Bretton.
My godmother lived in a handsome house in the clean
and ancient town of Bretton. Her husband’s
family had been residents there for generations, and
bore, indeed, the name of their birthplace—Bretton
of Bretton: whether by coincidence, or because
some remote ancestor had been a personage of sufficient
importance to leave his name to his neighbourhood,
I know not.
When I was a girl I went to Bretton about twice a
year, and well I liked the visit. The house and
its inmates specially suited me. The large peaceful
rooms, the well-arranged furniture, the clear wide
windows, the balcony outside, looking down on a fine
antique street, where Sundays and holidays seemed
always to abide—so quiet was its atmosphere,
so clean its pavement—these things pleased
me well.
One child in a household of grown people is usually
made very much of, and in a quiet way I was a good
deal taken notice of by Mrs. Bretton, who had been
left a widow, with one son, before I knew her; her
husband, a physician, having died while she was yet
a young and handsome woman.
She was not young, as I remember her, but she was
still handsome, tall, well-made, and though dark for
an Englishwoman, yet wearing always the clearness
of health in her brunette cheek, and its vivacity
in a pair of fine, cheerful black eyes. People
esteemed it a grievous pity that she had not conferred
her complexion on her son, whose eyes were blue—though,
even in boyhood, very piercing—and the colour
of his long hair such as friends did not venture to
specify, except as the sun shone on it, when they
called it golden. He inherited the lines of his
mother’s features, however; also her good teeth,
her stature (or the promise of her stature, for he
was not yet full-grown), and, what was better, her
health without flaw, and her spirits of that tone
and equality which are better than a fortune to the
possessor.
In the autumn of the year —— I was
staying at Bretton; my godmother having come in person
to claim me of the kinsfolk with whom was at that
time fixed my permanent residence. I believe she
then plainly saw events coming, whose very shadow
I scarce guessed; yet of which the faint suspicion
sufficed to impart unsettled sadness, and made me glad
to change scene and society.
Time always flowed smoothly for me at my godmother’s
side; not with tumultuous swiftness, but blandly,
like the gliding of a full river through a plain.
My visits to her resembled the sojourn of Christian
and Hopeful beside a certain pleasant stream, with
“green trees on each bank, and meadows beautified
with lilies all the year round.” The charm
of variety there was not, nor the excitement of incident;
but I liked peace so well, and sought stimulus so
little, that when the latter came I almost felt it
a disturbance, and wished rather it had still held
aloof.
One day a letter was received of which the contents
evidently caused Mrs. Bretton surprise and some concern.
I thought at first it was from home, and trembled,
expecting I know not what disastrous communication:
to me, however, no reference was made, and the cloud
seemed to pass.
