Robert Elsmere | Page 6

keep it in check sometimes, but in
general it had to be borne with. A sharp word would have silenced the
mother's well-meant chatter at any time--for she was a fragile nervous
woman, entirely dependent on her surroundings--but none of them were
capable of it, and their mere refractoriness counted for nothing.
The dining room in which they were gathered had a good deal of
homely dignity, and was to the Leyburns full of associations. The oak
settle near the fire, the oak sideboard running along one side of the
room, the black oak table with carved legs at which they sat, were
genuine pieces of old Westmoreland work, which had belonged to their
grandfather. The heavy carpet covering the stone floor of what twenty
years before had been the kitchen of the farm-house was a survival
from a south-country home, which had sheltered their lives for eight
happy years. Over the mantelpiece hung the portrait of the girls' father,
a long serious face, not unlike Wordsworth's face in outline, and

bearing a strong resemblance to Catherine; a line of silhouettes adorned
the mantelpiece; on the walls were prints of Winchester and Worcester
Cathedrals, photographs of Greece, and two old-fashioned engravings
of Dante and Milton; while a bookcase, filled apparently with the
father's college books and college prizes and the favorite
authors--mostly poets, philosophers, and theologians--of his later years,
gave a final touch of habitableness to the room. The little meal and its
appointments--the eggs, the home-made bread and preserves, the
tempting butter and old-fashioned silver gleaming among the flowers
which Rose arranged with fanciful skill in Japanese pots of her own
providing--suggested the same family qualities as the room. Frugality,
a dainty personal self-respect, a family consciousness, tenacious of its
memories and tenderly careful of all the little material objects, which
were to it the symbols of those memories--clearly all these elements
entered into the Leyburn tradition.
And of this tradition, with its implied assertions and denials, clearly
Catherine Leyburn, the eldest sister, was, of all the persons gathered in
this little room, the most pronounced embodiment. She sat at the head
of the table, the little basket of her own and her mother's keys beside
her. Her dress was a soft black brocade, with lace collar and cuff,
which had once belonged to an aunt of her mother's. It was too old for
her both in fashion and material, but it gave her a gentle, almost
matronly dignity, which became her. Her long thin hands, full of
character and delicacy, moved nimbly among the cups; all her ways
were quiet and yet decided. It was evident that among this little party
she, and not the plaintive mother, was really in authority. To-night,
however, her looks were specially soft. The scene she had gone through
in the afternoon had left her pale, with traces of patient fatigue round
the eyes and mouth, but all her emotion was gone, and she was
devoting herself to the others, responding with quick interest and ready
smiles to all they had to say, and contributing the little experiences of
her own day in return.
Rose sat on her left hand in yet another gown of strange tint and archaic
outline. Rose's gowns were legion. They were manufactured by a
farmer's daughter across the valley, under her strict and precise
supervision. She was accustomed, as she boldly avowed, to shut herself
up at the beginning of each season of the year for two days' meditation

on the subject. And now, thanks to the spring warmth, she was entering
at last with infinite zest on the results of her April vigils.
Catherine had surveyed her as she entered the room with a smile, but a
smile not altogether to Rose's taste.
'What, another, Röschen?' she had said with the slightest lifting of the
eyebrows. 'You never confided that to me. Did you think I was
unworthy of anything so artistic?'
'Not at all,' said Rose calmly, seating herself. 'I thought you were better
employed.'
But a flush flew over her transparent cheek, and she presently threw an
irritated look at Agnes, who had been looking from her to Catherine
with amused eyes.
'I met Mr. Thornburgh and Mr. Elsmere driving from the station,'
Catherine announced presently; 'at least there was a gentleman in a
clerical wideawake with a portmanteau behind, so I imagine it must
have been he.'
'Did he look promising?' inquired Agnes.
'I don't think I noticed,' said Catherine simply, but with a momentary
change of expression. The sisters, remembering how she had come in
upon them with that look of one 'lifted up,' understood why she had not
noticed, and refrained from further questions.
'Well, it is to be hoped the young man is recovered enough to stand
Long Whindale festivities,' said Rose. 'Mrs.