Little, indeed, as yet had she ever thought of love
or of lovers. She had not even formed to herself
any of those ideals which float before the eyes of
most girls when they enter their teens. But of
two things she felt inly convinced: first, that
she could never wed where she did not love; and secondly,
that where she did love it would be for life.
And now I close this sketch with a picture of the
girl herself. She has just come into her room
from inspecting the preparations for the evening entertainment
which her father is to give to his tenants and rural
neighbours.
She has thrown aside her straw hat, and put down the
large basket which she has emptied of flowers.
She pauses before the glass, smoothing back the ruffled
bands of her hair,—hair of a dark, soft
chestnut, silky and luxuriant,—never polluted,
and never, so long as she lives, to be polluted by
auricomous cosmetics, far from that delicate darkness,
every tint of the colours traditionally dedicated
to the locks of Judas.
Her complexion, usually of that soft bloom which inclines
to paleness, is now heightened into glow by exercise
and sunlight. The features are small and feminine;
the eyes dark with long lashes; the mouth singularly
beautiful, with a dimple on either side, and parted
now in a half-smile at some pleasant recollection,
giving a glimpse of small teeth glistening as pearls.
But the peculiar charm of her face is in an expression
of serene happiness, that sort of happiness which seems
as if it had never been interrupted by a sorrow, had
never been troubled by a sin,—that holy
kind of happiness which belongs to innocence, the
light reflected from a heart and conscience alike at
peace.
IT was a lovely summer evening for the Squire’s
rural entertainment. Mr. Travers had some guests
staying with him: they had dined early for the
occasion, and were now grouped with their host a little
before six o’clock on the lawn. The house
was of irregular architecture, altered or added to
at various periods from the reign of Elizabeth to that
of Victoria: at one end, the oldest part, a gable
with mullion windows; at the other, the newest part,
a flat-roofed wing, with modern sashes opening to
the ground, the intermediate part much hidden by a
veranda covered with creepers in full bloom.
The lawn was a spacious table-land facing the west,
and backed by a green and gentle hill, crowned with
the ruins of an ancient priory. On one side of
the lawn stretched a flower-garden and pleasure-ground,
originally planned by Repton; on the opposite angles
of the sward were placed two large marquees,—one
for dancing, the other for supper. Towards the
south the view was left open, and commanded the prospect
of an old English park, not of the stateliest character;
not intersected with ancient avenues, nor clothed
with profitless fern as lairs for deer: but the
park of a careful agriculturist, uniting profit with
