III. FROM JANE TO MRS. GRAHAM

Mother, I told you how, at first,

I fear'd this visit to the Hurst.

Fred must, I felt, be so distress'd

By aught in me unlike the rest

Who come here. But I find the place

Delightful; there's such ease, and grace,

And kindness, and all seem to be

On such a high equality.

They have not got to think, you know,

How far to make the money go.

But Frederick says it's less the expense

Of money, than of sound good-sense,

Quickness to care what others feel

And thoughts with nothing to conceal;

Which I'll teach Johnny. Mrs. Vaughan

Was waiting for us on the Lawn,

And kiss'd and call'd me‘ Cousin.’ Fred

Neglected his old friends, she said.

He laugh'd, and colour'd up at this.

She was, you know, a flame of his;

But I'm not jealous! Luncheon done,

I left him, who had just begun

To talk about the Russian War

With an old Lady, Lady Carr,—

A Countess, but I'm more afraid,

A great deal, of the Lady's Maid,—

And went with Mrs. Vaughan to see

The pictures, which appear'd to be

Of sorts of horses, clowns, and cows

Call'd Wouvermans and Cuyps and Dows.

And then she took me up, to show

Her bedroom, where, long years ago,

A Queen slept.‘ Tis all tapestries

Of Cupids, Gods, and Goddesses,

And black, carved oak. A curtain'd door

Leads thence into her soft Boudoir,

Where even her husband may but come

By favour. He, too, has his room,

Kept sacred to his solitude.

Did I not think the plan was good?

She ask'd me; but I said how small

Our house was, and that, after all,

Though Frederick would not say his prayers

At night till I was safe upstairs,

I thought it wrong to be so shy

Of being good when I was by.

‘ Oh, you should humour him!’ she said,

With her sweet voice and smile; and led

The way to where the children ate

Their dinner, and Miss Williams sate.

She's only Nursery-Governess,

Yet they consider her no less

Than Lord or Lady Carr, or me.

Just think how happy she must be!

The Ball-Room, with its painted sky

Where heavy angels seem to fly,

Is a dull place; its size and gloom

Make them prefer, for drawing-room,

The Library, all done up new

And comfortable, with a view

Of Salisbury Spire between the boughs.

When she had shown me through the house,

( I wish I could have let her know

That she herself was half the show;

She is so handsome, and so kind! )

She fetch'd the children, who had dined;

And, taking one in either hand,

Show'd me how all the grounds were plann'd.

The lovely garden gently slopes

To where a curious bridge of ropes

Crosses the Avon to the Park.

We rested by the stream, to mark

The brown backs of the hovering trout.

Frank tickled one, and took it out

From under a stone. We saw his owls,

And awkward Cochin-China fowls,

And shaggy pony in the croft;

And then he dragg'd us to a loft,

Where pigeons, as he push'd the door,

Fann'd clear a breadth of dusty floor,

And set us coughing. I confess

I trembled for my nice silk dress.

I cannot think how Mrs. Vaughan

Ventured with that which she had on,—

A mere white wrapper, with a few

Plain trimmings of a quiet blue,

But, oh, so pretty! Then the bell

For dinner rang. I look'd quite well

(‘ Quite charming,’ were the words Fred said,)

With the new gown that I've had made

I am so proud of Frederick.

He's so high-bred and lordly-like

With Mrs. Vaughan! He's not quite so

At home with me; but that, you know,

I can n't expect, or wish.‘ Twould hurt,

And seem to mock at my desert.

Not but that I'm a duteous wife

To Fred; but, in another life,

Where all are fair that have been true,

I hope I shall be graceful too,

Like Mrs. Vaughan. And, now, good-bye!

That happy thought has made me cry,

And feel half sorry that my cough,

In this fine air, is leaving off.