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Updated: June 5, 2025
"What folly is this?" cried Lady Chillington, sternly, striking the pavement of the hall sharply with the iron ferrule of her cane. "To your room, Sister Agnes! For such poor weak fools as you solitude is the only safe companion. But, remember your oath! Not a word; not a word." With one lean hand uplifted, and menacing forefinger, she emphasised those last warning words.
I did not expect Pamela to show an ounce more feeling than the strictest canons of propriety demanded, and she fulfilled my expectations to the letter; but I had hoped, I confess, that Chillington would have displayed some little consciousness.
With that, she left me standing on the threshold, and hurried towards the upper end of the hall. The tall personage in black, then, with the harsh voice high pitched, and slightly cracked was Lady Chillington! How fast my heart beat! If only I could have slipped out unobserved I would never have braved my fortune within those walls again.
The most interesting things in life are those which, perhaps by the inevitable nature of the case, one does not hear; and I did not hear the scene which followed. For a while they stood talking rather, he talked and she listened. Then she turned again and walked slowly into the shrubbery. Chillington followed. It was the end of a chapter, and I laid down the book.
I had a half consciousness that Dance was prevaricating with me in this matter, or hiding something from me; but I was obliged to accept her version as the correct one, especially as I saw that any further questioning would be of no avail. I did not see Lady Chillington that day. She was reported to be unwell, and kept her own rooms.
It is simple story, prettily told in its little way, and the scene of the reunion is written with genuine feeling nay, with a touch of real passion. But then Sir Gilbert Chillington never meets Miss Liston now. And Lady Chillington not only behaves with her customary propriety, but is in the enjoyment of most excellent health and spirits. True art demands an adaptation, not a copy, of life.
Barrow, full of manner and presence and often Edwin Booth's Portia, Desdemona and Julie de Mortemer. The Uncles, within my hearing, even imitated, for commendation, some of her choicer sounds, to which I strained my ear on seeing her afterwards as Mrs. Chillington in the refined comedietta of A Morning Call, where she made delightful game of Mr.
Chillington and Pamela had gone riding with the squire, Dora was visiting the poor. We were alone. Presently she let me know what it was. "I'm thinking of altering the scheme of my story, Mr. Wynne," said she. "Have you ever noticed how sometimes a man thinks he's in love when he isn't really?" "Such a case sometimes occurs," I acknowledged. "Yes, and he doesn't find out his mistake "
Yes, she looked as if she were devouring me with her eyes. But hothouse grapes are nicer than mysteries, and how is it possible to give one's serious attention to two things at a time? When I had finished the grapes, I put my plate back on the table. "Ring that bell," said Lady Chillington. I rang it accordingly, and presently Dance made her appearance.
She was holding one hand over her eyes, and trying to make out our appearance through the gathering darkness. I stepped close up to her. "I am Miss Janet Hope, from Park Hill Seminary," I said, "and I wish to speak with Lady Chillington."
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