for Clara to stand between the tapestry and the books. It was of no use attempting to look for her—at least I said so to myself, for as yet the attraction of an old book was equal to that of a young girl. Besides, I always enjoyed waiting—up to a certain point. Therefore I resumed my place on the floor, with the Seven Champions in one hand, and my chamber-candlestick in the other.
I had for the moment forgotten Clara in the adventures of St. Andrew of Scotland, when the silking of her frock aroused me. She was at my side.
‘Well, you’ve had your dinner? Did she give you any dessert?’
‘This is my dessert,’ I said, holding up the book. ‘It’s far more than—’
‘Far more than your desert,’ she pursued, ‘if you prefer it to me.’
‘I looked for you first,’ I said defensively.
‘Where?’
‘In the closet there.’
‘You didn’t think I was going to wait there, did you? Why the very spiders are hanging dead in their own webs in there. But here’s some dessert for you—if you’re as fond of apples as most boys,’ she added, taking a small rosy-cheeked beauty from her pocket.
I accepted it, but somehow did not quite relish being lumped with boys in that fashion. As I ate it, which I should have felt bound to do even had it been less acceptable in itself, she resumed—
‘Wouldn’t you like to see the company arrive? That’s what I came for. I wasn’t going to ask Goody Wilson.’
‘Yes, I should,’ I answered; ‘but Mrs Wilson told me to keep here, and not get in their way.’
‘Oh! I’ll take care of that. We shan’t go near them. I know every corner of the place—a good deal better than Mrs Wilson. Come along, Wilfrid—that’s your name, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, it is. Am I to call you Clara?’
‘Yes, if you are good—that is, if you like. I don’t care what you call me. Come along.’
I followed. She led me into the armoury. A great clang of the bell in the paved court fell upon our ears.
‘Make haste,’ she said, and darted to the door at the foot of the little stair. ‘Mind how you go,’ she went on. ‘The steps are very much worn. Keep your right shoulder foremost.’
I obeyed her directions, and followed her up the stair. We passed the door of a room over the armoury, and ascended still, to creep out at last through a very low door on to the leads of the little square tower. Here we could on the one side look into every corner of the paved court, and on the other, across the roof of the hall, could see about half of the high court, as they called it, into which the carriages drove; and from this post of vantage, we watched the arrival of a good many parties. I thought the ladies tripping across the paved court, with their gay dresses lighting up the Spring twilight, and their sweet voices rippling its almost pensive silence, suited the time and the place much better than the carriages dashing into the other court, fine as they looked with their well-kept horses and their servants in gay liveries. The sun was down, and the moon was rising—near the full, but there was too much light in the sky to let her make much of herself yet. It was one of those Spring evenings which you could not tell from an Autumn one except for a certain something in the air appealing to an undefined sense—rather that of smell than any other. There were green buds and not withering leaves in it—life and not death; and the voices of the gathering guests were of the season, and pleasant to the soul. Of course Nature did not then affect me so definitely as to make me give forms of thought to her influences. It is now first that I turn them into shapes and words.
As we stood, I discovered that I had been a little mistaken about the position of the Hall. I saw that, although from some points in front it seemed to stand on an isolated rock, the ground rose behind it, terrace upon terrace, the uppermost of which terraces were crowned with rows of trees. Over them, the moon was now gathering her strength.
‘It is rather cold; I think we had better go in,’ said Clara, after we had remained there for some minutes without seeing any fresh arrivals.
‘Very well,’ I answered. ‘What shall we do? Shall you go home?’
‘No, certainly not. We must see a good deal more of the fun first.’
‘How will you manage that? You will go to the ball-room, I suppose. You can go where you please, of course.’
‘Oh no! I’m not grand enough to be invited. Oh, dear no! At least I am not old enough.’
‘But you will be some day.’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. We’ll see. Meantime we must make the best of it. What are you going to do?’
‘I shall go back to the library.’
‘Then I’ll go with you—till the music begins; and then I’ll take you where you can see a little of the dancing. It’s great fun.’
‘But how will you manage that?’
‘You leave that to me.’
We descended at once to the armoury, where I had left my candle; and thence we returned to the library.
‘Would you like me to read to you?’ I asked.
‘I don’t mind—if it’s anything worth hearing.’
‘Well, I’ll read you a bit of the book I was reading when you came in.’
‘What! that musty old book! No, thank you. It’s enough to give one the horrors—the very sight of it is enough. How can you like such frumpy old things?’
‘Oh! you mustn’t mind the look of it,’ I said. ‘It’s very nice inside!’
‘I know where there is a nice one,’ she returned. ‘Give me the candle.’
I followed her to another of the rooms, where she searched for some time. At length—‘There it is!’ she said, and put into my hand The Castle of Otranto. The name promised well. She next led the way to a lovely little bay window, forming almost a closet, which looked out upon the park, whence, without seeing the moon, we could see her light on the landscape, and the great deep shadows cast over the park from the towers of the Hall. There we sat on the broad window-sill, and I began to read. It was delightful. Does it indicate loss of power, that the grown man cannot enjoy the book in which the boy delighted? Or is it that the realities of the book, as perceived by his keener eyes, refuse to blend with what imagination would supply if it might?
No sooner however did the first notes of the distant violins enter the ear of my companion than she started to her feet.
‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, looking up from the book.
‘Don’t you hear the music?’ she said, half-indignantly.
‘I hear it now,’ I answered; ‘but why—?’
‘Come along,’ she interrupted, eagerly. ‘We shall just be in time to see them go across from the drawing-room to the ball-room. Come, come. Leave your candle.’
I put down my book with some reluctance. She led me into the armoury, and from the armoury out on
