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Claudes, with every object included on their
canvases that the face of nature affords; and
caves, by Salvator Rosa, with robbers carous-
ing in them. .
In {any old-fashioned country house of the
same size as Stokeville Hall these would have
charmed every artistic eye, because they would
have been almost invisible; but here, where vast
plate-glass windows let in floods of light, it was
really very trying for them. They. seemed to
feel themselves in a false position;-on Sundays,
when the Stokeville sun could work its will, the
poor robbers especially, though there was only
a smudge of lampblack and a dab of scarlet to
establish their identity, fairly cowered before it.
“ The Fibbert ancestors, who were collected in
the dining-room, in very noble frames, expressed
a fine contempt for these surroundings. No ex-
pense had been spared in procuring them, but
unfortunately no pains had been taken to secure
uniformity; so far from looking like one family,
they had not a feature in common; the only
sign of relationship about them, as Percy was
wont to observe, was that they scowled at one
another as if their interests were antagonistic;
but it might have been that, being old-fashioned
folks, they resented the attempt that had been
made by the upholsterer and the cabinet-maker
to impose upon them. They knew that ‘In
medio tutissimus” on the ceiling never came
from the Heralds’ Office, and that the worm-
holes in the oak that lined the room spoke less
of the effect of years than of small shot.
The architect whom Sir Peter had employed,
after his house was built, to give what flavor of
antiquity to it was possible, had done his best,
no doubt, and the upholsterer had seconded his
efforts; but the result was incongruous. It sug-
gested the device of some eminent receiver of
stolen goods who would have folks believe that
they were his own furniture. Why the spoils of
the chase should have adorned the hall of a
man who had never fired a gun in his life ‘tin
anger” (as he called the! practice of partridge
shooting) was a question not easily answered;
but it sank into insignificance beside the inquiry,
‘Why an armory?” Yet in Stokeville Hall there
wos a passage (leading to the bath-room)
adorned by weapons of all ages, guarded by men
in armor, who (their existence in such a spot
being naturally unexpected) had frightened
many a new maid-servant into fits.
Sir Peter himself passed most of his time in
"a little room like a pantry at the back of the
house, in company with the picture of his own
mill as it appeared. in infancy—a harmless edi-
fice with one chimney; an old map of the
county, wherein Stokeville was represented by
six dots, the number of houses it then con-
tained; and the certificate of, his knighthood,
framed and glazed. In spite of his reverence
for antiquity, it was whispered by cynical per-
sons that in his secret heart he had doubts
whether anything had taken place of impor-
tance anterior to fifty years ago, when the Fib-
berts began to rise in the world; and it was
certain that such out-door dignities as had been
earned, for example, at Crecy and Poitiers,
seemed very small to him by comparison with
his own rank, which had been conferred upon
him by his Majesty George the Fourth in per-
son, for distinguished services im connection
with a deputation, the precise nature of which
had been lost in the mists of time.
In addition to these decorations on the walls
of this sanctum, there stood on the table, altar-
shaped for that especial purpose, a complete
model of the Fibbert Museum in cork, witha
plate in front of it like a metal mat, on which
was inscribed the date of the erection of the
building and the name of the donor. ~
“© Si monumentum requiris,” tho knight was
wont to observe, pointing to this edifice (for he
was a wag in his way, though he stole his jokes,
*‘sir—come—spy—see.” His museum was to
him what the pyramids were to the Egyptian
kings; he would have been buried in it if he
could, but in default of that, he wished it to bea
witness to his own greatness throughout all
ages, The greatest honor that could be con-
ferred on you as a visitor to Stokeville Hall was
to be admitted to this bower to smoke a cigar
with your host, who would narrate to you at
some length how he had been once a little boy
FOR CASH ONLY.
living there (here he pointed to one of the six
dots on the map), and working there (here he
pointed to the infant mill) for wage, but that
thanks to good luck, and perhaps a rough sort
of merit (here he would smile and smooth him-
self), Ihave become (here he glanced compre-
hensively at the certificate and the cork model)
what Iam. On other occasions, and even the
same evening if the visitor was a whisky-
drinker, he would servé up the same narrative, as
the cooks say, ‘‘another way.” He would treat
himself as though he were somebody else, and
his biography as a sort of parable, the object of
which was to show the advantages of diligence
and perseverance, and when he had painted the
dizzy heights to which the poor but honest lad
had risen by his own exertions, he would sud-
denly surprise his companion (if a judicious per-
son) with the unexpected revelation, ‘I am
that boy.” : . /
. Besides Sir Peter’s sanctum, there was an-
other apartment at the Hall that was an
exception to its general style—the boudoir
of his daughter. Miss Mildred, or, as she
was called by her intimates, Milly Fibbert,
had a horror of all ‘‘antiquated rubbish.” She
was young herself (barely six-and-twenty), and
disliked anything about her to smack of age.
The furniture of her apartment was of the latest
design; its ornaments, constantly recruited
from Paris or Regent Street, even to the “old
blue china,” looked always bright and new, and
the novels that crowded her pretty buhl table
(Percy called it; from its surrounding, ‘the
bull in the china shop”) were always ‘just out.”
Milly was more particular in getting her fiction
fresh and hot (like muffins) than in its whole-
someness. Her papa was not literary, despite
that Latin quotation about his monument, and
she was left to her own taste, which was for
pickles and sauces, or at all events for entrees,
rather than the joint.
Iam afraid she endeavored in some measure
to reproduce in her own proper person the fast
and fashionable heroines of whom she read.
