Page:Once a Week Dec 1860 to June 61.pdf/641

630 Ah, vestal-bosom’d! thou that all the May From maidenly reserve would’st not depart, Till June’s warm wooing won thee to display The golden secret hidden in thy heart;

Lay thy white heart bare to the Summer King, Brim thy broad chalice for him with fresh rain, Fling towards him from thy milky censers—fling Fine fragrances—a bride without a stain.

Without? Look, June, thy pearly love is smutch’d! That which doth wake her gentle beauty, slays: Alas! that nothing lovely lasts, if touched By aught more real than a longing gaze.

a bright December morning, long ago,—never mind how, never mind where, and never mind when,—I felt that I was really too busy to do aught but please myself; a gratifying sensation seasoned with a spice of conscience, for had I not performed sundry and manifold household duties? Had I not made the breakfast, and eaten my own good share of it? Had I not done all, and said all, that was necessary, even to informing my old nurse, housekeeper, lady’s-maid, confidante, and tyrant, Mary Bennet, that my long raved of and beautiful friend, Lora Gardiner, was coming that very day to commence, organise, and grace a whole series of Christmas festivities? Had she not, as was her wont when any far-famed star was mentioned, said: “Nae doubt, nae doubt; but I’m thinking she’ll nae be like the Lady Janet Johnstoun o’ Johnstoun Ha’!” and had I not mentally ejaculated, “Bother her!” but to the old woman, “You’ll see; she’s prettier, Mary, far, and I know you’ll say so?” Whereupon, of course, she had said: “Nae, nae, there wer but ae Lady Janet in a’ the warld, and she’s gane,” and wiped her eyes; so then I knew the curtain had fallen on that act of the drama, and went on my way.

I suppose every one, at some period or other of their lives, has known what it was to feel the heart lightened, step quickened, and cheek flushed, with nothing more or less exciting than a fine frosty morning! Such was my own case: and after my little confab with Mary—or Mrs. Bennet, as she was usually termed—I hastened to put on a jaunty hat, warm coat, gloves, &c., and sally forth rejoicing; but while my kirtle was undergoing the process of “kilting a little above the knee,” I could not resist again asking Mary, “Was Lady Janet really so very beautiful?”

The old woman gave a deep sigh; and then, apparently searching for some one string which had deserted its post, catching it, losing it again, and again reclaiming the wanderer, which she tied with a jerk, continued:

“Aye, she wer maire beautiful than ony I’se e’er seen; she wer winsome, and blithesome, and bonnie, wi’ the eye o’ an eagle, and the heart o’ the dove, but” (and here her voice sank to a tone which made me creep all over), ”they do say, up in my ain countree, that though the Lady Janet Johnstoun is aye dead and gone, she nae sleeps!” After this last remark, she observed, taking a bird’s-eye view of me from a far corner of the room, “I’m thinking yer a’ richt noo.”

All right!—what a mockery! All right! When I felt that the only safe mode of transit from one room to another was by planting “my back agin the wa’,” like Lewie Gordon, and progressing by a crab-like movement, thus having the comforting assurance that there was nothing more or worse than bricks and mortar behind me.

’Twas useless to indulge (what an indulgence!) in such superstitious fancies. I had a walk to take, and “things” to do; so off I set, with a brave look, a craven heart, and a somewhat flitting colour. The crisp road under foot, and the bright light of God’s mercy over-head, tended somewhat to reassure me, though I could not refrain once or twice from feeling that I wished Mrs. Bennet had been less communicative respecting that bright, particular star of hers, the Lady Janet Johnstoun; and making up my mind that I would know the whole history before I was many days older, went on, and on, and on, like the old woman in the story book, until I came to our town—a straggling, ill-built place, with more children than mothers to look after them, more dogs than owners, and more dirt than drains; but yet it boasted one or two good shops, with civil tradespeople, who informed you, with the blandest of smiles, that they had not got whatever you might happen to want, but would get it “with pleasure” a fortnight later than the day on which you required it; and in addition to these well-to-do emporiums was one wretched little jeweller’s or pawnbroker’s shop, kept by the most miserable, thievish-looking Israelite that ever disgraced a Christian country. Now this shop I somewhat affected; for, softly be it spoken, I have a weakness for old China! and Benjamin frequently meets with rare specimens at a far more moderate price than I should have to pay for the same in London; therefore I confess to hanging about that dirty old shop. I confess to poking my nose into that offensive little hole. I confess to holding long conferences with that dingy old dealer, Benjamin Lye! And on this particular occasion I went a quarter of a mile out of the direct road to have a gaze through his foggy window, where my attention was immediately riveted by the unusual sight of a queer-shaped morocco jewel-case. I at once stepped in, requesting Benjamin to gratify my womanly curiosity by opening the closed lid;—for, if there is one thing which teases me more than another, it is a mystery. I always consider a closed box, when you do not know what is in it, a decided mystery. If other people had had the same feelings as myself, we should never have had that catastrophe of the Mistletoe Bough. But in the mean time the obsequious Benjamin was doing his best to make me happy, by a sight of the contents of the faded case; but no, it resisted all his efforts, until he had recourse to a knife, which seemed of but little more avail, for so fast as he moved it from one side to the other, so quickly did that obstinate box close after it; and Benjamin grew redder and redder in the face, until crimson began to shine below the dirt, as between each attempt he gaspingly gave me the information that “been in ish possesshion a vary long time—brought by a lady