half up at me, and kept looking
so, but would not nod. Then good-bye, thought
I, and remembered her look when I had forgotten that
of all the others.
I HAVE A TASTE OF GRANDEUR
Though I had not previously seen a postillion in my
life, I gazed on the pair bobbing regularly on their
horses before me, without a thought upon the marvel
of their sudden apparition and connection with my fortunes.
I could not tire of hearing the pleasant music of the
many feet at the trot, and tried to explain to my
father that the men going up and down made it like
a piano that played of itself. He laughed and
kissed me; he remembered having once shown me the
inside of a piano when the keys were knocked.
My love for him as we drove into London had a recognized
footing: I perceived that he was my best friend
and only true companion, besides his being my hero.
The wicked men who had parted us were no longer able
to do harm, he said. I forgot, in my gladness
at their defeat, to ask what had become of Shylock’s
descendant.
Mrs. Waddy welcomed us when we alighted. Do
not imagine that it was at the door of her old house.
It was in a wide street opening on a splendid square,
and pillars were before the houses, and inside there
was the enchantment of a little fountain playing thin
as whipcord, among ferns, in a rock-basin under a
window that glowed with kings of England, copied from
boys’ history books. All the servants were
drawn up in the hall to do homage to me. They
seemed less real and living than the wonder of the
sweet-smelling chairs, the birds, and the elegant dogs.
Richest of treats, a monkey was introduced to me.
’It ‘s your papa’s whim,’
Mrs. Waddy said, resignedly; ’he says he must
have his jester. Indeed it is no joke to me.’
Yet she smiled happily, though her voice was melancholy.
From her I now learnt that my name was Richmond Roy,
and not Harry Richmond. I said, ‘Very
well,’ for I was used to change. Everybody
in the house wore a happy expression of countenance,
except the monkey, who was too busy. As we mounted
the stairs I saw more kings of England painted on the
back-windows. Mrs. Waddy said: ’It
is considered to give a monarchical effect,’—she
coughed modestly after the long word, and pursued:
’as it should.’ I insisted upon
going to the top floor, where I expected to find William
the Conqueror, and found him; but that strong connecting
link between John Thresher and me presented himself
only to carry my recollections of the Dipwell of yesterday
as far back into the past as the old Norman days.
