Dynevor Terrace; Or, The Clue of Life — Volume 1Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
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Dynevor Terrace; Or, The Clue of Life — Volume 1
Yonge, Charlotte M. (Charlotte Mary)
Cousins -- Fiction; Domestic fiction; English fiction -- 19th century; Upper class -- England -- Fiction
She was glad, as with new meaning, she watched their proceedings, to
see how easily, and as a matter of course, Louis let Mary bring his
footstool and his slipper, fetch his books, each at the proper time,
read Spanish with him, and make him look out the words in the
dictionary when he knew them by intuition, remind him of orders to be
written for his buildings, and manage him as her pupil. If she ruled,
it was with perfect calmness and simplicity, and the playfulness was
that of brother and sister, not even with the coquettish intimacy of
cousinhood.
The field was decidedly open to Roland Dynevor, alias James Frost.
Mrs. Ponsonby was loth to contemplate that contingency, though in all
obedience, she exposed her daughter to the infection. He was expected
on that afternoon, bringing his sister with him, for he had not
withstood the united voices that entreated him to become Fitzjocelyn's
tutor during the vacation, and the whole party had promised to remain
for the present as guests at Ormersfield.
Louis, in high spirits, offered to drive Mrs. Ponsonby to meet the
travellers at the station; and much did he inflict on her poor
shattered nerves by the way. He took no servant, that there might be
the more room, and perched aloft on the driving seat, he could only use
his indefatigable tongue by leaning back with his head turned round to
her. She kept a sharp lookout ahead; but all her warnings of coming
perils only caused him to give a moment's attention to the horses and
the reins, before he again turned backwards to resume his discourse.
In the town, his head was more in the right direction, for he was
nodding and returning greetings every moment; he seemed to have a
bowing acquaintance with all the world, and when he drew up at the
station, reached down several times to shake hands with figures whom
his father would barely have acknowledged; exchanging good-humoured
inquiries or congratulations with almost every third person.
Scarcely had the train dashed up before Mrs. Ponsonby was startled by a
shout of 'He's there himself! Louis! Louis!' and felt, as well as
saw, the springing ascent to the box of a tall apparition, in a scanty
lilac cotton dress, an outgrown black mantle, and a brown straw bonnet,
scarcely confining an overprofusion of fair hair. Louis let go the
reins to catch hold of both hands, and cry, 'Well, old Giraffe! what
have you done with Jem?'
'Seeing to the luggage! You won't let him turn me out! I must sit
here!'
'You must have manners,' said Louis; 'look round, and speak rationally
to Mrs. Ponsonby.'
'I never saw she was there!' and slightly colouring, the 'Giraffe'
erected her length, turned round a small insignificant face slightly
freckled, with hazel eyes, as light as if they had been grey; and
stretched down a hand to be shaken by her new relation, but she was
chiefly bent on retaining her elevation.
'There, Jem!' she cried exultingly, as he came forth, followed by the
trunks and portmanteaus.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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