much in want of the scythe, and walks once gravelled, very much in want of the hoe, to say nothing of shrubs once flowering, but grown naked for want of attendance, denoted a comfortlessness, any thing but inviting. However, Harclai promising to wait for him, De Vere pushed through a gate which turned with difficulty on a broken hinge, and knocked smartly at the door of the house. The windows of the dining-room, which were in full view, were instantly crowded with Greenwoods, who as instantly retired upon seeing the De Vere livery. A long pause ensued, considering the family could scarcely be denied, after having thus shewn themselves, when instead of the door being opened, De Vere plainly perceived the master of the house, walking out of a side entrance, and making briskly for the kitchen garden; after which a servant appeared with an assurance which (for the sake of country virtue be it said,) seemed to stick in his throat, that none of the family were at home. De Vere left his card for Mr. Greenwood, and joining Harclai about a furlong off, told him again he believed he was right. "This Walter," said he, " must be an un amiable churl; and the spirit for which I was disposed to honour him, is not genuine, any more than the complying disposition of his brother is amiable." The visit was not returned, nor even noticed; and De Vere was right in his reflection; for it is inconceivable into what silly mistakes poor human nature is betrayed, by the adulteration of motives. A selfish discontent exhibits itself often in sullen rudeness, which it plumes itself in thinking true dignity of mind; while vanity or a corrupt love of pleasure that is beyond our reach, plunges us frequently into meannesses which an honest man would despise. "You see, my cousin," said Mortimer to Constance, as he related this scene, "ambition is the same whether in court or country, and whenever it seduces, it betrays." "And you see, too," replied Constance, "that it is not the country, nor middle life, that is exempt from it." "That is too true," observed De Vere; "for in other times and stations, if this William could have been a Vicar of Bray, Walter would have been a Cromwell." CHAPTER XXII. UNOBTRUSIVENESS. Shall we have a play extempore? SHAKSPEARE. "I AM afraid I shall not give satisfaction to these people," said Constance, after a little sort of reverie, which challenged De Vere's observation; 66 nor am I sure that what I have set my heart upon will please any one." "And what can that be?" cried Mortimer, surprised at her eagerness. "I am not even sure that you will help me in it," added the lady; "though if you don't, there is an end of my dream." "You rouse my interest more and more, my fair cousin," said De Vere. "What will you say, then, if I turn manager of a theatre, and have a little play ?" She said this doubtingly, and as if not quite certain that she approved it herself, still less if he whose opinion she asked, would decide in its favour. But her doubt and her eagerness threw such a beautiful colour into her cheek, and the colour lighted her eyes into such expression, that if De Vere had been a puritan, instead of only an admirer of female delicacy, we believe he would have been ready to subscribe, for the moment, to whatever she pleased. Recollecting himself, however, he asked, "and does my fair cousin mean herself to be the heroine of her own theatre ?" "What if I do?" returned she, with archness; and her countenance became still more and more expressive. "I should say the audience was too large and too mixed," replied De Vere. "You would say very right, my cousin," observed Constance, altering her tone; "nor did such a thing ever enter my mind." "I rejoice,” replied Mortimer. "Why so?" Because, though nothing can more delightfully exhilarate a family circle, nothing so charm a fond parent, or an admiring brother, as these little domestic exhibitions of talent, yet for a female whose chief attraction is, perhaps, in her unobtrusiveness,”—here he paused. "Go on," said Constance, observing his hesitation. "For a delicate unpractised female," continued he, "as modest and as soft as her youth, to compromise that softness and that modesty which are her principal charms, by an unshrinking display of her character and person to all the world." "Go on again," said Constance, seeing him still pause," what then ?" 66 Why, then, my dear cousin, all the world know her as well as the select few, and the selection is no longer favour." "Is it then because it enhances favour," said Constance," that a woman's chief charm is her unobtrusiveness ?" "Oh, believe me, no," replied Mortimer, "it is only an advantage, and that an adventitious one. The not obvious, not obtrusive, but retired,' so sweetly sung by the poet, who perhaps best sang the sex, depends upon a far different principle. It is intrinsically, and for its own sake, a jewel; but so pure and delicate, that it never was made for the breath of the multitude. Such breathing would soil, nay, destroy it, so delicate is its polish, so fine its composition." |