Lady Hester | Page 6

at last, though not with
much satisfaction, from papa.
Emily had grown into great sweetness and grace, and Mrs. Deerhurst
had gone on very well. Of course, people were unkind enough to say, it
was only because she had such prey in view as Lord Torwood; but,
whatever withheld her, it is certain that Emily only had the most

suitable and reasonable pleasures for a young lady, and was altogether
as nice, and gentle, and sensible, as could be desired. There never was a
bit of acting in her, she was only allowed to grow in what seemed
natural to her. She was just one of the nice simple girls of that day,
doing her quiet bit of solid reading, and her practice, and her neat little
smooth pencil drawing from a print, as a kind of duty to her
accomplishments every day; and filling books with neat up-and-down
MS. copies of all the poetry that pleased her. Dainty in all her ways,
timid, submissive, and as it seemed to me, colourless.
But Fulk taught her Wordsworth, who was his great passion then, and
found her a perfect listener to all his Tory hopes, fears, and usages.
Papa could not help liking her when she came to stay with us, after they
were engaged, at the end of two years. He allowed that, away from her
mother and all her belongings, she would do very well; and she was so
pretty and sweet in her respectful fear of him--I might almost say
awe--that his graceful, chivalrous courtesy woke up again; and he was
beginning absolutely to enjoy her, as she became a little more confident
and understood him better.
How well I remember that last evening! I was happier than I had been
for weeks about little Alured: the convulsions had quite gone off, the
teeth that had caused them were through, and he had been laughing and
playing on my lap quite brightly--cooing to his mother's miniature in
my locket. He was such an intelligent little fellow for eighteen months!
I came down so glad, and it was so pleasant to see Emily, in her white
dress, leaning over my father while he had gone so happily into his old
delight of showing his prints and engravings; and Torwood, standing
by the fire, watching them with the look of a conqueror, and
Jaquetta--like the absurd child she loved to be-- teasing them with
ridiculous questions about their housekeeping.
They were to have Spinney Lawn bought for them, just a mile away,
and the business was in hand. Jaquey was enquiring whether there was
a parlour for The Cid, Torwood's hunter, whom she declared was as
dear to him as Emily herself. Indeed, Emily did go out every morning
after breakfast to feed him with bread. I can see her now on Torwood's

arm, with big Rollo and little Malta rolling over one another after them.
Then came an afternoon when we had all walked to Spinney Lawn, laid
out the gardens together, and wandered about the empty rooms,
planning for them. The birds were singing in the March sunshine, and
the tomtits were calling "peter" in the trees, and Jaquetta went racing
about after the dogs, like a thing of seven years old, instead of
seventeen. And Torwood was cutting out a root of primroses, leaves
and all, for Emily, when we saw a fly go along the lane, and wondered,
with a sort of idle wonder. We supposed it must be visitors for the
parsonage, and so we strolled home, looking for violets by the way, and
Jaquetta getting shiny studs of celandine. Ah! I remember those
glistening stars were all closed before we came back.
Well, it must come, so it is silly to linger! There stood the fly at the
hall-door, and the butler met us, saying--
"There's a person with his lordship, my lord. She would not wait till
you came in, though I told her he saw no one on business without
you--"
Torwood hastened on before this, expecting to see some importunate
person bothering my father with a petition. What he did see was my
father leaning back in his chair, with a white, confounded, bewildered
look, and a woman, with a child on her lap, opposite. Her back was to
the door, and Torwood's first impression was that she was a
well-dressed impostor threatening him; so he came quickly to my
father's side, and said--
"What is it father? I'm here."
My poor father put out his hand feebly to him, and said--
"It is all true, Torwood. God forgive me; I did not know it!"
"Know what?" he asked anxiously. "What is it that distresses you,
father? Let me speak to this person--"

Then she broke out--not loud, not coarsely, but very determinately--
"No,