"Fair shine the day on the house with open door;
Birds come and cry there and twitter in the chimney,
But I go for ever and come again no more."
                                                                                    —STEVENSON.
 
 
The following autumn my father, mother, and I went to stay at Belhus on a long visit, my father going to Cressing each week for the Sunday duty, and returning to us on Monday morning.
 
We all enjoyed spending Christmas at Belhus. My mother and my sister Emma were devoted to one another, and loved being together. We were a much larger party also at Belhus, and there were so many visitors coming and going that I felt it was all more cheerful than being at home.
 
Among other visitors that winter, I well remember Mr. John Morley—now Lord Morley—as he was told off for me to entertain during the day. He was a very brilliant young man, and my elders explained to me that his tense intellect kept them at too great a strain for pleasurable conversation. "You, dear Katie, don't matter, as no one expects you to know anything!" remarked my sister with cheerful kindness. So I calmly invited John Morley to walk with me, and, as we paced through the park from one lodge to the other, my companion talked to me so easily and readily that I forgot my r?le of "fool of the family," and responded most intelligently to a really very interesting conversation.
 
With the ready tact of the really clever, he could already {17} adapt himself to great or small, and finding me simply ready to be interested, was most interesting, and I returned to my family happily conscious that I could now afford to ignore my brother Evelyn's advice to "look lovely and keep your mouth shut!"
 
John Morley, so far as I remember him then, was a very slight young man with a hard, keen face, the features strongly marked, and fair hair. He had (to me) a kindly manner, and did not consider it beneath him to talk seriously to a girl so young in knowledge, so excessively and shyly conscious of his superiority, and so much awed by my mission of keeping him amused and interested while my elders rested from his somewhat oppressive intellectuality. I remember wondering, in some alarm, as to what topic I should start if he suddenly stopped talking. But my fear was entirely groundless; he passed so easily from one thing interesting to me to another that I forgot to be self-conscious, and we discussed horses and dogs, books and their writers—agreeing that authors were, of all men, the most disappointing in appearance—my father, soldiers, and "going to London," with the greatest pleasure and mutual self-confidence. And I think that, after that enlightening talk, had I been told that in after years this suave, clever young man was to become—as Gladstone's lieutenant—one of my bitterest foes, I should perhaps have been interested, but utterly unalarmed, for I had in this little episode lost all awe of cleverness as such.
 
My father died in February, 1866. The vexed question of ways and means—always a vexed question in a clergyman's household when the head of the house dies—pressed heavily on my mother, who was left almost penniless by my father's death.
 
My mother and sisters were discussing what was best {18} to be done, and my mother was speaking sadly as I went into her room. "We must sell the cow, and, of course, the pig," my eldest sister (Emma) replied in her sweet, cheerful voice, which produced a little laugh, though a rather dismal one, and our sorrow was chased away for the moment.
 
My mother's sister, Mrs. Benjamin Wood, on hearing of her troubles, settled a yearly income on her, thus saving her from all future anxiety, most of her children being provided for under our grandfather's—old Sir Matthew Wood's—will.
 
During that year we lived chiefly at Rivenhall. It was a very quiet, sad year, but we had a few pleasant visitors. Sir George Dasent, of the Times, and also Mr. Dallas, who wrote leading articles for the same paper, were frequent visitors, and Mr. Chapman (of Chapman and Hall, publishers), with pretty Mrs. Chapman, Mr. Lewes, and many other literary people were very welcome guests. My mother and sister Anna (Mrs. Steele) were writing books, and much interested in all things literary. At the end of the year we joined my eldest sister and her husband at Brighton, and soon after this Willie returned from Spain and called on us at once, with the ever-faithful Cunninghame Graham. I now yielded to Willie's protest at being kept waiting longer, and we were married very quietly at Brighton on January 25, 1867. I narrowly escaped being married to Mr. Cunninghame Graham by mistake, as Willie and he—the "best man"—had got into wrong positions. It was only Mr. Graham's horrified "No, no, no," when asked whether he would have "this woman" to be his wife, that saved us from many complications.
 
My mother, brothers and sisters gave me beautiful {19} presents, and my dear sister Emma gave me my trousseau, while Willie himself gave me a gold-mounted dressing-bag. My old Aunt H. sent me a gold and turquoise bracelet. Willie saw this after I had shown him what my sister Mrs. Steele had given me—a carbuncle locket with diamond centre. Aunt H. was a very wealthy woman, my sister not at all well off, though in any case her present would have been much more to me than that of Aunt H. However, Willie merely remarked of Anna's gift: "That is lovely, darling, and this," taking up Aunt H.'s bracelet, "this will do for the dog," snapped it round the neck of my little Prince.
 
Long afterwards he and I went to call on Aunt H., and as usual I had Prince under my arm. I noticed Aunt H. break off in a sentence, and fix a surprised and indignant eye on my dog. I had forgotten all about Prince's collar being Aunt H.'s bracelet, and only thought she did not like my bringing the dog to call, till I caught Willie's eye. He had at once taken in the situation, and became so convulsed with laughter that I hastily made my adieu and hustled him off.
 
