Robert Elsmere | Page 3

lower toward the Shanmoor hills, the hidden artist had it all his, or her,
own way; the valley and its green spaces seemed to be possessed by

this stream of eddying sound, and no other sign of life broke the gray
quiet of the house. But at last, just as the golden ball touched the
summit of the craggy fell, which makes the western boundary of the
dale at its higher end, the house-door opened, and a young girl, shawled
and holding some soft burden in her arms, appeared on the threshold,
and stood there for a moment, as though trying the quality of the air
outside. Her pause of inspection seemed to satisfy her, for she moved
forward, leaving the door open behind her, and, stepping across the
lawn, settled herself in a wicker chair under an apple-tree, which had
only just shed its blossoms on the turf below. She had hardly done so
when one of the distant doors opening on the gravel path flew open,
and another maiden, a slim creature garbed in aesthetic blue, a mass of
reddish brown hair flying back from her face, also stepped out into the
garden.
'Agnes!' cried the new-comer, who had the strenuous and dishevelled
air natural to one just emerged from a long violin practice. 'Has
Catherine come back yet?'
'Not that I know of. Do come here and look at pussy; did you ever see
anything so comfortable?'
'You and she look about equally lazy. What have you been doing all the
afternoon?'
'We look what we are, my dear. Doing? Why, I have been attending to
my domestic duties, arranging the flowers, mending my pink dress for
to-morrow night, and helping to keep mamma in good spirits; she is
depressed because she has been finding Elizabeth out in some waste or
other, and I have been preaching to her to make Elizabeth
uncomfortable if she likes, but not to worrit herself. And after all, pussy
and I have come out for a rest. We've earned it, haven't we, Chattie?
And as for you, Miss Artistic, I should like to know what you've been
doing for the good of your kind since dinner. I suppose you had tea at
the vicarage?'
The speaker lifted inquiring eyes to her sister as she spoke, her cheek
plunged in the warm fur of a splendid Persian cat, her whole look and
voice expressing the very highest degree of quiet, comfort, and
self-possession. Agnes Leyburn was not pretty; the lower part of the
face was a little heavy in outline and moulding; the teeth were not as
they should have been, and the nose was unsatisfactory. But the eyes

under their long lashes were shrewdness itself, and there was an
individuality in the voice, a cheery even-temperediness in look and
tone, which had a pleasing effect on the bystander. Her dress was neat
and dainty; every detail of it bespoke a young woman who respected
both herself and the fashion.
Her sister, on the other hand, was guiltless of the smallest trace of
fashion. Her skirts were cut with the most engaging naïveté, she was
much adorned with amber beads, and her red brown hair had been
tortured and frizzled to look as much like an aureole as possible. But,
on the other hand, she was a beauty, though at present you felt her a
beauty in disguise, a stage Cinderella as it were, in very becoming rags,
waiting for the fairy godmother.
'Yes, I had tea at the vicarage,' said this young person, throwing herself
on the grass in spite of a murmured protest from Agnes, who had an
inherent dislike of anything physically rash, 'and I had the greatest
difficulty to get away. Mrs. Thornburgh is in such a flutter about this
visit! One would think it was the Bishop and all his Canons, and
promotion depending on it, she has baked so many cakes and put out so
many dinner napkins! I don't envy the young man. She will have no
wits left at all to entertain him with. I actually wound up by
administering some sal-volatile to her.'
'Well, and after the sal-volatile did you get anything coherent out of her
on the subject of the young man?'
'By degrees,' said the girl, her eyes twinkling; 'if one can only
remember the thread between whiles one gets at the facts somehow. In
between the death of Mr. Elsmere's father and his going to college, we
had, let me see,--the spare room curtains, the making of them and the,
cleaning of them, Sarah's idiocy in sticking to her black sheep of a
young man, the price of tea when she married, Mr. Thornburgh's
singular preference of boiled mutton to roast, the poems she had written
to her when she was eighteen,