Chapter IV: Enjoyment

There were not many neighbours near Langdale Priory, and Mrs. Mordaunt often expressed great fear lest I should find it dull. Dull!--this English word “dull,” for which no exact Italian equivalent could be found, often puzzled me; and I had never realised in myself the meaning, or rather sensation, of dulness. Miserable I had been, miserable and despairing, discontented, suffered what seemed to be agonies at the moment; but my wild sensations were all too active and vivid to allow room for dulness. Still less could I connect the idea of dulness with the beautiful place which inspired me with a kind of joyful adoration; not a peaceful appreciation, but a downright actively joyous affection. I could never tire of running round the old trees, and rambling in the woods, visiting the cottages, and talking to and listening to the people, old and young, who inhabited the village near.

Then there was the library; and I discovered my father’s marks in many of the books, and they gave me a never-ending fund of interest and delight. I certainly did not inherit any of my mother’s peaceful _dolce far niente_ enjoyments, for I devoured with the keenest ardour books on all kinds of subjects; and the happy day never seemed long enough for all I wished to do.

Aunt Jane used to bring her work--little garments she was always making for the poor--and sit in the corner of the deep bay-window. She had read a good deal in English, and a little in French, but she was entirely unacquainted with German and Italian literature. So I translated passages to her as she sat at work, and her keen appreciation of the beauties of some of my favourite passages delighted me beyond measure.

“I must take you to see my dear little friend Norah,” she said one day, in the middle of a passage I was reading to her. “I should like you to teach her some of these languages, and other things you know, for she has learnt little, and yet how much older in mind she is than you are; but I don’t want you to develop quickly. Suffering will do that some day, and I foresee you will have a great deal of trouble with yourself.”

“Who is little Norah, and why have you never mentioned her before?”

“Because I only heard this morning she has returned to her father’s home. I am afraid it will scarcely seem like a home to her again, for he married a few months ago, and, from all I hear, the poor girl will not have a satisfactory step-mother.”

“Poor girl, how very sad! Do let me see her.”

“Yes, we will all go and call at Chandos Mount to-morrow, and perhaps Mrs. Mordaunt will ask little Norah to return home with us.”

The next day we started, after luncheon, in the luxurious open carriage, which I always enjoyed so much, and drove through the largest part of our beautiful park on the road to Chandos Mount.

How I did admire that thoroughly English park, with its graceful deer and splendid oaks!--its deep fern-clad dells and upland slopes, where the silvery stems of the beech-trees shone like jewelled pillars supporting gardens of richly-varied foliage. How I did enjoy the variety of colouring, the breezy, heath-scented air, all the fresh forest smells, which were so new to me, and, added to the interest of association with my dear father’s memory, were all the more striking from their contrast to anything I had seen in Italy. The glowing beauties of even Sorrento, with its richly-scented orange-groves, which had sometimes oppressed me with their power, its dazzling lights and shades, the vivid blue sea and unclouded sky, had less charm for me than the refreshing sights, and quiet, homely sounds of my own, my father’s own dear park.

Then that delightfully easy open carriage, with its well-appointed horses, that drove the same quick, steady pace up and down the steepest hills of the park.

“Well, I do enjoy riches,” thought I, with a sudden feeling of humiliation, “and everything seems more luxurious in England, because, I suppose, people are richer.” I had been struck with the contrast of the thoroughly well-managed establishment at the Priory, and that of most even rich Italian houses I had seen. The quiet respectfulness of the old English servants, who seemed to do everything exactly right, with a noiseless and unbustling precision. In fact, I afterwards made up my mind that no country produces--or rather did produce in my young days--such good servants as England, and I attribute this to the natural respect the lower feel for the upper circles, from the remains of the ancient feudal system. The country which produces the worst servants is Ireland. And now I am going to say something which will shock people horribly, in these days of exaggerated sympathy with the “wrongs of Ireland.” I think the greatest wrong Ireland has to complain of is that it has never been thoroughly amalgamated with England. Why should it not have been so (if it were formally taken possession of) as well as the races of any other country in the world have been with some other people than the first inhabitants? Of course all conquest is to be deplored; but still, if the avarice and infirmity of human nature propels people to usurpation, it must be better that the various parts should be welded into one harmonious whole.

Then came the strife of religion in Ireland, which still further retarded any harmonious settlement of rights. And, unfortunately of all strifes, those that are falsely called religious are the most deadly. Multitudes will willingly risk their lives, and die for what they think is their religion; and still more willingly kill others for it. But, alas! how few can be found to _live for_ it--to live according to God’s law and Christian precepts; for if we would but do this, there would be an end of all war and strife.

But what a digression is all this from the drive to Chandos Mount, when none of these sage thoughts came into my head, for I never reasoned then--nor did I think much. I only enjoyed, thoroughly enjoyed my life, and everything around me.