forest trees, one of those very broad straight avenues whose width measures the front of the house. This was all built of white stone, resembling that of Caen, which parts of Derbyshire produce in such abundance.
So this was Bartram, and here was Uncle Silas. I was almost breathless as I approached. The bright moon shining full on the white front of the old house revealed not only its highly decorated style, its fluted pillars and doorway, rich and florid carving, and balustraded summit, but also its stained and moss-grown front. Two giant trees, overthrown at last by the recent storm, lay with their upturned roots, and their yellow foliage still flickering on the sprays that were to bloom no more, where they had fallen, at the right side of the court-yard, which, like the avenue, was studded with tufted weeds and grass.
All this gave to the aspect of Bartram a forlorn character of desertion and decay, contrasting almost awfully with the grandeur of its proportions and richness of its architecture.
There was a ruddy glow from a broad window in the second row, and I thought I saw some one peep from it and disappear; at the same moment there was a furious barking of dogs, some of whom ran scampering into the court-yard from a half-closed side door; and amid their uproar, the bawling of the man in the back seat, who jumped down to drive them off, and the crack of the postilions’ whips, who struck at them, we drew up before the lordly door-steps of this melancholy mansion.
Just as our attendant had his hand on the knocker the door opened, and we saw, by a not very brilliant candle-light, three figures — a shabby little old man, thin, and very much stopped, with a white cravat, and looking as if his black clothes were too large, and made for some one else, stood with his hand upon the door; a young, plump, but very pretty female figure, in unusually short petticoats, with fattish legs, and nice ankles, in boots, stood in the centre; and a dowdy maid, like an old charwoman, behind her.
The household paraded for welcome was not certainly very brilliant. Amid the riot the trunks were deliberately put down by our attendant, who kept shouting to the old man at the door, and to the dogs in turn; and the old man was talking and pointing stiffly and tremulously, but I could not hear what he said.
“Was it possible — could that mean-looking old man be Uncle Silas?”
The idea stunned me; but I almost instantly perceived that he was much too small, and I was relieved, and even grateful. It was certainly an odd mode of procedure to devote primary attention to the trunks and boxes, leaving the travellers still shut up in the carriage, of which they were by this time pretty well tired. I was not sorry for the reprieve, however: being nervous about first impressions, and willing to defer mine, I sat shyly back, peeping at the candle and moonlight picture before me, myself unseen.
“Will you tell — yes or no — is my cousin in the coach?” screamed the plump young lady, stamping her stout black boot, in a momentary lull.
Yes, I was there, sure.
“And why the puck don’t you let her out, you stupe, you?”
“Run down, Giblets, you never do nout without driving, and let Cousin Maud out. You’re very welcome to Bartram.” This greeting was screamed at an amazing pitch, and repeated before I had time to drop the window, and say “thank you.” “I’d a let you out myself — there’s a good dog, you would na’ bite Cousin” (the parenthesis was to a huge mastiff, who thrust himself beside her, by this time quite pacified)—“only I daren’t go down the steps, for the governor said I shouldn’t.”
The venerable person who went by the name of Giblets had by this time opened the carriage door, and our courier, our “boots”— he looked more like the latter functionary — had lowered the steps, and in greater trepidation than I experienced when in after-days I was presented to my sovereign, I glided down, to offer myself to the greeting and inspection of the plain-spoken young lady who stood at the top of the steps to receive me.
She welcomed me with a hug and a hearty buss, as she called that salutation, on each cheek, and pulled me into the hall, and was evidently glad to see me.
“And you’re tired a bit, I warrant; and who’s the old ’un, who?” she asked eagerly, in a stage whisper, which made my ear numb for five minutes later. “Oh, oh, the maid! and a precious old ’un — ha, ha, ha! But lawk! how grand she is, with her black silk, cloak and crape, and I only in twilled cotton, and rotten old Coburg for Sundays. Odds! it’s a shame; but you’ll be tired, you will. It’s a smartish pull, they do say, from Knowl. I know a spell of it, only so far as the ‘Cat and Fiddle,’ near the Lunnon-road. Come up, will you? Would you like to come in first and talk a bit wi’ the governor? Father, you know, he’s a bit silly, he is, this while.” I found that the phrase meant only bodily infirmity. “He took a pain o’ Friday, newralgie — something or other he calls it — rheumatics it is when it takes old ‘Giblets’ there; and he’s sitting in his own room; or maybe you’d like better to come to your bedroom first, for it is dirty work travelling, they do say.”
Yes; I preferred the preliminary adjustment. Mary Quince was standing behind me; and as my voluble kinswoman talked on, we had each ample time and opportunity to observe the personnel of the other; and she made no scruple of letting me perceive that she was improving it, for she stared me full in the face, taking in evidently feature after feature; and she felt the material of my mantle pretty carefully between her finger and thumb, and manually examined my chain and trinkets, and picked up my hand as she might a glove, to con over my rings.
I can’t say, of course, exactly what impression I may have produce don her. But in my cousin Milly I saw a girl who looked younger than her years, plump, but with a slender waist, with light hair, lighter than mine, and very blue eyes, rather round; on the whole very good-looking. She had an odd swaggering walk, a toss of her head, and a saucy and imperious, but rather good-natured and honest countenance. She talked rather loud, with a good ringing voice, and a boisterous laugh when it came.
If I was behind the fashion, what would Cousin Monica have thought of her? She was arrayed, as she had stated, in black twilled cotton expressive of her affliction; but it was made almost as short in the skirt as that of the prints of the Bavarian broom girls. She had white cotton stockings, and a pair of black leather boots, with leather buttons, and, for a lady, prodigiously thick soles, which reminded me of the navvy boots I had so often admired in Punch. I must add that the hands with which she assisted her scrutiny of my dress, though pretty, were very much sunburnt indeed.
“And what’s her name?” she demanded, nodding to Mary Quince, who was gazing on her awfully, with round eyes, as an inland spinster might upon a whale beheld for the first time.
Mary courtesied, and I answered.
“Mary Quince,” she repeated. “You’re welcome, Quince. What shall I call her? I’ve a name for all o’ them. Old Giles there, is Giblets. He did not like it first, but he answers quick enough now; and Old Lucy Wyat there,” nodding toward the old woman, “is Lucia de l’Amour,” A slightly erroneous reading of Lammermoor, for my cousin sometimes made mistakes, and was not much versed in the Italian opera. “You know it’s a play, and I call her L’Amour for shortness;” and she laughed hilariously, and I could not forbear joining; and, winking at me, she called aloud, “L’Amour.”
To which the crone, with a high-cauled cap, resembling Mother Hubbard, responded with a courtesy and “Yes’m.”
“Are all the trunks and boxes took up?”
They were.
“Well, we’ll come now; and what shall I call you, Quince? Let me see.”
“According to your pleasure, Miss,” answered Mary, with dignity, and a dry courtesy.
“Why, you’re as hoarse as a frog, Quince. We’ll call you Quinzy for the present. That’ll do. Come along Quinzy.”
So my Cousin Milly took me under the arm, and pulled me forward; but as we ascended, she let me go, leaning back to make inspection of my attire from a new point of view.
“Hallo, cousin,” she cried, giving my dress a smack with her open hand. “What a plague to you want of all