“I own, madam,” he answered, “I was a little surprised at seeing such a distinguished seat unoccupied, while the table is rather crowded.”
“O, confess more, sir! – Confess that to a poet a seat unoccupied – the chair of Banquo – has more charms than if it were filled even as an alderman would fill it. – What if ‘the Dark Ladye’17 should glide in and occupy it? – would you have courage to stand the vision, Mr. Tyrrel? – I assure you the thing is not impossible.”
“What is not impossible, Lady Penelope?” said Tyrrel, somewhat surprised.
“Startled already? – Nay, then, I despair of your enduring the awful interview.”
“What interview? who is expected?” said Tyrrel, unable with the utmost exertion to suppress some signs of curiosity, though he suspected the whole to be merely some mystification of her ladyship.
“How delighted I am,” she said, “that I have found out where you are vulnerable! – Expected – did I say expected? – no, not expected.
‘She glides, like Night, from land to land,
She hath strange power of speech.’
– But come, I have you at my mercy, and I will be generous and explain. – We call – that is, among ourselves, you understand – Miss Clara Mowbray, the sister of that gentleman that sits next to Miss Parker, the Dark Ladye, and that seat is left for her. – For she was expected – no, not expected – I forget again! – but it was thought possible she might honour us to-day, when our feast was so full and piquant. – Her brother is our Lord of the Manor – and so they pay her that sort of civility to regard her as a visitor – and neither Lady Binks nor I think of objecting – She is a singular young person, Clara Mowbray – she amuses me very much – I am always rather glad to see her.”
“She is not to come hither to-day,” said Tyrrel; “am I so to understand your ladyship?”
“Why, it is past her time – even her time,” said Lady Penelope – “dinner was kept back half an hour, and our poor invalids were famishing, as you may see by the deeds they have done since. – But Clara is an odd creature, and if she took it into her head to come hither at this moment, hither she would come – she is very whimsical. – Many people think her handsome – but she looks so like something from another world, that she makes me always think of Mat Lewis's Spectre Lady.”
And she repeated with much cadence,
“There is a thing – there is a thing,
I fain would have from thee;
I fain would have that gay gold ring,
O warrior, give it me!”
“And then you remember his answer:
‘This ring Lord Brooke from his daughter took,
And a solemn oath he swore,
That that ladye my bride should be
When this crusade was o'er.’
You do figures as well as landscapes, I suppose, Mr. Tyrrel? – You shall make a sketch for me – a slight thing – for sketches, I think, show the freedom of art better than finished pieces – I dote on the first coruscations of genius – flashing like lightning from the cloud! – You shall make a sketch for my boudoir – my dear sulky den at Air Castle, and Clara Mowbray shall sit for the Ghost Ladye.”
“That would be but a poor compliment to your ladyship's friend,” replied Tyrrel.
“Friend? We don't get quite that length, though I like Clara very well. – Quite sentimental cast of face – I think I saw an antique in the Louvre very like her – (I was there in 1800) – quite an antique countenance – eyes something hollowed – care has dug caves for them, but they are caves of the most beautiful marble, arched with jet – a straight nose, and absolutely the Grecian mouth and chin – a profusion of long straight black hair, with the whitest skin you ever saw – as white as the whitest parchment – and not a shade of colour in her cheek – none whatever – If she would be naughty, and borrow a prudent touch of complexion, she might be called beautiful. Even as it is, many think her so, although surely, Mr. Tyrrel, three colours are necessary to the female face. However, we used to call her the Melpomene of the Spring last season, as we called Lady Binks – who was not then Lady Binks – our Euphrosyne – did we not, my dear?”
“Did we not what, madam?” said Lady Binks, in a tone something sharper than ought to have belonged to so beautiful a countenance.
“I am sorry I have started you out of your reverie, my love,” answered Lady Penelope. “I was only assuring Mr. Tyrrel that you were once Euphrosyne, though now so much under the banners of Il Penseroso.”
“I do not know that I have been either one or the other,” answered Lady Binks; “one thing I certainly am not – I am not capable of understanding your ladyship's wit and learning.”
“Poor soul,” whispered Lady Penelope to Tyrrel; “we know what we are, we know not what we may be. – And now, Mr. Tyrrel, I have been your sibyl to guide you through this Elysium of ours, I think, in reward, I deserve a little confidence in return.”
“If I had any to bestow, which could be in the slightest degree interesting to your ladyship,” answered Tyrrel.
“Oh! cruel man – he will not understand me!” exclaimed the lady – “In plain words, then, a peep into your portfolio – just to see what objects you have rescued from natural decay, and rendered immortal by the pencil. You do not know – indeed, Mr. Tyrrel, you do not know how I dote upon your ‘serenely silent art,’ second to poetry alone – equal – superior perhaps – to music.”
“I really have little that could possibly be worth the attention of such a judge as your ladyship,” answered Tyrrel; “such trifles as your ladyship has seen, I sometimes leave at the foot of the tree I have been sketching.”
“As Orlando left his verses in the Forest of Ardennes? – Oh, the thoughtless prodigality! – Mr. Winterblossom, do you hear this? – We must follow Mr. Tyrrel in his walks, and glean what he leaves behind him.”
Her ladyship was here disconcerted by some laughter on Sir Bingo's side of the table, which she chastised by an angry glance, and then proceeded emphatically.
“Mr. Tyrrel – this must not be – this is not the way of the world, my good sir, to which even genius must stoop its flight. We must consult the engraver – though perhaps you etch as well as you draw?”
“I should suppose so,” said Mr. Winterblossom, edging in a word with difficulty, “from the freedom of Mr. Tyrrel's touch.”
“I will not deny my having spoiled a little copper now and then,” said Tyrrel, “since I am charged with the crime by such good judges; but it has only been by way of experiment.”
“Say no more,” said the lady; “my darling wish is accomplished! – We have long desired to have the remarkable and most romantic spots of our little Arcadia here – spots consecrated to friendship, the fine arts, the loves and the graces, immortalized by the graver's art, faithful to its charge of fame – you shall labour on this task, Mr. Tyrrel; we will all assist with notes and illustrations – we will all contribute – only some of us must be permitted to remain anonymous – Fairy favours, you know, Mr. Tyrrel, must be kept secret – And you shall be allowed the pillage of the Album – some sweet things there of Mr. Chatterly's – and Mr. Edgeit, a gentleman of your own profession,