32. CHAPTER XXXII.
IN MRS. BLAND'S CHAMBER.
The visitors were met at the front door by an old servant, who
made them a respectful salute. A door was open on the right,
beyond that leading into the dining-room, and a bright fire was
burning in the fireplace of the apartment—the aged Mrs. Bland's
chamber. The old lady was seated in her great arm-chair, knitting
busily by the light of a candle, in a silver candlestick, which candlestick
stood upon a small circular mahogany table, brilliantly
polished. The snowy bed, with tall, slender posts and a tester,
was near, and a cat was asleep on the rug, in the bright light of
the cheerful fire.
The visitors unconsciously glanced through the open door, and as
the old lady had raised her eyes to see who had come to Blandfield
upon such a night, the recognition was mutual.
“Come in! Come in to the fire, young gentlemen,” said Mrs.
Bland, in her cordial, silvery treble. “You must not be ceremonious.
I am only an old woman, and everybody comes into my room,
since I cannot go out. Come in! I beg; it is growing quite cold—
quite cold, indeed—and the fire is burning brightly here.”
The invitation was too cordial to be declined, all the more as, in
giving it, Mrs. Bland paid her visitors the compliment of placing
them upon the footing of relatives or familiar friends, toward whom
ceremony was unnecessary. It must be added that St. Leger, at
least, found that beautiful blazing fire most attractive; the sight of
it was charming. Having removed their wrappings, they entered,
taking the seats which the smiling old lady pointed out.
“How very skilful in me to entrap you young gentlemen, and
entice you in to see me before the rest,” said Mrs. Bland. “You
will not have a cup of tea? Well, I am very glad to see you!
The society of young people is quite delightful to me. I think you
must be the younger; are you not, Mr. St. Leger?” You, Mr.
Harley, must be a little older.
“I am just thirty, ma'am,” said Harley, gently, highly pleased
with the serene and elegant old lady.
“I thought I could tell you your age, my dear. Excuse me, I am
too unceremonious. I have a way of counting back. Your father
was married in—let me see—but I need not trouble my poor head
about all that now. You are thirty! Well, well, how time passes!
And you have been to Europe a long time, it seems. Come home,
now, my dear—excuse me—and live in Virginia.”
Harley smiled.
“But Huntsdon is so large and lonely, Mrs. Bland.”
“Then get married.”
“Is such your advice, madam?”
“Certainly! certainly! Young gentlemen should not marry too
early. I would not be in haste, for there is a great deal, a very
great deal of responsibility in marrying. But marry when the time
comes; and that time comes, my dear,—excuse me—at thirty.”
“So I am not yet old enough,” said St. Leger, laughing. “I am
but twenty-five, Mrs. Bland.”
“That is a very good age.”
“And I should proceed, it seems, to commit matrimony at once!”
The young man sighed. Was he thinking of a certain young
lady, who, at that moment, was winding a string of pearls in her
hair, just over his head, with ten feet, some plaster, and a floor
between?
“To form one's opinion from your view, Mrs. Bland,” he added,
“marriage is unalloyed bliss.”
The old lady smiled, and glanced at him above her spectacles.
“There is nothing in the world entirely unalloyed, Mr. St. Leger.”
“And marriage is not?”
“No indeed. Everything depends upon the person one marries.
And too much care cannot be taken in forming so indissoluble a
tie.”
“Indissoluble?” Is it so impossible, then, to get rid of the fetters
of matrimony?”
“Not impossible, my dear; but I have never known a divorced
couple to lead happy lives. Better, a thousand times, live single
throughout a long life! Am I not right, Mr. Harley?”
“I use your expression, madam, and say yes, a thousand times.”
“You must have observed such cases?”
“I have, madam.”
The old lady went on knitting busily, and talking.
“It makes no difference which is to blame; the result is always
bad for both, though, of course, much worse for the wife than for
the husband. There was poor Julia—”
But what the full name of the poor Julia was, or what had been
the fate of that unfortunate lady, was never known to Harley and
St. Leger. The door opened, and Miss Clementina sailed in, followed
by Judge Bland. The lady made a formal curtsey; the
Judge bowed, and held out his hand with grave politeness.
“Good evening, gentlemen!” he said. “I am glad to see that you
have been invited to my mother's chamber; it is the most agreeable
room in the house. I know she has offered you a cup of tea, and
I trust, as it is snowing heavily, you will allow me to have your
horses put away, and spend the night. It will not do for you to return
to Huntsdon on such an inclement night.”
Harley remained standing.
“I regret that it is not in my power to stay, my dear sir. Are
you busy to-night? If not, may I beg a few moments' private conversation?
I need your advice upon a point of law.”
“A legal opinion? I will assist you in any manner in my power
with very great pleasure.”
Harley looked round. His meaning was plain.
“Perhaps it would be best to go up to my study,” said Judge
Bland. “We can then return to the ladies.”
Harley bowed.
“I was about to suggest that our conversation would not probably
prove very entertaining,” he said.
As Harley spoke, St. Leger uttered a slight laugh. Harley looked
at him with inquiring eyes.
“I suppose there never was a more indiscreet personage than
myself,” said St. Leger. “I was just about to say that nothing
interests me more than discussions and points of law. Luckily I
have said nothing! Your conversation may be on confidential
matters, and I will not intrude.”
Harley evidently hesitated. Then he said:
“There is no reason why you should not be present, my dear
St. Leger, if you desire it—none whatever. It will be a mere legal
consultation. Come!”
St. Leger smiled, and followed Harley and Judge Bland up-stairs
to the study of the latter.
