My First Season. ... Edited by the author of 'Counterparts'

Chapter I

I am the only child of Anne Vaux, sixth daughter of the sixteenth Baron Ailye ; a baron proud of not being an earl — as all the Ailyes are. My mother married a clergyman, whose erudition was remarkable, though he was remarkable for nothing else. He was chaplain at Ashleigh Place, the chief seat of the Ailyes, but never came to town ; and, although my mother was married at the chapel in the house, I have reason to believe that the union was execrated by her family, as her father never raised my own from his obscure position : which, however, he preferred to any ecclesiastical dignity, with or without ease. My acquaintance with my mother will begin in heaven ; for, marrying late and when in broken health, she died almost at my birth. I believe my father regretted, as I am sure he loved her ; for when I recollect him first his hair was gray, and there were lines upon his brow which only sorrow can draw in the face of a man not forty years of age.

We lived in a small parsonage in a very un fashionable neighbourhood ; and only two servants ruled within doors — the one calling herself house keeper, and certainly confining her attention to the house, for I never knew her put her head out of the window, except to go to church. My nurse was her sister, and as like her as one pea is said to be like another; inasmuch as, thinking air unnecessary for a child, and exercise posi tively needful, she made me walk before break fast up and down the nursery with my bonnet on one hundred times every morning. T generally breakfasted in my bonnet, that I might be ready to run into the garden ; which she could not forbid me to frequent, though thither she never followed me. I delighted in this gar den, where nothing ever flourished, because the gardener only came twice a year ; first in spring to weed and roll the walks, and secondly in autumn to lop and train a determinately fruitless A strange childhood. 3 vine.

Directly he left the weeds came up again, and faster than ever the stones upon the walks became glued together with snails' slime. In its weedy condition I best liked this garden, and acted in it all sorts of plays, both sacred and profane, with no audience except a pet toad, which lived in an old watering-pot that was lined with cobwebs, and to whose daily wants I minis tered by providing it with water and pastry made of mud and grass well mixed. My first-formed impression, as a child, was that of the day of judgment; which I expected every night when I went to bed, with great curiosity, and not a touch of terror : indeed, con siderable disappointment affected me in the morning to find it had not arrived. At four years old I could read in the Bible ; a series of prophetical visions occupied my mind, and my heart overflowed with pleasure in that first of all poetry, the Psalms.

I was seven years old when one day my father found me preaching to the chairs in his study with his Latin Bible in my hand, and discovered I had an ear for languages. He was himself a prince of linguists, and forth with he began to teach me Latin grammar. I considered Latin an abstruse game — still a game merely, and the best of all my plays ; so much so that, observing Greek to appear even a more abstruse game than Latin, I began Greek too. My father next perceiving that, instead of writing a young lady's hand, I printed all my letters, and sometimes mixed up Greek and English capitals in a word, took away my books, and sent me to a school in the nearest town ; intend ing that I should remain there one quarter to be taught to write, and then return to him. I stayed at school a night and a morning, and ran home the next afternoon ; my impulse being, not horror of milk-and-water or backboards — in those days not extinct, — but an innate anti pathy I naturally had to a crowd, even during a childhood which has matured into a life whose greatest charm is solitude.

From that hour my father, who never in his life reproved me, taught me entirely himself. Perhaps studious tastes were natural to me: I certainly assumed habits of study, even then. I was nearly fourteen when my father was drenched in a violent rain-storm, and sat, during a pastoral visit, in his wet dress. His return to his home was for the last time, for he had caught a cold which issued in fever ; that fever passed to ORPHANED. typhus, and ended fatally. I was with him during his whole illness, which, though sharp, was short ; the servants vainly tried to remove me, and at last I was found by them asleep — asleep on the bosom of one who slept no longer, except in death. I remained beside him afterwards, when others had laid him in his study ; — it seemed for many days. One morning, as I still sat there, not stunned but sorrowful, a gentle man entered, and led me from the room with a firm yet gentle hand.

