Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/387

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ONCE A WEEK.

[Noram 5,  1869.

tumble-down kind  of  a court,  in  one  of  the  best situations of  the  town. It was  inhabited  by workmen; they  had  carpenters’  shops  and  such like there. A builder took  a lease  of  these premises two  years  ago,  with  an  understanding that he  was  to  build  a certain  number  of  cottagers’ houses on  some  waste  land,  and  build  in  this court some  houses  fit  for  gentlemen’s  residences or good  lodging-houses. The first  house  is finished,  and  called  Beaumont. He is  very  lucky to let  it  so  well. The works  around  are  stopped; but there  is  such  a confusion  of  rubbish  and materials at  the  back,  where  the  other  three  sides of the  court  stood,  that  none  but  a blind  gentle- man would have  taken  Beaumont. The sitting- room windows  look  on  it. But Sir  Frederick Worth took  it. And as  the  sea-air  comes  straight upon the  houses,  and  the  rooms  are  handsome, and there  is  a carriage-drive  to  the  other  side  of the  house,  and  no  thoroughfare,  which  he  seemed to think  a great  deal  of,  he  took  the  house  for three months,  when  the  family  will  have  to  go out,  and  the  works  will  begin  again. If, sir,  you go through  our  garden  above  the  house,  and  get over the  stile,  you  will  see  Beaumont  across  Hie down on  your  right. Tou can  then  walk  straight to it. Tou are  sure  to  find  some  one  about. It is not  three  minutes’  walk  from  our  garden  fence. ”

Before two  hours  had  passed,  I had  gone  all over Beaumont. It was  just  as  Hie  woman  had said. Beams, rafters,  old  flooring,  and  roof -timber piled up,  or  still  standing,  looked  perilous  to my  uninstructed  eyes  in  the  great  yard  behind. The windows  that  looked  over  this  bewilderment of fallen  houses,  had  beyond  them  as  glorious  a sea-view  as  the  eye  could  rest  on: and  the  salt breeze came  scented  across  the  heath  and  wild thyme of  the  down  between. A decent woman showed me  the  house. It did  nicely  for  the  blind genHeman, she  thought. It was  the  healthiest place, and  would  be  the  prettiest  in  all  Beachly. And so  my  first  day  was  wandered  away  till about four  o’clock. I had not  been  in  my  lodgings more than  half-an-hour,  when  I heard  such  a music  of  voices — a chirruping  like  the  first  efforts of young  birds  at  song — and  low  sweet  laughs that made  me  smile. The door  opened,  and  a child,  all  sash  and  flounce,  and  hat  and  feathers, stood rosy  and  speaking:

“I am Ellen  Worth! If you  please,  Georgy, and nurse,  and  I,  are  come  to  say  that  Mrs. Barrington  and  mamma  are  at  Beaumont,  and they are  coming  here,  and  are  you  at-home,  Mr. Beane?”

Upon which  the  little  spokeswoman  stept aside, rather  out  of  breath,  and  Georgy,  looking very shy,  and  nurse  curtsying,  appeared,  in  the back -ground. But few  words  were  said,  before Ellen, who  had  taken  her  place  at  the  open  win- dow, cried out: “Here  they  are,”  and  once  more  I was  in  the  beautiful  presence  of  the  blind  man’s  wife.

Lady Worth  was  an  elegant  woman,  about  ten years older  than  Mrs.  Barrington,  who  was  not more, I thought,  than  five-and-twenty. I had been opening  a box  sent  by  my  sister  for  my  exa- minatton. There were  things  in  this  box  which had got  into  her  possession  accidentally,  and  which belonged to  me. I had sent  her,  on  our  dear father’s death,  about  a year  before,  a trunk  which at first  had  appeared  to  contain  only  clothes,  old lace, old  music,  and  needle- work  belonging  to  my mother. On her  taking  these  things  out  she  hul found a box,  tied  up  and  labelled,  thus — “Given to me  by  my  dear  friend,  Gerard  Leslie — signed, Reginald Deane .”  My  father  had  written  under this — * ‘ My brother,  before  his  death,  gave  me  thh box, and  told  me  what  the  contents  were. I asked what  I should  do  with  it. He answered:

if you  like. ’ I intend to  adhere  to  this  suggestion — signed, Nicolas  Dkank.”
 * Give it  to  my  nephew, your  son , when  he  is  forty,

I had received  this  box  from  my  sister  that  morn- ing, and just  before  little  Ellen  Worth  entered  the room I had  opened  it. The very  top  thing  was  a miniature. Folded in  soft  leather  and  satin,  it had  been  lying  there  since  the  death  of  my  father’s eldest brother,  a rich  bachelor,  of  whose  inheri- tance my share  had  been  about  a thousand  a year; nearly double  that  from  my  father  had  made  me in  the  eyes  of  many  a rich  man,  I had  begun  to think  of  this  since  breakfast,  really,  as  I had  never thought of  it  before. Why did  I not  many? was still the  question  at  my  heart. I held the  red  case in its  wrappings  with  a little  thrilling  sense  of what  it  was — a miniature — of  whom? Man or woman? If such  a moment,  reader,  has  ever come to  you,  you,  too,  will  have  felt  the  same. I had opened  the  case,  glanoed  at  the  exquisitely painted figure,  and  put  it  down — threw  it  — suddenly — and was  all  in  a gasp  of  surprise,  when Hie chirping  voices  ushered  in  the  little  lady  at  the door. I shut the  case,  and  threw  a newspaper over it.

“Here they  are  I” said  the  child,  and  in  another moment I was  welcoming  my  guests,  and  cubing after Mr. Barrington.

The children  were  wild  about  the  beach  and  the sea. Their mother  standing  by  them  left  Mrs. Barrington  for  a moment  by  my  side. I opened the miniature  and  gave  it  to  her.

“Do you  know  who  that  is?”

“Do you? ” she asked  with  a smile,  wondering and beautiful.

“No.”

As she  gazed  smiling,  and  pushing  her  rich  hair aside— for she  had  taken  off  her  hat — the  picture seemed to  gaze  on  her; and  whether  Mrs.  Bar- rington grew more  like  the  picture,  or  the  ivory like a mirror  reflected  her,  it  appeared  to  my puzzled  senses  difficult  to  decide. It was  a mar- vellous picture of  her,  just  as  she  stood  at  that moment in  her  glorious  beauty: so  like— so  super- humanly like, it  seemed  to  me,  that  watching  for her answer,  I had  begun  to  consider  whether  I had any right  to  keep  so  perfect  a likeness  of  another man’s wife.

“It is  my  mother,”  she  said. “She was  a Miss Barrington — Leslie’s aunt — an  heiress. My father. Colonel Leslie,  outlived  her  several  years. They are both  dead  now. Mr. Deane,  I know  how  you got this.”

She looked  towards  Lady  Worth  and  spoke  to her.

“Margaret, the  children  would  see  the  bay  best from that  inner- room!”

Her friend  understood  her,  and  we  were  left  alone.