Innocent : $b a tale of modern lifeOliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
General
Innocent : $b a tale of modern life
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Fiction
Somersetshire, and only paying his family a visit two or three times in
a year! Thus the fault faded out of sight altogether by the crowding of
the circumstances round it; and Frederick himself, in contemplating (for
he was always serious) the providential way in which his life had been
arranged for him in a new groove, forgot that the first step in this
arrangement had been a very reprehensible one on his own part, and came
to regard the “putting down” of the carriage as the rest did--as a
tremendous and mysterious family event, calling forth an intense pride
and melancholy, but no individual sense of guilt or responsibility so
far as he was personally concerned. “I don’t like to take you out in a
fly, Nelly,” Mrs. Eastwood would sometimes say, as she gave a last touch
to Ellinor’s ribbons, and breathed a soft little sigh. “As if I cared!”
cried the girl: “and besides, you can say, like Lady Dobson, that you
never take your horses out at night.” Now Lady Dobson was very rich, and
in trade, and a standing joke in the Eastwood circle; and the party went
off very merry in the fly, with never another thought of the carriage
which had been “put down.”
Light-hearted folk! That sudden tempest of trouble and terror which had
driven Frederick into the Sealing-Wax Office, and the ladies into Mr.
Sutton’s neat flys, gave, I think, on the whole, a zest to their
happiness.
The drawing-room at The Elms was a large room, with a rounded end
occupied by a great bow window, which opened like a door into a pretty
conservatory, always gay with flowers. Opposite the fireplace were three
other long and large windows, cut to the floor, from which you looked
out over the long stretch of greensward embosomed in great trees which
has been already described. In summer, the flower beds which were cut in
the grass close under the windows were ablaze with brilliant colour; but
in the meantime, on the afternoon when this story opens, nothing was
visible but an interrupted golden line of crocus, defining each bed, and
depending upon the sun to make the definition successful. When the day
was bright the border bristled all round in close array with spikes of
gold; but on this particular day it was gloomy, and the line was
straggling and broken. On a damp February afternoon the strongest
attraction is generally indoors; and the room was bright enough to
satisfy the most difficult critic. Mrs. Eastwood had, as every mother of
a family ought to have, her particular chair, with her particular little
table and footstool, a detached and commanding position, a genial
domestic throne, with the supremacy of which no one ever interfered.
There was room for any one who wanted counsel to draw a chair by its
side, and plenty of room for a big boy to stretch out his lazy length on
the rug at its feet, resting a curly head, it might be, on the mother’s
footstool. Mrs. Eastwood was seated here in her black gown with violet
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
Reviews
Reviews
No reviews yet
Be the first to share your thoughts on this work.
Join the Discussion
Join the discussion
Sign in to leave a comment or review.
Sign InorCreate an account