Chapter II

The morning after the funeral I found myself for the first time in my life driven in a post chaise through beautiful country. I had seen no sylvan scenes before, and for miles and miles I could not withdraw my gaze even to glance at the pale being who sat beside me : for I had found out he was pale the day before — almost as pale as was my father's face in death. It was Lord Ailye, who was taking me with him, as I soon discovered, to his own home ; but I was too inexperienced at that time to be aware of the greatness of his gentle charity in doing so. I had never seen him, scarcely ever heard of him, until after my father died. For some hours after we set out, Lord Ailye was as silent as I, but at last, while I was leaning forward to catch the last bright glimpse of a golden hop-ground in the evening sun, he touched my shoulder, LORD AILYE. 7 then drew me from the window to the seat beside him, and began to talk.

" Did your father speak of his hopes to you ? Was his soul at peace ?" I trembled to my heart, for death was still to me a name ineffable. I replied, without con sideration, very bashfully and foolishly. " I do not know, Lord Ailye." "Do not call me Lord Ailye," he replied, " call me Edward. You must be my child, tall Beatrice : I have four children even now at home." How young they must be ! I thought ; for I knew he had succeeded to the title while yet a minor, not many years before ; though I knew not so much more about him as whether he had also married. So very young I thought him, to have such deep lines round his dark blue but inex pressibly mournful eyes ; the furrows of dried-up tears, as even then I knew. His dark hair had a slight damp curl, and, despite his air of reserve, half pride, half sad humility, he was too pale not to touch the heart, while far too handsome not to strike the fancy.

So suddenly affected, I took his hand, a freak which seemed to please him, for he smiled. " You are not well," I said, " Edward ;" for I thought he would like to be called so. " It is well to be ill," he replied, in his par ticularly dry though gentle tones, " it reminds us of what we must never forget — that we are dust — that while we live we die — that our rest is not upon earth — that Faith alone can console us in our weakness." What has that to do with being ill ? I thought ; for when I was ill in my little way it was ever my habit to disallow my suffering : to keep it out of sight, if possible. "You have been confirmed, Beatrice?" he resumed. "Not yet," I answered. " Of course your dear father prepared you?" My father, no doubt deeming me a perfect child, had never spoken to me on the subject personally.

" No," I said ; then added, fearing to dis please my cousin, " but he taught me everything." Then Edward was speechless for a time, perhaps not knowing what to say. It was middle summer and yet daylight when we reached Ashleigh Place; though it became ASHLEIGH PLACE. dark immediately we passed into the gates, beneath such trees as I had never dreamed of, so broad of girth, so thick in leaf, in such rich, almost sublime variety. Deep calls of rooks filled one long avenue, in another grove doves moaned in mournful concert, a heron soared out of the elms, and squirrels shook the fir spires. The mansion was worthy of its position ; placed far within the gates, still environed by a moat and defended by a drawbridge, it was built of stone and brickwork harmoniously blended, in a style in which neither mediæval nor modern architects have designed and dreamed.

We drove past the grand entrance, at which I had hoped we should alight, to a door in one of the wings, and there Edward lifted me himself from the carriage. We entered a small passage, in which stood one grave greybeard of a servant, who opened for us the door of a large room plainly furnished, and then retired into the shade. This room was already lighted for the evening with wax candles in heavy candlesticks of bronze. Two little boys were playing with a puzzle at the table, a young lady of my own age sat before a reading-desk, and a boy older though not taller than she, was standing before some shelves with a book beneath each arm and another volume in his hand. "Rowena and George, this is our dear Beatrice. Spen and Willie, come and kiss your cousin," Lord Ailye said, with an authority super-parental ; and they all greeted me.

The eldest pleased me best, as he ever since has done. His eyes were not blue, like Edward's, but clearest hazel ; his hair was brighter, his features were far more beautiful, yet in his beauty there was nothing feminine. Rowena, two years younger than George, was tall and slender, with a quantity of long ringlets, and no expression in her face except consciousness of those extraordinary curls. As for Spencer and Wilton, they were yellow-haired, like their mother, who had been a Gordon — they were not Vaux in any feature. I drank tea with my cousins in another room at hand, and Edward was present still ; besides whom I saw without observing — for I was almost asleep in my chair — that there was a lady making tea, and that two gentlemen were also at the table, with George sitting between them.

