uncle’s politeness and self-command gave way before the irritation induced by my manifold misdemeanours.
Alas! Uncle John made no excuse for me. He forgot how ignorant I was of the world, how unused to company, and he was seriously disappointed and annoyed because I did not come out of my eggshell a fashionable, prepossessing young lady, well versed in my part as hostess: charming, affable, ready in conversation—in fine, the fascinating person whom he had recommended to my notice yesterday.
We had an old-fashioned dinner, and soup and fish being removed, I saw, to my horror, that a couple of spring chickens were being placed before me. Mr. Charlton offered to carve them, and though longing to accept his aid, some impulse of mauvaise honte prompted me to say no, instead of yes, and precipitately to commence hacking the breast of the nearest fowl in the vain hope of discovering the wing point.
Mr. Charlton had said he would take chicken; a servant was holding a plate at my side, and from the opposite end of the table I caught sight of my uncle’s beady, black eyes watching every movement. I had no knowledge of carving, but I dared not avow my ignorance, and shyness increasing my awkwardness a hundredfold, I went on labouring hopelessly for some minutes, crimson to my hair roots, and with such a haze before my eyes that I could scarcely see.
Then came a loud explosion of wrath from the other end of the table. Uncle John had caught sight of the macerated morsels which I was endeavouring to convey in safety to the plate, and he stormed frantically. My hands fell nervelessly at my side, and the room seemed to swim round—oh, how I wished that the ground could have opened and swallowed me up!
But the next minute a goodhumoured voice beside me said “Allow me!” and Stephen had promptly moved the dish before Mr. Charlton, who was dexterously separating the joints. I could not even say thank you, for I was ashamed to look up and let him see that I had tears in my eyes. I began crumbling my roll, and endeavouring to swallow some drops of water, and happily a well-directed question from Mr. Charlton checked my uncle’s wrathful tirade.
Dinner progressed; nobody spoke to me. I think Mr. Charlton wished to give me time to recover myself, and my uncle was too angry to appeal to me.
At length the dessert was set on the table, and I consoled myself with the hope of an early release. But I had counted without my host, I had overrated my own powers; over and over again I endeavoured to rise, and yet sat still defeated; over and over again I waited for a lull in the conversation, flushed like a peony at the mere thought of my own audacity—there; until at length my uncle gave me an unmistakeable hint when I got up, awkwardly dropped my handkerchief, had to wait till Mr. Charlton stooped under the table to recover it for me, forgot to thank him, and finally stumbled out of the room like one pursued by an enemy.
No wonder I provoked my poor uncle; no wonder if Mr. Charlton thought me a baby, or worse than that, for children have a natural grace, and my awkwardness made me graceless.
But the evening was more hopeful. The gentlemen made their appearance early; Mr. Charlton coming at once to the little table where I sat at work, and beginning to speak to me so naturally about books and things, that I speedily forgot my fear of him, and grew interested. When a rapid glance towards my uncle’s chair and closed eyes reassured me, I even ventured on a few remarks of my own, and found myself emboldened to look upon my companion’s face.
He was an older looking man than I had expected to find him; he could not be less than thirty, and his face had a few furrows, and his hair some grey threads which might have added even more years to his age. But he was handsome for all that. His features were firm; rather solid, perhaps, when they were not lighted up by that rare, beaming smile which sparkled even to his eyes and teeth. Before the end of the evening I began to like him very much; he was so amusing, so good-natured; if it had not been for once or twice detecting a stealthy opening and shutting of Uncle John’s eyes, which proved that he was sleeping with wide-awake ears, I think I should have thoroughly enjoyed myself.
But by the next morning I had time to freeze, and breakfast was but a modified repetition of yesterday’s dinner. However, all came right again during the morning, which we spent together in the drawing-room. I had said I did not know Tennyson’s “Idylls of the King,” and Mr. Charlton read some passages from it aloud to me as I sat working. Uncle John did not make his appearance, and I had supposed he was not coming down before luncheon, until an unexpected sound in the library startled me, and suddenly revealed his presence.
The door between the two rooms was ajar, and I rapidly reviewed my last half hour’s conversation with Mr. Charlton, and hoped that none of my remarks had been scandalous or unorthodox. How hot I felt for a minute. Mr. Charlton had been reading Enid to me, and we had been speaking of love in the abstract—oh, dear, I hoped it was not an improper subject.
“My companion had not detected my uncle’s vicinity, and I dared not enlighten him. I sat on thorns; my conversation lost its spirit; I asserted no more opinions, and presently he surmised that I was tired of his reading, and shut up the book. And I felt disappointed. I don’t know why.
A minute later, Stephen stood at the door:
“Master wished to speak to Miss Cloyse.”
I rose precipitately. I was going to be reprimanded. Could I deserve it, had I said or done anything that was forward or improper in a young lady? I knew people had to be very particular, and I was so dreadfully ignorant.
But no reprimand was in store for me this time. Uncle John stood by the library door, looking very nervous and uncomfortable, but his discomfort had no connection with me. He wanted to go back to his room, and there was that new housemaid with the great crinoline dusting it out, and he dared not return while she was there; she
