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Page 3
Every one who steps within the wide, cool hall of Seat-Sandal faces
first of all things her picture. It is a life-size painting of a
beautiful woman, in the queer, scant costume of the regency. She wears a
white satin frock and white satin slippers, and carries in her hand a
bunch of white roses. She appears to be coming down a flight of wide
stairs; one foot is lifted for the descent, and the dark background, and
the dim light in which it hangs, give to the illusion an almost
startling reality. It was her fancy to have the painting hung there to
welcome all who entered her doors; and though it is now old-fashioned,
and rather shabby and faded, no one of the present generation cares to
order its removal. All hold quietly to the opinion that "grandmother
would not like it."
In that quiet acre on the hillside, which holds the generations of the
Sandals, she had been at rest for ten years. But her son still bared his
gray head whenever he passed her picture; still, at times, stood a
minute before it, and said with tender respect, "I salute thee,
mother." And in her granddaughter's lives still she interfered; for she
had left in their father's charge a sum of money, which was to be used
solely to give them some pleasure which they could not have without it.
In this way, though dead, she kept herself a part of their young lives;
became a kind of fairy grandmother, who gave them only delightful
things, and her name continued a household word.
Only the mother seemed averse to speak it; and Charlotte, who was most
observant, noticed that she never lifted her eyes to the picture as she
passed it. There were reasons for these things which the children did
not understand. They had been too young at her death to estimate the
bondage in which she had kept her daughter-in-law, who, for her
husband's sake, had been ever patient and reticent. Nothing is, indeed,
more remarkable than the patience of wives under this particular trial.
They may be restive under many far less wrongs, but they bear the
mother-in-law grievance with a dignity which shames the grim joking and
the petulant abuse of men towards the same relationship. And for many
years the young wife had borne nobly a domestic tyranny which pressed
her on every hand. If then, she was glad to be set free from it, the
feeling was too natural to be severely blamed; for she never said
so,--no, not even by a look. Her children had the benefit of their
grandmother's kindness, and she was too honorable to deprive the dead of
their meed of gratitude.
The present holder of Sandal had none of his mother's ambitious will. He
cared for neither political nor fashionable life; and as soon as he came
to his inheritance, married a handsome, sensible daleswoman with whom he
had long been in love. Then he retired from a world which had nothing to
give him comparable, in his eyes, with the simple, dignified pleasures
incident to his position as Squire of Sandal-Side. For dearly he loved
the old hall, with its sheltering sycamores and oaks,--oaks which had
been young trees when the knights lying in Furness Abbey led the
Grasmere bowmen at Cr�cy and Agincourt. Dearly he loved the large, low
rooms, full of comfortable elegance; and the sweet, old-fashioned, Dutch
garden, so green through all the snows of winter, so cheerfully grave
and fragrant in the summer twilights, so shady and cool even in the
hottest noons.
Thirty years ago he was coming through it one July evening. It had been
a very hot day; and the flowers were drooping, and the birds weary and
silent. But Squire Sandal, though flushed and rumpled looking, had still
the air of drippy mornings and hazy afternoons about him. There was a
creel at his back, and a fishing-rod in his hand, and he had just come
from the high, unplanted places, and the broomy, breezy moorlands; and
his broad, rosy face expressed nothing but happiness.
At his side walked his favorite daughter Charlotte,--his dear companion,
the confidant and sharer of all his sylvan pleasures. She was tired and
dusty; and her short printed gown showed traces of green, spongy grass,
and lichen-covered rocks. But her face was a joy to see: she had such
bright eyes, such a kind, handsome mouth, such a cheerful voice, such a
merry laugh. As they came in sight of the wide-open front-doors, she
looked ruefully down at her feet and her grass-and-water-stained skirt,
and then into her father's face.
"I don't know what Sophia will say if she sees me, father; I don't,
indeed."
"Never you mind her, dear. Sophia's rather high, you know. And we've
had a rare good time. Eh? What?"
"I should think we have! There are not many pleasures in life better
than persuading a fine trout to go a little way down stream with you.
Are there, father?"
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