After tea I was guarded to the door of the room in which I was to sleep, by Lord Ailye himself, who FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 11 pronounced a benison audibly upon me while he kissed my cheek. My bed-room was large, a window sunk into a deep recess reached the high ceiling : the dark-red curtains were close drawn, but I directly opened them and the blinds besides, that I might see the trees, and the moonlight upon the water in the park. The wing in which I slept was haunted ; as I was in due time informed — by the maids of course — not by George, to whom a goblin was ever a rat or a robber : and I certainly heard noises there, whether bred of ghostly com pany or not. I liked these noises, having never in my life found fear my bed-fellow : and truly as I live, one night long afterwards — the night my first friend died — I saw a soft blue star wander downwards as from the firmament, and melt into azure mist upon the bosom of the lake.

I must not forget to say that a maid knocked at my door the evening of my arrival, and inti mated that she was to undress me, if I chose. I refused, not liking to be touched by a stranger, and, sleepy as I was, I went to rest in my clothes, having thrown myself, exhausted, upon the bed. But my room looked eastwards, and the sun awoke me as he rose, shining as from a prism through arms of Vaux, which coloured the diamond panes of every front window in the house. I got up and undressed, then bathed and dressed again, and bethought myself to examine the furniture. It was plain, large, and old ; a drab carpet, dark-red curtains to the bedstead, a square wash ing-stand, and a toilet-table without a looking glass were the results of my immediate survey ; but a glance more special revealed a large Bible bound in black, placed upon the table; with a Concordance and a copy of the Olney Hymns upon either side of it, also bound in black.

Above the table hung a black frame ; containing a placard bearing in large black letters the in scriptions following : " Ye know not the day nor the hour wherein the Son of Man cometh." " Be thou also ready." I remembered the conversation in the post chaise the day before, and a gust of curiosity drove me out of the room, early as it was, and down the silent stairs into the great hall ; where I found myself for the first time. It was larger than my father's church, and most beautifully carved in oak ; but there were blank square spaces on the walls, where it seemed as though pictures FORESHADOWS. 13 had hung, and ought to hang still ; the carving being richest round these spaces, as though to frame gilt frames within them. I was standing at the bottom of the staircase when a door opened suddenly, and I saw Lord Ailye, dressed com pletely, as I was myself, and carrying a Bible, into which his thumb was shut.

Strange to say, he did not see me ; his eyes were fixed upon the floor as he crossed the hall, and I observed him enter a room, which I afterwards discovered to be the room in which his father died. As he closed the door I tried the handle of another, which led me into an immense dining room, every chair and table in which was piled up in a heap in the midst, while the candelabra were swathed in pieces of the purple damask cur tains, and the edges of the yet remaining hangings were bleached with the action of sun light. There were five deep windows beautifully moulded, and when I tried to open one — for they opened to the ground, — the bolt creaked, so rusty was it from disuse. I forced it, however; but when I had got out of the window to the garden I could not shut it again, and was obliged to leave it open : in advertisement of that tomboyhood which was soon to be crushed within me. garden was alleyed and terraced, charming as to its outline, but miserably deficient in flowers ; indeed, except roses of the old fashioned genera, that seem to flourish for ever be they once planted, I found only daisies and dandelions.

Presently I wandered near a hot-house, but, entering it, I only discovered grapes, which hung in clusters from the roof. Behind the grapery was a strew of frames turned upside down ; and beyond them I beheld the trees, over the palings of the park. Next I found a gate, but it was locked, and I was actually about to try to get over it by climbing, when I heard a voice from above, and, looking up, saw George, who was sitting high up in a tree with a book in his hand. "I'll come down and open the gate," he cried ; and down he came and stood before me, with his face glowing like the morning. "Beatrice !" said he ; " Beatrice !" — in a voice that made me admire my own name — and then smiling, he took my chilly fingers in his warm hands : for his hands were warm, though he had come down out of a tree.

Then he went on — "Why, how long have you been here, and who in the world called you so early ?" I told him it was my own fault ; but before I could ex- GEORGE. 15 plain, he asked me to wait for him there while he ran into the house. I did so, and in a very little while he brought me a cup of milk, and filled with biscuits the pockets of my black silk apron. " We shall get no breakfast until half-past eight," he said, "and that is late enough, — but I should have thought you had lived here all your life, instead of running wild, as Edward says you have been accustomed to do. Beatrice — ah yes, do not think me rude that I call you Beatrice already, before I know whether you'll let me or not : but you are such a true Beatrice ; — there are eight in the gallery now, all like you more or less ; and as for Miss Rowena, she is more like her own discarded doll than a veritable Vaux."

