SMOKE.
Now, it was a custom of our recluse Squire, every night at a quarter to ten (for which important hour he used punctually to set the “alarum” of his Dutch clock), to shut his book, take his pipe, and pay old Martha a visit in the kitchen, and have a talk with her as he smoked his churchwarden up the capacious chimney.
At that hour Mall’s scrubbing and scouring for the day was over, and good Mrs. Gillyflower’s labors of direction had come to an end; and the kitchen was tranquil, and the “housekeeper” disposed to chat a little before she betook herself to her bed.
The shrilly ring of the clock suddenly startled William from his book — it was a quarter to ten.
“Yes, my smoke. No, I’ll not smoke here. I don’t see why I shouldn’t take my pipe to the kitchen, as usual, and have a look at her. I will.”
And accordingly he popped his homely canister of tobacco into his pocket, and with his pipe in his fingers, and a candlestick in the other hand (for the hall of Haworth boasted no light), he set out on an exploration unusually interesting.
As he entered the tiled passage he heard such sounds of merriment from the kitchen as had not enlivened Haworth Hall for many a day. The sound of laughter is not only cheery to listen to, but it excites a sympathetic merriment in the hearers; and alone as he was, and utterly ignorant of the fun that provoked it, William laughed quietly in unison, in spite of himself.
The laughter which echoed from the kitchen was that of hale old Martha, and the young clear cacchination of Mall Darrell; and between these peals he heard a low sweet voice narrating the story that, no doubt, stimulated all the mirth.
He could not find it in his heart to risk its interruption, and he waited, enjoying a sympathetic laugh, every time the merriment grew wild in the kitchen, until the story was plainly ended, and old Mrs. Gillyflower and Mall with great hilarity began to talk together. When this had a little subsided, William, with his pipe in one hand and his candle in the other, entered the snug old kitchen.
His guest was standing in the attitude in which she may have recounted her story, with one hand on the tall back of the chair, and an indescribable grace, and even dignity, in her pose. He thought he had never seen so beautiful and singular a creature.
There was no vulgar flurry or fidget; she simply awaited his notice, if he chose to give it, with a serene self-possession.
Perhaps I shall best describe the points that struck him in the stranger, by transcribing a little pencil-note he made in his study, an hour later, in meditative idleness, to aid his memory in making a sketch. It is as follows:
“Black hair — very black; low forehead; small head, beautifully set on; large brilliant black eyes, with long lashes; an oval face; a very small nose; small pretty ears; very pretty mouth, brilliantly red; very even little teeth; complexion clear brown, with a color seen richly through. Her figure, long-limbed, slender; flat shoulders, and very slender waist; distance from the waist to the feet long in proportion; her hands small; in walking, her steps not long enough to show her feet before her dress; her dress, I think, a very dark gray, comes up to her throat, and is long in the skirt She has put aside her cloak; a very high bearing; an air of independence and equality that resembles command, yet very civil and gentle; perfectly self-possessed; her voice low and very sweet, with a pretty accent.
“How comes this something wild and queen-like, with so perfectly feminine a bearing?
“She is a lady — I think a foreign one; her accent is not quite English. A Spaniard, perhaps.
“Suppose she should prove an escaped nun I “Not a bad conjecture. I wonder whether that is a conventual dress. I wish I had some drawings. We shall see its color with certainty in the morning. I think I saw beads and a cross for a moment.
“We shall see how she bears the Bible; we shall hear what she has to say about religion.
“What a Diana she looks!
“I should like to see the villain who, as Sheridan Knowles says, dares touch her with but a look!”
This was jotted down an hour later, and the sheet of paper has several sketches, each an improvement on the other, not one satisfactory; and under his disappointing essays he had written, in a kind of despair: —
“Or like the borealis’ race, That flits ere you can mark the place.”
Whatever William had expected, he certainly fancied that the embarrassment would have been altogether on the stranger’s side. Well, it had turned out differently. This girl — she did not look more than eighteen — was quite unabashed, and William somehow did not mind lighting his pipe until he returned to his quaint study.
He did not return to his book — that was pretty well out of his head.
It was simple curiosity, he told himself. Of - course she was herself a very interesting person, he allowed, for he was a frank fellow; but it was the situation — the romance — the utter uncertainty, that really employed his thoughts; it was, in short, the story more than the heroine, he could swear, that exercised his imagination.
After he had bidden her welcome to Haworth Hall, and they had exchanged courtesies upon that occasion as guest and host, she seemed no longer to concern herself about his presence; her attention was unaffectedly engaged about other things. And while he was telling old Martha the story of his adventures on the moss that night, he was secretly mortified to observe that the stranger (for whom he perhaps intended it) was whispering something to Mall Darrell.
One thing was plain, and did not displease him: Martha Gillyflower had grown into something more than toleration of her, and the unknown had, in fact, grown into high favor with Martha.
William Haworth went to sleep that night thinking of his guest, and the first thing he thought of in the morning was. the same run-away nun. But was she a nun?
She had made them almost die of laughing with the story of a series of adventures which a poor man whom she knew had undergone at a fair in Warwickshire. Was that the sort of story which a young lady who had taken the veil would have been likely to hear? On the other hand, why should she not? She had not always been a nun, and even nuns hear stories.
“I think old Gillyflower would like to keep her for a little longer;” and if so, he would give her leave.