Sir Seymour Fitzgerald lent us Holbrook Hall for our honeymoon, a kindness that proved unkind, as the pomp and ceremony entailed by a large retinue of servants for our two selves were very wearisome to me. There was little or no occupation for us, as the weather was too bad to get out much; our kind host had naturally not lent us his hunters, and we were, or Willie was, too much in awe of the conventions to ask anyone to come and relieve our ennui. Indeed, I think that no two young people were ever more rejoiced than we were when we could return to the life of the sane without comment.
 
Willie had sold out of the army just before his marriage, {20} and his Uncle John, who had married a Spanish lady and settled in Madrid, offered Willie a partnership in his bank, O'Shea and Co., if he would put the ￡4,000 he received for his commission into it. This was too good an offer to be refused, so I said good-bye to my people, and bought some little presents for the servants at home, including a rich silk dress for my old nurse Lucy, who had been in my mother's service since the age of sixteen, and who was much upset that her youngest and dearest nursling should be taken away to such "heathenish, far-off places."
 
Before leaving England Willie and I stayed for a few days in London, and his mother and sister Mary called on us. They had not attended the marriage, as they would not lend their countenance to a "mixed" marriage, though once accomplished they accepted the situation. They were very nice and kind, and so gently superior that at once I became politely antagonistic. They brought me some beautiful Irish poplins which were made into gowns to wear in Madrid to impress the Spanish cousins, and a magnificent emerald bracelet, besides ￡200 worth of lovely Irish house-linen. My mother-in-law and sister-in-law were most generous indeed, and I then, and always, acknowledged them to be thoroughly good, kind-hearted women, but so hidebound with what was to me bigotry, with conventionality and tactlessness, that it was really a pain to me to be near them. They admired me, and very plainly disapproved of me; I admired them for their Parisian finish—(for want of a better term)—and for their undoubted goodness, but, though I was rather fond of Mary, they wearied me to death.
 
That week we crossed over to Boulogne, and there we had to stay for a few days, as I was too ill from the crossing to go farther. The second morning Willie, seeing I {21} was better, wanted to go out to déjeuner, and told me to lie still in bed, and he would tell them to send a maid with my food, as he knew that I, not being used to French customs, would not like a waiter to bring it. To make sure of my not being disturbed he locked the door. To my horror half an hour after he had gone there was a tap at the door, and a manservant opened it with his key, and marched in, despite my agitated protests in very home-made French. Once in, however, he made me so comfortable by his deft arrangement of a most tempting meal and paternal desire that "Madame should eat and recover herself," that I was able to laugh at Willie's annoyance on his return to find the waiter once more in possession and removing the tray.
 
We then went to Paris to stay with my mother-in-law and Mary for a few days, while they found me a French maid and showed me the sights. I had a great quantity of very long hair in those days, and Willie insisted on my having it very elaborately dressed—much to my annoyance—in the latest French fashion, which I did not consider becoming to me. My maid was also much occupied in making the toilet of my little dog. He was a lovely little creature, and Caroline would tie an enormous pale blue bow on him as a reward for the painful business of combing him. From the time Willie gave me this little dog to the day it died, about six years afterwards, it went everywhere with me. He was as good and quiet as possible when with me, but if I ever left him for a moment the shrill little howls would ring out till the nearest person to him would snatch him up, and fly to restore him to his affectionate, though long-suffering, mistress.
 
At Paris there was trouble with my mother-in-law and Mary at once because of him. They took me to see Notre {22} Dame, and as a matter of course Prince was in my arm under my cloak. As we came out I let my little dog down to run, and the Comtesse nearly fainted. "You took the dog into the church! Oh, Katie, how wrong, how could, you! Mary! what shall we do? Do you not think——?" and turning a reproachful glance on me, Mary responded, "Come, mother," and, leaving me amazed and indignant on the steps, they passed into Notre Dame again. With some curiosity I peeped in after them, and beheld them kneeling at prayer just inside the door. They came out almost at once, and the old Comtesse looked happier. "You did not understand, dear," said Mary kindly, "it is better not to take the little dog into a church." I was young enough to resent being told I did not understand, and promptly returned, "I understand, Mary, that you and the Comtesse consider it wicked to take Prince into Notre Dame. Well, I don't, and you must excuse me if I remind you that God made the dog; and I seem to remember something about a Child that was born in a stable with a lot of nice friendly beasts about, so you need not have gone back to pray about me and Prince, I think!" And, scooping up Prince, I stalked off with a dignity that was rather spoilt by my not having sufficient French to find my own way home, and having to wait at the carriage for them. We drove home with much stiffness, and only thawed sufficiently to assure Willie how much we had enjoyed ourselves!
 
While I was abroad I often used to get away by myself to spend many happy hours in the beautiful churches with Prince tucked under my arm, and often a friendly old priest would give us a smile as he passed on his way about the church, so it was apparently not a very deadly sin to take him with me.
 
{23}
Willie's mother and Mary became more reconciled to the little dog when they found how much admired he was in Paris. An old Frenchman, after seeing him one evening as Willie and I were leaving table d'h?te, made inquiries as to where we were staying, and called on Willie to offer ￡100 for "madame's pet" if at any time she wished to sell him. Willie was too wise to approach me with the offer, and assured monsieur that madame would consider the offer an insult only to be wiped out in monsieur's blood!