Aunt Miriam was not at all like her brother, in feature,
though the moral characteristics suited the relationship
sufficiently well. There was the expression of
strong sense and great benevolence; the unbending
uprightness, of mind and body at once; and the dignity
of an essentially noble character, not the same as
Mr. Ringgan’s, but such as well became his sister.
She had been brought up among the Quakers, and though
now and for many years a staunch Presbyterian, she
still retained a tincture of the calm efficient gentleness
of mind and manner that belongs so inexplicably to
them. More womanly sweetness than was in Mr. Ringgan’s
blue eye a woman need not wish to have; and perhaps
his sister’s had not so much. There was
no want of it in her heart, nor in her manner, but
the many and singular excellencies of her character
were a little overshadowed by super-excellent housekeeping.
Not a taint of the littleness that sometimes grows
therefrom,—not a trace of the narrowness
of mind that over-attention to such pursuits is too
apt to bring;—on every important occasion
aunt Miriam would come out free and unshackled from
all the cobweb entanglements of housewifery; she would
have tossed housewifery to the winds if need were
(but it never was, for in a new sense she always contrived
to make both ends meet). It was only in the unbroken
everyday course of affairs that aunt Miriam’s
face shewed any tokens of that incessant train of
small cares which had never left their impertinent
footprints upon the broad high brow of her brother.
Mr. Ringgan had no affinity with small cares; deep
serious matters received his deep and serious consideration;
but he had as dignified a disdain of trifling annoyances
or concernments as any great mastiff or Newfoundlander
ever had for the yelping of a little cur.
Chapter V.
Ynne London citye was I borne,
Of parents of grete note;
My fadre dydd a nobile arms
Emblazon onne hys cote.
Chatterton.
In the snuggest and best private room of the House
at Montepoole a party of ladies and gentlemen were
gathered, awaiting the return of the sportsmen.
The room had been made as comfortable as any place
could be in a house built for “the season,”
after the season was past. A splendid fire of
hickory logs was burning brilliantly and making amends
for many deficiencies; the closed wooden shutters
gave the reality if not the look of warmth, for though
the days might be fine and mild the mornings and evenings
were always very cool up there among the mountains;
and a table stood at the last point of readiness for
having dinner served. They only waited for the
lingering woodcock-hunters.