“Curiously enough, Milly’s favorite writer,”
said Percy, imitating the lisp of young Frank
Farrer, ‘is. Weader.”. With women and old
gentlemen (unless they were superior to herself
in rank, in which case she was always on her
best behavior) she was languid, lazy, and in-
different; with young gentlemen, on the other
hand, she was no longer.a Du-du (this was
Percy again), nor yet a Don’t-don’t. She gave
them a helping hand if they needed encourage-
ment; and if, on the other hand, they were
se great fun,” allowed them and herself consider-
able license. \ . .
To look at her now; you would think that
butter would not melt in her mouth, so inani-
mate and calm is her beautiful face, so indolent
is her attitude, as\she lies on the sofa with a
book held aslant in her Janguid hand. After a
eulogistic description of one of his characters,
Lavater adds, ‘‘ But he does not hold his book
well,” and he would certainly have said the
same of Milly Fibbert. But then she could hold
it better if she would. She has learned from her
pet authors that to be negligent is to be charm-
ing, and also that you should never trouble
yourself to exhibit interest unless it is worth
your while, to a lord, for instance, or a lover,
In the present case her only companion was her
father, so that, of course, there was no necessity
to put herself out of the way. - However, as she
had not seen him before this morning, for he
always breakfasted at eight in order to be at
business early, and she generally at ten, she
acknowledged, by a gracious movement of her | o:
eyelids, Sir Peter’s entrance into the room.
He was a man of advanced age, but looked
much younger than his years. His hair was
plentiful, his figure plump,‘and out of business
hours he wore a roguish smile, the nature of
which was disputed. His friends said it was
only the sly humor characteristic of the man;
his enemies, while admitting the smile, affirmed
that it was put on to conceal his roguery, in
which it did not succeed. They even mistrasted
the twinkle of his eyes, which they averred was
too instantaneous to prevent their losing sieht
of the main chance even for a moment—a fact
they further instanced by the fact that when he
smiled he always jingled the money in his pock-
ets. His ‘eyes were blue, like his daughter's, _
and though they never yearned and languished
ag she had taught herself to do, they were
capable of other expressions than that of easy
good-nature, which they wore at present.’ She
too, as we have said, was plump; and there all
resemblance, except that their years sat lightly
on them both, between father and daughter
ended. Not even the custodian of his own
museum could have called Sir Peter beau-
tiful; but Milly was, in her way splendid; her
complexion soft as cream, with a subdued color
in it, like light through egg-shell china; her
well-rounded limbs in exquisite proportion; her
brown hair finer than silk, and with a shimmer
on it, as though it were the play-ground of the
sunbeams. Percy called her the Princess Blon-
dissima—a name he pretended to have found in
a fairy tale; but if she was a fairy, her weight
was over the average. :
‘So, Miss Milly, you have got a fire, have
you?” said her father, at the same time taking
advantage of it to warm his back; ‘that is be-
ginning early. I suppose you remember that
coals are cheap in Stokeville.”
Milly smiled the very faintest smile imagi-
nable; her pretty mouth parted perhaps a hair’s-
breadth, but she made up for that condescen-
sion by almost’ closing her’ already half-shut
eyes. Who but Sir Peter could have dreamt of
associating her thoughts with the price of
coals? .
_ ‘Fortunately cottons are looking up,” con-
tinued Sir Peter, consolingly. —
Milly, unlike the cotton, did not look up; her
eyes sought her book a little impatiently. She
had been interrupted at a critical point, where
the guardsman with the tawny mustache and
fifteen thousand a year was endeavoring to per-
suade the Lady Adeliza Montblazon to fly with
him to the sunny South.
‘A husband,” he said, when she mentioned
that obstacle, “like the ledge of a beehive, is
made to fly from.”
‘Have you any news from Oak Lodge, Milly,
this morning?” “Sir Peter’s tone had altered;
it was no longer bantering and airy; though not
absolutely severe, it had become abrupt. Milly,
who knew how very swift with him was the
transition between jocularity and irritation,
sighed wearily, and sheathing an ivory dagger
in the leaves of her novel to keep the place, re-
signed herself to conversation.
‘*No, papa, I have heard nothing from Clare;
let-us hope that no news is good news.”
The philosophic calmness with which she ut-
tered this aspiragton would have been admirable
had she required to keep her feelings under con-
trol, but the fact was they were not greatly in-
terested in the subject: The illness of her friend's
father was-a matter that ‘only touched her in
so far that it made Clare-melancholy, and un-
fitted for the offices of friendship. -
“Tt is my opinion, Mildred, and, what is of
more consequence, it is Dickson’s opinion, that
Lyster will not get over it.”
‘“* Poor man!”
The words of the speaker were appropriate
enough, but sympathy could scarcely a less dis-
tance go than it did in the tone expressed in.
__ ‘Youare begging the very question I am ask-
ing myself,” said Sir Peter, gravely. ‘(Js John
Lyster a poor man?” .
‘‘Mr. Lyster poor!” , Milly raised herself quite
naturally, without thinking (for once) of how
she did it, or of her. pose afterward. ‘* Why, is
he not your partner?”
ql his death, yes; but that cannot be. far
~ ‘That will make no difference to us, however,
will it—that is, materially?”
Her concern for the Lady Adeliza Montblazon
had been considerable, but there was another
young woman in whom, although untitled, it
Was manifest she took a still warmer interest.
“I should hope not; no, indeed,” said Sir.
Peter,’straightening his waistcoat; “but it would
be a sad thing for Clare—a dreadful come down
in the world.” :
‘It would be shocking, inexpressibly shock-
ing,” assented Milly, arranging a bracelet that
had slipped too far over her wrist.
“Then there's Percy.” These three words
dropped with great significance from Sir Peter’s
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