" Oh, may I see the picture-gallery?" I cried, for my father had spoken to me of the pictures. "May I see it now?" I added. " You cannot," said George, " nor I either, for it is locked up, and Edward threw the key into the moat about six years ago, or nearly so, when first we came here." " What did he do that for ?" I asked, indignantly. " Because he says beauty is vanity." " But all is vanity : not beauty in particular." " Ah ! Mr. Henry was quite right when I asked him about you. Shall I tell you what he said?" " I don't know who he is." "My tutor — at least one of them, and the one I care for. He said that my cousin was a young lady of fine talents, but in danger from her courage — a great deal for him to say. However, now tell me Beatrix Vaux — as you are for all the in terposing Reynolds — did you find a looking-glass in your bed-room ?"

" No ; but I thought, of course, that it was a mistake. Perhaps the maids thought it was a young gentleman coming. I intend to have one, though." " We do not intend at Ashleigh : here there is but one will. I knew, directly I saw you, that they would take away your looking-glass." "But why so?" " Because you are too pretty to look at yourself. Edward has good taste, though he mortifies it ; and he will serve you as he does us, of course." " Of course ? — I shall not stay here." " I hope you will like to stay, Beatrice ; for if Edward says you shall, you'll find you must." " What makes you call your father, Edward ?" A PROSPECT. 17 " Did you ever climb a tree ?" was his reply. " For you will be standing till you are tired out ; and if you want to know how we go on here, I must tell you now or never.

You will not be allowed to talk to me before breakfast again, and there is not another moment in which we can be by ourselves. Edward says young persons ought never to be left to themselves, — but I am wasting all our time. Will you come up here ?" " I should like it extremely," said I ; to whom it was no fresh exertion, as I had been accustomed to sit on the roof of my father's house without even soiling my pinafore, as it was the pride of my nurse to say. George was perfectly astonished at my success, and I believe I rose in his esteem immediately I mounted. Fie had climbed before me step by step, and we perched ourselves as safely as two birds upon a branch so high that I could have counted twenty nests of real birds within a glance. All around were leaves, but through the leaves an azure twinkle stole ; and one broad gap in front disclosed a break of country, the fairest I have ever seen — a hill-side pearled with sheep, upon the slopes of which, to this day, I often wander, ankle-deep in moss.

" Now tell me," said I, " about your father." •2 " He is not my father : we are brothers. My poor father — well, he was not like Edward, what ever he was. What made you think so ?" " He called you his children, and told me I must be his child. But I have no claim upon him." " As much as we have. I dare say you will wonder when I have told you, why I stay here — not being a girl, and obliged." " Indeed ! a girl is not obliged to stay." " Don't be consequential, madam ; you will only have to drag your train in the dust. There was a time when I was savage too. Really and truly, Edward — I tell you in confidence, you know — Edward might send anybody mad who was not born an idiot. Yet, Beatrice, he's good : extra good ; as good as man can be — at least, he means to be so. He has some right to call us children, for he has been a father to us, and a kind one.

He lets us live here, which is a good thing for us, and will prevent our being so very poor some day." " But you can't be poor with a place like this ; and other places, too, papa told me about." " Not now, — there were ; and then Ashleigh was a show-place, and got so out of repair. But EXPLANATIONS. when we came here with Edward, he sold the others to pay our debts." " Your debts ?" " Ours," said George, blushing, and looking through the leaves the other way. And then I was quite sure they were his father's debts Edward had paid. " Of course it makes a great difference to him, for he has not thrown us over, as most men would have done ; he brings us up entirely, and saves what money we have. He is not in a mess now, however ; and the reason he lives so quietly, and has not entered public life, is not because he is so generous to us : he never goes to town because he thinks it wicked to mix in the world.

