About half-past two next day they start for Anadale. Not Violet, or Captain Rodney, who have elected to go on a mission of their own, nor Nicholas, who has gone up to London.
The frost lies heavy on the ground; the whole road, and every bush and tree, sparkle brilliantly, as though during the hours when darkness lay upon the earth the daughter of , as she traversed the expanse of the in her ebony chariot, had dropped heaven's diamonds upon the land. The wintry sunshine them up makes soft and glorious the midday.
The hour is , the air almost mild; and every one feels half when the carriage, entering the lodge-gates, bears them swiftly towards the massive entrance that will lead them into the house and out of the cold.
But before they reach the hall door Geoffrey feels it his duty to upon them a word or two of warning.
"Now, look here," he says, impressively: "I hope nobody is going to indulge in so much as a smile to-day." He glances at Nolly, who is already wreathed in smiles. "Because the Æsthetic won't have it. She wouldn't hear of it at any price. We must all be in tense! If you don't understand what that means, Mona, you had better learn at once. You are to be silent, rapt, lifted far above all the vulgar commonplaces of life. You may, if you like, go into a over a colorless , or shed tears of joy above a sickly lily; but avoid ordinary ."
"The only time I shed tears," says Mr. Darling, , "for many years, was when I heard of the old chap's death. And they were drops of rich content. Do you know I think unconsciously he impregnated her with her present notions; because he was as like an 'ancient Briton' himself before he died as if he had posed for it."
"He was very eccentric, but quite correct," says Lady Rodney, reprovingly.
"He was a man who never took off his hat," begins Geoffrey.
"But why?" asks Mona, in amaze. "Didn't he wear one?"
"Yes, but he always it; and he never put one on like ordinary mortals, he always donned it. You can't think what a difference it makes."
"What a silly boy you are, Geoff!" says his wife, laughing.
"Thank you, darling," replies he, .
"But what is Lady Lilias like? I did not notice her the other night," says Mona.
"She has got one nose and two eyes, just like every one else," says Nolly. "That is rather disappointing, is it not? And she attitudinizes a good deal. Sometimes she reclines full length upon the grass, with her bony elbow well squared and her chin buried in her palm. Sometimes she stands beside a sundial, with her head to one side, and a carefully educated and very much peacock beside her. But I dare say she will do the greyhound pose to-day. In summer she goes abroad with a huge wooden fan with which she kills the bumble-bee as it floats by her. And she gowns herself in colors that make one's teeth on edge. I am sure it is her one lifelong regret that she must clothe herself at all, as she has dreams of nakedness and a liberal use of the fetching woad."
"My dear Oliver!" protests Lady Rodney, mildly.
"If she presses on you, Mona, say, 'No, thank you,' without hesitation," says Geoffrey, with anxious haste, seeing they are drawing near their journey's end. "Because if you don't she will compel you to partake of metheglin and unleavened bread, which means sudden death. Forewarned is forearmed. Nolly and I have done what we can for you."
"Is she by herself? Is there nobody living with her?" asks Mona, somewhat .
"Well, practically speaking, no. But I believe she has a sister somewhere."
"'Sister Anne,' you mean?" says Nolly. "Oh, ay! I have seen her, though as a rule she is suppressed. She is quite all she ought to be, and in every respect—unapproachable, according to some. She is a very good girl, and never misses a Saint's Day by any chance, never eats meat on Friday, or butter in Lent, and always confesses. But she is not of much account in the household, being to 'ye goode olde times.'"
At this point the house comes in view, and conversation . The women give a small touch to their furs and laces, the men indulge in a final yawn that is to last them until the gates of Anadale close behind them again.
"There is no moat, and no drawbridge, and no eyelet-hole through which to spy upon the advance of the enemy," says Darling, in an impressive whisper, just as they turn the curve that leads into the big sweep before the hall door. "A drawback, I own; but even the very greatest are not infallible."
It is a lovely old castle, ancient and timeworn, with rising in unexpected places, and walls covered with , and gables dark with age.
A terrace runs all along one side of the house, which is exposed to view from the avenue. And here, with a gaunt but handsome greyhound beside her, stands a girl tall and slim, yet beautifully moulded. Her eyes are gray, yet might at certain moments be termed blue. Her mouth is large, but not unpleasing. Her hair is quite dark, and back into a loose and coil behind. She is clad in an impossible gown of green, that clings closely to her slight figure, , almost , as though afraid to lose her.
