‘Jenny, Put the Kettle on.’

Old Lady Chelford, having despatched a sharp and unceremonious message to her young kinswoman, absent without leave, warning her, in effect, that if she returned to the drawing-room it would be to preside, alone, over gentlemen, departed, somewhat to our secret relief.

Upon this, on Lord Chelford’s motion, in our forlorn condition, we went to the billiard-room, and there, under the bright lights, and the gay influence of that wonderful game, we forgot our cares, and became excellent friends apparently —‘cuts,’ ‘canons,’ ‘screws,’ ‘misses,’ ‘flukes’— Lord Chelford joked, Wylder ‘chaffed,’ even Lake seemed to enjoy himself; and the game proceeded with animation and no lack of laughter, beguiling the watches of the night; and we were all amazed, at length, to find how very late it was. So we laid down our cues, with the customary ejaculations of surprise.

We declined wine and water, and all other creature comforts. Wylder and Lake had a walk before them, and we bid Lord Chelford ‘good-night’ in the passage, and I walked with them through the deserted and nearly darkened rooms.

Our talk grew slow, and our spirits subsided in this changed and tenebrose scenery. The void and the darkness brought back, I suppose, my recollection of the dubious terms on which these young men stood, and a feeling of the hollowness and delusion of the genial hours just passed under the brilliant lights, together with an unpleasant sense of apprehension.

On coming out upon the door-steps we all grew silent.

The moon was low, and its yellow disk seemed, as it sometimes does, dilated to a wondrous breadth, as its edge touched the black outline of the distant woods. I half believe in presentiments, and I felt one now, in the chill air, the sudden silence, and the watchful gaze of the moon. I suspect that Wylder and Lake, too, felt something of the same ominous qualm, for I thought their faces looked gloomy in the light, as they stood together buttoning their loose wrappers and lighting their cigars.

With a ‘good-night, good-night,’ we parted, and I heard their retreating steps crunching along the walk that led to Redman’s Hollow, and by Miss Rachel’s quiet habitation. I heard no talking, such as comes between whiffs with friendly smokers, side by side; and, silent as mutes at a funeral, they walked on, and soon the fall of their footsteps was heard no more, and I re-entered the hall and shut the door. The level moonlight was shining through the stained heraldic window, and fell bright on the portrait of Uncle Lorne, at the other end, throwing a patch of red, like a stain, on one side of its pale forehead.

I had forgot, at the moment, that the ill-omened portrait hung there, and a sudden horror smote me. I thought of what my vision said of the ‘blood upon my forehead,’ and, by Jove! there it was!

At this moment the large white Marseilles waistcoat of grave Mr. Larcom appeared, followed by a tall powdered footman, and their candles and business-like proceedings frightened away the phantoms. So I withdrew to my chamber, where, I am glad to say, I saw nothing of Uncle Lorne.

Miss Lake, as she drove that night toward Gylingden, said little to the vicar’s wife, whose good husband had been away to Friars, making a sick-call, and she prattled on very merrily about his frugal little tea awaiting his late return, and asked her twice on the way home whether it was half-past nine, for she did not boast a watch; and in the midst of her prattle was peeping at the landmarks of their progress.

‘Oh, I’m so glad — here’s the finger post, at last!’ and then —‘Well, here we are at the “Cat and Fiddle;” I thought we’d never pass it.’

And, at last, the brougham stopped at the little garden-gate, at the far end of the village; and the good little mamma called to her maid-of-all-work from the window —

‘Has the master come yet, Becky?’

‘No, Ma’am, please.’

And I think she offered up a little thanksgiving, she so longed to give him his tea herself; and then she asked —

‘Is our precious mannikin asleep?’ Which also being answered happily, as it should be, she bid her fussy adieux, with a merry smile, and hurried, gabbling amicably with her handmaid, across the little flower-garden; and Miss Lake was shut in and drove on alone, under the thick canopy of old trees, and up the mill-road, lighted by the flashing lamps, to her own little precincts, and was, in turn, at home — solitary, triste, but still her home.

‘Get to your bed, Margery, child, you are sleepy,’ said the young lady kindly to her queer little maid-of-honour. Rachel was one of those persons who, no matter what may be upon their minds, are quickly impressible by the scenes in which they find themselves. She stepped into her little kitchen — always a fairy kitchen, so tiny, so white, so raddled, and shining all over with that pleasantest of all effulgence — burnished tins, pewters, and the homely decorations of the dresser — and she looked all round and smiled pleasantly, and kissed old Tamar, and said —

‘So, my dear old fairy, here’s your Cinderella home again from the ball, and I’ve seen nothing so pretty as this since I left Redman’s Farm. How white your table is, how nice your chairs; I wish you’d change with me and let me be cook week about; and, really the fire is quite pleasant to-night. Come, make a cup of tea, and tell us a story, and frighten me and Margery before we go to our beds. Sit down, Margery, I’m only here by permission. What do you mean by standing?’ And the young lady, with a laugh, sat down, looking so pleased, and good-natured, and merry, that even old Tamar was fain to smile a glimmering smile; and little Margery actively brought the tea-caddy; and the kettle, being in a skittish singing state, quickly went off in a boil, and Tamar actually made tea in her brown tea-pot.

‘Oh, no; the delf cups and saucers; — it will be twice as good in them;’ and as the handsome mistress of the mansion, sitting in the deal chair, loosened her cloak and untied her bonnet, she chatted away, to the edification of Margery and the amusement of both.

This little extemporised bivouac, as it were, with her domestics, delighted the young belle. Vanity of vanities, as Mr. Thackeray and King Solomon cry out in turn. Silver trays and powdered footmen, and Utrecht, velvet upholstery — miserable comforters! What saloon was ever so cheery as this, or flashed all over in so small a light so splendidly, or yielded such immortal nectar from chased teapot and urn, as this brewed in brown crockery from the roaring kettle?

So Margery, sitting upon her stool in the background — for the Queen had said it, and sit she must — and grinning from ear to ear, in a great halo of glory, partook of tea.

‘Well, Tamar, where’s your story?’ said the young lady.

‘Story! La! bless you, dear Miss Radie, where should I find a story? My old head’s a poor one to remember,’ whimpered white Tamar.

‘Anything, no matter what — a ghost or a murder.’

Old Tamar shook her head.

‘Or an elopement?’

Another shake of the head.

‘Or a mystery — or even a dream?’

‘Well — a dream! Sometimes I do dream. I dreamed how Master Stanley was coming, the night before.’

‘You did, did you? Selfish old thing! and you meant to keep it all to yourself. What was it?’

Tamar looked anxiously and suspiciously in the kitchen fire, and placed her puckered hand to the side of her white linen cap.

‘I dreamed, Ma’am, the night before he came, a great fellow was at the hall-door.’

‘What! here?’

‘Yes, Ma’am, this hall-door. So muffled up I could not see his face............