Mrs. Molesworth - Not Without Thorns

La danse au piano est ou très-charmante ou très-ennuyeuse, selon le sort.

A foggy evening in early December. Fogs are quick to gather and slow to disperse in the heavily laden air surrounding an assemblage of tall chimneys; and the manufacturing town of Wareborough, low-lying and flat, seemed to have a special attraction for them. Unprepossessing at its best, Wareborough was peculiarly so at this season and in such weather; it would, indeed, have been difficult to choose a day on which it could have less favourably impressed a stranger than the one just drawing drearily to a close.

There was a good deal of confusion in the streets, for the fog greatly impeded the traffic.

“What a place! How can human beings be found willing to spend their lives here?” thought to himself, with a shudder at the bare idea, a young man seated in a rattling Wareborough fly, whose driver, notwithstanding constantly recurring risk of collision, was doing his best to keep his tired horse up to its usual speed. “Where in the world is the fellow taking me to?” was his next reflection. “It seems to me I have been hours in this wretched shandry-dan.”

Just as he was about putting his head out of the window to shout inquiries or directions to the driver, the fly stopped. The gentleman jumped out, then stood still, bewildered.

“Where is the house?” he exclaimed. “Is this Barnwood Terrace? I see no houses at all.”

“There’s a gate, sir, just by where you’re standing,” replied the man. “You’ve some little way to walk up the path. Can’t drive up to the door. There’s three houses together, and Mr Dalrymple’s is the middle one. I’ll run up to the door and ring, sir.”

He was preparing to descend, but the young man stopped him. “Never mind, stay where you are, I’ll find my way. Come for me about eleven or half-past. You stand near our place, don’t you? Yes. All right then.”

He fumbled away for some time at what he discovered by feeling, to be an iron railing, before he succeeded in finding anything like a gate. He came upon it at last suddenly: it was open. The path fortunately was straight, and the light of a gas-lamp glimmering feebly through the fog showed him, in time to prevent his tumbling against it, a flight of five or six stone steps to be ascended before he could ring the front-door bell of Number 2, Barnwood Terrace. It showed him something more. Some one was there before him. On the top step stood a figure, waiting apparently for admission. It was a human being, but that was about all he could discern as he cautiously mounted the steps; then as he drew nearer, it gradually assumed to him through the exaggerating, distorting medium of the fog the dimensions of an unnaturally tall, curiously shrouded woman. It remained perfectly motionless, whether the face was turned towards him or not he could not tell. Now he was quite close to it, standing on the same step, yet it gave not the slightest sign of having perceived his approach. The young man began to think it rather odd – who could it be? A woman, apparently, standing there alone waiting – was she a beggar? No, even through the fog he could distinguish nothing crouching or cringing in the attitude, the figure stood erect and firm, the shrouding drapery seemed to fall in rich and ample folds. The new-comer felt extremely puzzled. Then suddenly he resolved to end his perplexity.

“Have you rung?” he asked, courteously. The figure moved a little, but seemed to hesitate to answer. “Shall I ring?” he repeated, “or have you done so already?”

“I have rung, but perhaps not loudly enough.”

“I think you had better ring again, for I have been waiting here some minutes,” came the reply at last in low, clear, refined tones.

“A lady! How very strange for her to be standing here alone in the dark – what a queer place Wareborough must be,” thought the young man; but he said nothing more, and almost before his vigorous pull at the bell could have taken effect, the door was thrown open, revealing a brightly lighted, crimson carpeted hall, and two or three servants in unexceptionable attire.

“Come, this looks more promising,” was the reflection that glanced through the stranger’s mind as he drew back to allow his companion to enter. The glare of light was almost blinding for a moment, but still as she passed him he managed to catch a glimpse of her face – a mere glimpse however. By what he saw of her features only, he would hardly have been able to recognise her. Still, hurried as it was, his glance satisfied him on one point – she was very young, and he felt all but certain, very pretty. But in a moment she had disappeared, how or where he could not tell; so quickly that but for the remembrance of her voice he could have imagined her altogether the offspring of his own fancy. He stood still for a moment or two, feeling somehow confused and bewildered, and very much inclined to rub his eyes or pinch himself to make sure he was awake. Then suddenly he was recalled to himself by hearing his own name sonorously announced, and in another moment he found himself ushered into a large, richly furnished drawing-room, all mirrors and gilding, damask and velvet pile, among a dozen or more well-dressed people of both sexes, one of whom, a lady comely and pleasant looking, advanced quickly to meet him.

“Captain Chancellor, I am so delighted to see you. So glad you have found your way to us already. Henry,” turning to a stout good-humoured-looking man beside her, “Henry, this is my old – my long-ago young friend. Captain Chancellor, let me introduce my husband to you, Mr Dalrymple.”

The old young friend responded with becoming graciousness to this cordial reception, though not feeling so thoroughly at his ease as was usual to him. He was conscious of having been expected, looked for, talked over probably by the company among whom he found himself, before he had made his appearance. And though thoroughly accustomed to please and be pleased, he was not a vain man, and this curious little sensation of conspicuousness was not altogether agreeable. By way of making him feel himself at home, his host proceeded to introduce him right and left to so many of the assembled guests, that the result was a feeling of increased bewilderment and utter confusion as to their identity. Still to all appearance he proved himself quite equal to the occasion, shook hands heartily with the men, looked amiably at the women and, being a remarkably handsome and perfectly well-bred man, succeeded even during the few minutes that elapsed before the dinner gong sounded in securing to himself the favourable prepossessions of nearly every one in the room.

He had reasons of his own for wishing to impress his entertainers agreeably; his efforts speedily met with their reward.

“I have a surprise for you,” said Mrs Dalrymple when her Henry at length allowed the young man a little breathing time. “Guess who is here – ah yes, there she comes – she had just gone upstairs to fetch her fan when you came in. Roma dear, here is Captain Chancellor at last. I must manage to let you two sit next to each other at dinner, you will have so much home news to talk over. You have not met for some months, Roma tells me.”

The young lady addressed came forward quietly, with a slight look of amusement on her face, to greet the new-comer.

“How funny it seems to find you here? Who would have thought of you turning up at Wareborough, Beauchamp?”