First Love. Mrs. Loudon
be but imperfectly seen, left imagination free to deck the whole with the charms of fairy-land. Indeed, from what did appear, it was evident that the sitting-rooms were numerous, and richly furnished; that one corridor was a green house, another a conservatory; and that the wings contained library, music-room, billiard-room, and several sleeping and dressing-rooms, all on the ground floor, all opening on the smooth turf, and displaying, or rather betraying, enough of their arrangements to show that, not only convenience, but luxury had been studied in their fitting up.
On the outside, ever-blowing roses, with jessamine, honeysuckle and clematis, bloomed in abundance, climbing around the casements, and creeping along the palings: while a gay assemblage of the choicest and sweetest flowers occupied plots, scattered irregularly on the velvet green.
The evening song of myriads of birds was pouring from the deep woods with every wild variety of note, rendered the more remarkable by the monotonous sound of the now subdued murmur of the fall, which still went on, on, like the studied sameness of a judicious accompaniment, selected to give effect to the varied excursions of the singer’s voice.
Though the sun was still above the horizon, many bonfires were already lit at various distances along the road. The immediate approach was crouded with people, looking full of expectation. Detached groups were advancing in different directions; and, here and there, individuals had climbed trees, or elevated portions of rock, and seemed looking out for something. Every now and then, Mrs. Smyth, dressed in a holiday suit, came forth from some one or other of the many open doors, held up her hand to shade the glare of light from her eyes, looked towards the lake for a few moments, and returned in again. Then, would some beautiful exotic be seen to change its position on some flower-stand; next a drapery would be let down from the golden pin which had held it, and hung again, we suppose, with more grace, at least in the opinion of good Mrs. Smyth, whose form glided on through long corridors, from time to time appearing, disappearing, and re-appearing; and generally followed by that of a child that seemed, at every step, to leap and gambol for very glee.
At length, a carriage was seen driving, at a rapid pace, along the borders of Derwent-water. Every thing bright about it sparkled in the rays of the setting sun. A universal shout arose, and all became hurry and motion. The carriage approached: it was a barouche thrown open, and, seated in it, were Mrs. Montgomery and Lord and Lady L. They bowed, smiled, and waved their hands on every side. But soon the attention of the latter lady was entirely engrossed by the appearance of a lovely little boy, whom Mrs. Smyth, as she descended the lawn, led by the hand; and in whom, but for one touching expression, imperceptible perhaps to any other eye than Frances’, no one could have recognized poor Edmund. The rich dark locks, the profusion of which had formerly added the look of wild neglect to that of misery, now flew back as he ran against the wind, displaying and giving contrast to a forehead white and open. The late hollow cheeks were now rounded, dimpled, and glowing, at once with exercise and delight. His mouth, always beautiful in its form, and so very sweet in its movements, had now all the advantages of rosy lips and happy smiles. While his eyes, which from their being large, and adorned by peculiarly long lashes, had once seemed to occupy the chief part of his face, now but served to give soul to the more earthly beauties, which the good cheer of Mrs. Smyth had supplied.
Edmund had got a few paces before his conductress. He stretched forward both hands, and leaped up with a bound towards the door, as he reached the side of the carriage. Lady L. pulled the check-string. The carriage stopped, and Edmund, whom by its rapid motion it had already passed some yards, was brought back by a servant, and lifted in. Such was his joy, that the poor little creature could not speak! He trembled excessively, and, for a moment or two, his features were almost convulsed by his struggles not to cry: he thought it would seem as if he were not glad, and he knew he was very glad. A few tears, however, forced their way; but they only hung in the long lashes, shining like early dew-drops, while happiness sparkled through them: for now, encouraged and caressed, he sat on Lady L.’s knee, and hugged one of her hands. Yet, when he looked up in her face and tried to speak, his little lip trembled again, and his little countenance assumed an expression of feeling beyond his years, which early sorrow had taught the infant features. Lady L. kissed his forehead and passed her hand over it, to wipe away, as it were, the trace of care; while an ardent desire swelled in her heart to screen this object of her tender compassion from every painful vicissitude of life, accompanied, however, by a sigh to think how vain the wish! This sigh was followed by yet another, as, from association, the very natural idea presented itself, that it must be also impossible for her effectually to shelter from the changes and chances of mortal existence, even the babe, that destined to be born under auspices so different, would, in a few months, make her really a mother.
Mrs. Montgomery rallied, and Lord L. complimented her on her discernment; declaring that they never had seen any thing half so beautiful as her unpromising favourite had turned out.
“Do not think me illiberal,” said Lady L.; “but I cannot imagine this the child of coarse, vulgar parents—a creature that seems all soul! See, with what an intelligent countenance he listens to every thing that is said!”
Mrs. Montgomery smiled; and Lord L., anxious to please a wife with whom he was still in love, was about to express himself quite of her opinion.
The discussion was, however, for the present broken off by the stopping of the carriage amid shouts of joyous welcome. While the merry groups around the bonfires drank the healths of our family party, its members seated themselves at a most inviting looking table, which we have long half seen from behind a muslin curtain.
The agreeable summer supper they here found prepared for their entertainment, consisted chiefly of fruit, of which little Edmund, placed between Lady L. and Mrs. Montgomery, was permitted to partake.
“You see,” remarked her partial ladyship, after observing the child for a time, “with all the gentleness of his nature, there is no slavish awe of superiors about him. Do you know, I almost fancy I can discern an innate consciousness of being in his right place when he is with us: it would seem as though, however long he had been in the hands of those wretches, the impressions of absolute infancy, and of the caresses and tender treatment experienced, (if my conjecture is correct,) during that period, were never entirely effaced; for, that though they were not within the reach of memory to recall with any thing like distinctness, association possessed a mysterious power of bringing every thing similar to them home to the feelings. Can you imagine so nice a distinction? I can,” she added, turning to Lord L.
“There are few,” replied his lordship, “who have not, I should think, experienced the feeling of which you speak. Of this class are all the sensations of pleasure or of pain, occasioned by sounds or sights possessing in their own natures no corresponding qualities. How often, for instance, do we hear people say of an air, by no means solemn. ‘That tune always makes me melancholy: it reminds me of something, though I cannot remember what.’ ”
This sort of conversation naturally led to the subject of Edmund’s future prospects. It seemed tacitly yielded to the evident wishes of Lady L., that his profession should be that of a gentleman.
“I think,” said Lord L., “it will be the best way to give the boy a liberal education: and when he is of an age to judge for himself, let him choose for himself.”
Mrs. Montgomery expressed the same opinion.
“Nothing can be kinder, I am sure!” said Lady L., giving a hand to each, and seeming to take the obligation entirely to herself: then looking at Edmund, she added, after a moment’s pause, “I dare say, he will choose to be a clergyman, the benevolent duties of that sacred office will suit so well with his gentle temper. Should you not like to be a clergyman, my dear—like the gentleman who reads in the church every Sunday.”
“I’d like to be a sailor boy,” said Edmund.
“A sailor boy!” repeated Lady L. “Poor child!”
“That’s right, my brave fellow!” exclaimed Lord L. “You see, Frances, he will not be so very gentle after all! Less than a year of good feeding and kind treatment have already brought out his English spirit. If he continue of this opinion, I can obtain his admittance into the naval college at Portsmouth; after which, I shall put him forward in his