One hand is resting lightly with a faintly touch upon the head of the lean greyhound, the other is raised to her forehead as though to shield her eyes from the bright sun.
Altogether she is a picture, which, if slightly suggestive of artificiality, is yet very nearly perfection. Mona is therefore agreeably surprised, and, being—as all her nation is—susceptible to outward beauty, feels drawn towards this odd young woman in sickly green, with her friend beside her.
Lady Lilias, slowly the stone steps with the hound Egbert behind her, advances to meet Lady Rodney. She greets them all with a solemn cordiality that impresses everybody but Mona, who is gazing dreamily into the gray eyes of her hostess and wondering if her lips have ever smiled. Her hostess in return is gazing at her, perhaps in silent admiration of her soft loveliness.
"You will come first and see Philippa?" she says, in a slow tone that sounds as if it had been dug up and is quite an antique in its own way. It of dust and days. Every one says he or she will be delighted, and all try to look as if the entire hope of their existence is centred in the thought that they shall soon lay eyes on Philippa,—whose name in reality is Anne, but who has been rechristened by her enterprising sister. Anne is all very well for everyday life, or for Bluebeard's sister-in-law; but Philippa is art of the very highest description. So Philippa she is, poor soul, whether she likes it or not.
She has her ancle, and is now lying on a couch in a small drawing room as the Rodneys are in. She is rather glad to see them, as life with an "intense" sister is at times trying, and the ritualistic curate is from home. So she smiles upon them, and manages to look as as plain people ever can look.
The drawing-room is very much the same as the ordinary run of drawing-rooms, at which Mona feels distinct disappointment, until, glancing at Lady Lilias, she notices a of disgust run through her frame.
"I really cannot help it," she explains to Mona, in her usual slow voice, "it all offends me so. But Philippa must be humored. All these glaring colors and pieces of furniture take my breath away. And the light——By and by you must come to some of my rooms; but first, if you are not tired, I should like you to look at my garden; that is, if you can endure the cold."
They don't want to endure the cold; but what can they say? Politeness forbids secession of any kind, and, after a few words with the saintly Philippa, they follow their guide in all through halls and corridors out into the garden she most affects.
And truly it is a very desirable garden, and well worth a visit. It is like a thought from another age.
Yew-trees—grown till they form high walls—are cut and shaped in and perfect order, some like the walls of ancient Troy, some like steps of stairs. Little doors are opened through them, and passing in and out one walks on for a mile almost, until one loses one's way and grows puzzled how to one's self from so charming a .
Here and there are basins of water on which lilies can lie and sleep dreamily through a warm and sunny day. A sundial, old and green with honorable age, uprears itself upon a bit of sward. Near it lie two peacocks sound asleep. All seems far from the world, , careless, indifferent to the weals and of suffering humanity.
"It is like the garden of the palace where the Sleeping Beauty dwelt," whispers Mona to Nolly; she is delighted, charmed, lost in admiration.
"You are doing it beautifully: keep it up," whispers he back: "she'll give you something nice if you sustain that look for five minutes longer. Now!—she is looking; hurry—make haste—put it on again!"
"I am not pretending," says Mona, indignantly; "I am delighted: it is the most enchanting place I ever saw. Really lovely."
"I didn't think it was in you," declares Mr. Darling, with wild but suppressed admiration. "You would make your fortune on the stage. Keep it up, I tell you; it couldn't be better."
"Is it possible you see nothing to admire?" says Mona, with intense disgust.
"I do. More than I can express. I see you," retorts he; at which they both give way to merriment, causing Geoffrey, who is walking with Lady Lilias, to behind her back and bestow upon them an glance that Nolly afterwards describes as a " glare."
The hound stalks on before them; the peacocks wake up and the air with a scream. Lady Lilias, coming to the sundial, leans her arm upon it, and puts her head in the right position. A slowly travelling across a broad ivy-leaf attracts her attention; she lifts it slowly, leaf and all, and directs attention to the silvery trail it has left behind it.
"How tender! how !" she says, with a smile, raising her eyes to Geoffrey: whether it is the snail, or the leaf, or the slime, that is............