I told Mr. Henry one day that he might as well persuade Edward to go to town, because he would have more opportunities for doing good, &c, in London than in the country. But Mr. Henry says that what Edward would explore in London would turn his brain, and perhaps kill him, and that the care of his tenants and ourselves is quite as much as he can do. Edward is so horribly conscien tious, and so dreadfully melancholy with it, that — you will think me the most ungrateful and the meanest wretch if I go on any more." " I shan't ; it does not interfere with your loving him. Everybody can't agree with everybody." " And Edward will not marry, on our accounts — at least, so he says. But I don't think he would marry any how." "But you seem to have a great many persons living in the house." "Yes; and I was going to tell you that Rowena's governess is no trouble at all, though she is under Edward : she does not see half her time, and the other half she does not hear.

Mind, I do not say such things to Rowena, for she would not understand; but you do. You saw Mr. Henry; what do you think of him ?" "Your tutor, I suppose? — but I saw two." " Yes ; Wrench came for classics and mathe matics, and he is called chaplain ; but he never preaches, as we go to the parish church, and he never has any opportunity of lecturing, for Edward has prayers himself. However, Wrench is harmless, and I never say a word against him, as he cannot help being stupid ; and what I know of Greek I learned from Mr. Henry. For Latin, Wrench may stand. You know I might have gone to Eton for less than Edward pays these two to keep me here." CONFIDENCES. 21 " I should have thought you would like Eton best ; I should if I were a boy." " I should think so ; and, though you may not believe it, I can tell you I was just going to run away altogether, when Mr. Henry came."

" But why do you have two tutors, then?" "I never ask why, for fear of losing one." " You are very fond of him, then ?" "Fond is a girl's word — but I would die for him. I hope he will teach you : he teaches Rowena French and German ; but she don't learn either — she can't. Perhaps you will, for I know you can." "Yes, I can learn languages, papa said. I mean to study all." " That will do for Mr. Henry. If persons don't love learning they ought not to be taught — so he says. I told you I would not have stayed here if he had not come, and now I would rather live here all my life with him than get out into the world and lose him there. But he puzzles me sometimes ; for you know he can't possibb/care so much for me as to stay for my sake alone." " I suppose he likes teaching." " No more than I should naturally — at least, to do nothing else, you know !

He has great power over people, and he makes Edward behave quite small ; but there's nobody to control, besides, at Ashleigh, and if he loves influence he can't exercise it. He teaches everything ; for 1 do believe there is nothing he does not know, and I think his manners finer even than Edward's. He's an exile, though, and that may have some thing to do with his remaining here, if he wants, as perhaps he does, to be out of the way. You know all about the Poles — Kosciusko is Mr. Henry's hero, and I think he's full of fighting blood, for he sets his lips hard and blushes red to his brows when we read of battles in the Greek books. I think, don't you, that all Poles are heroes — not only Kosciusko. I only wish we might pick some quarrel which should get us into war with Russia ; I long to fight the Russians — to crush them, for their own sakes and Poland's too."

" I don't know anything about the Poles except that they were shamefully treated. I only read ancient history with papa, and English and French history — papa said hardly any person is up in early French history. Will you tell me about the Poles, if you please?" " I can't, but Mr. Henry can, and I will ask SLIGHTLY MYSTERIOUS. 23 him to do so ; it would take too long to give you even an outline. I often wonder why he remains in an inglorious retreat like this — why he does not try to get up something for the Poles. He never has a single letter, do you know, Beatrice ; and every Saturday evening he goes out alone — the only times he don't ask me for my company : and I dare not ask him for his. Where he goes it is impossible to discover : of course one would not wish to do so, but I must say I wonder.

" Perhaps he has a wife," I sagely suggested, " and some children, he goes to see after." " Impossible ! As if Mr. Henry would ever live away from his wife and children ! He would have taken them to America, and he would have made his fortune there. Besides, I asked him once if he never intended to marry, because his descriptions of all the beautiful and celebrated women are so well drawn ; and he said he thought not, indeed he had never given the subject a moment's thought. And to tell truth, I daren't ask him many questions for fear he should not like it and should go away." "What do you mean to be when you grow up ?" I asked ; having a settled impression that to be nothing at all was odious. " I mean to be a soldier in time of war, and a statesman in time of peace — at least, I wish to be ; but I dare say it is impossible.