‘I meant to have gone and fetched you myself; but the heat oppresses me, and I did not feel up to the exertion. I hope you had a pleasant drive?’
‘Very,’ said Molly, with shy conciseness.
‘And now I will take you to your room; I have had you put close to me; I thought you would like it better, even though it was a smaller room than the other.’
She rose languidly, and, wrapping her light shawl round her yet elegant figure, led the way upstairs. Molly’s bedroom opened out of Mrs. Hamley’s private sitting-room, on the other side of which was her own bedroom. She showed Molly this easy means of communication, and then, telling her visitor she would await her in the sitting-room, she closed the door, and Molly was left at leisure to make acquaintance with her surroundings.
First of all, she went to the window to see what was to be seen. A flower-garden right below; a meadow of ripe grass just beyond, changing colour in long sweeps, as the soft wind blew over it; great old forest-trees a little on one side; and, beyond them again, to be seen only by standing very close to the side of the window-sill, or by putting her head out, if the window was open, the silver shimmer of a mere, about a quarter of a mile off On the opposite side to the trees and the mere, the look-out was bounded by the old walls and high peaked roofs of the extensive farm-buildings. The deliciousness of the early summer silence was only broken by the song of the birds, and the nearer hum of bees. Listening to these sounds, which enhanced the exquisite sense of stillness, and puzzling out objects obscured by distance or shadow, Molly forgot herself, and was suddenly startled into a sense of the present by a sound of voices in the next room—some servant or other speaking to Mrs. Hamley. Molly hurried to unpack her box, and arrange her few clothes in the pretty old-fashioned chest of drawers, which was to serve her as dressing-table as well. All the furniture in the room was as old-fashioned and as well-preserved as it could be. The chintz curtains were Indian calico of the last century—the colours almost washed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely dean. There was a little strip of bedside carpeting, but the wooden flooring, thus liberally displayed, was of finely-grained oak, so firmly joined, plank to plank, that no grain of dust could make its way into the interstices. There were none of the luxuries of modern days; no writing-table, or sofa, or pier-glass. In one corner of the walls was a bracket, holding an Indian jar filled with pot-pourri; and that and the climbing honeysuckle outside the open window scented the room more exquisitely than any toilette perfumes. Molly laid out her white gown (of last year’s date and size) upon the bed, ready for the (to her new) operation of dressing for dinner, and having arranged her hair and dress, and taken out her company worsted-work, she opened the door softly, and saw Mrs. Hamley lying on the sofa.
‘Shall we stay up here, my dear? I think it is pleasanter than down below; and then I shall not have to come upstairs again at dressing-time.’
‘I shall like it very much,’ replied Molly.
‘Ah! you’ve got your sewing, like a good girl,’ said Mrs. Hamley. ‘Now, I don’t sew much. I live alone a great deal. You see, both my boys are at Cambridge, and the squire is out of doors all day long—so I have almost forgotten how to sew. I read a great deal. Do you like reading?’
‘It depends upon the kind of book,’ said Molly. ‘I’m afraid I don’t like “steady reading,” as papa calls it.’
‘But you like poetry!’ said Mrs. Hamley, almost interrupting Molly. ‘I was sure you did, from your face. Have you read this last poem of Mrs. Hemans?x Shall I read it aloud to you?’
So she began. Molly was not so much absorbed in listening but that she could glance round the room. The character of the furniture was much the same as in her own. Old-fashioned, of handsome material, and faultlessly clean; the age and the foreign appearance of it gave an aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On the walls there hung some crayon sketches—portraits. She thought she could make out that one of them was a likeness of Mrs. Hamley in her beautiful youth. And then she became interested in the poem, and dropped her work, and listened in a manner that was after Mrs. Hamley’s own heart. When the reading of the poem was ended, Mrs. Hamley replied to some of Molly’s words of admiration, by saying:
‘Ah! I think I must read you some of Osborne’s poetry some day; under seal of secrecy, remember; but I really fancy they are almost as good as Mrs. Hemans’s.’
To be nearly as good as Mrs. Hemans’s was saying as much to the young ladies of that day, as saying that poetry is nearly as good as Tennyson’s would be in this. Molly looked up with eager interest.
‘Mr. Osborne Hamley? Does your son write poetry?’
‘Yes. I really think I may say he is a poet. He is a very brilliant, clever young man, and he quite hopes to get a fellowship at Trinity. He says he is sure to be high up among the wranglers, and that he expects to get one of the Chancellor’s medals.y That is his likeness—the one hanging against the wall behind you.’
Molly turned round, and saw one of the crayon sketches—representing two boys, in the most youthful kind of jackets and trousers, and falling collars. The elder was sitting down, reading intently. The younger was standing by him, and evidently trying to call the attention of the reader off to some object out of doors—out of the window of the very room in which they were sitting, as Molly discovered when she began to recognize the articles of furniture faintly indicated in the picture.
‘I like their faces!’ said Molly. ‘I suppose it is so long ago now, that I may speak of their likenesses to you as if they were somebody else; may not I?’
‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Hamley, as soon as she understood what Molly meant. ‘Tell me just what you think of them, my dear; it will amuse me to compare your impressions with what they really are.’
‘Oh! but I did not mean to guess at their characters. I could not do it; and it would be impertinent, if I could. I can only speak about their faces as I see them in the picture.’
‘Well! tell me what you think of them!’
‘The eldest—the reading boy—is very beautiful; but I can’t quite make out his face yet, because his head is down, and I can’t see the eyes. That is the Mr. Osborne Hamley who writes poetry?’
‘Yes. He is not quite so handsome now; but he was a beautiful boy. Roger was never to be compared with him.’
‘No; he is not handsome. And yet I like his face. I can see his eyes. They are grave and solemn-looking; but all the rest of his face is rather merry than otherwise. It looks too steady and sober, too good a face, to go tempting his brother to leave his lesson.’
‘Ah! but it was not a lesson. I remember the painter, Mr. Green, once saw Osborne reading some poetry, while Roger was trying to persuade him to come out and have a ride in the hay-cart—that was the “motive” of the picture, to speak artistically. Roger is not much of a reader; at least, he doesn’t care for poetry, and books of romance, or sentiment. He is so fond of natural history; and that takes him, like the squire, a great deal out of doors; and when he is in, he is always reading scientific books that bear upon his pursuits. He is a good, steady fellow, though, and gives us great satisfaction, but he is not likely to have such a brilliant career as Osborne.’
Molly tried to find out in the picture the characteristics of the two boys as they were now explained to her by their mother; and in questions and answers about the various drawings hung round the room the time passed away until the dressing-bell rang for the six o’clock dinner.
Molly was rather dismayed by the offers of the maid whom Mrs. Hamley had sent to assist her. ‘I am afraid they expect me to be very smart,’ she kept thinking to herself. ‘If they do, they’ll be disappointed; that’s all. But I wish my plaid silk gown had been ready.’