Chapter 14

Lady Cecil’s house was situated on the heights that overlook Fairlight Bay, near Hastings. Any one who has visited that coast knows the peculiar beauty of the rocks, downs, and groves of Fairlight. The oak, which clothes each dell, and, in a dwarf and clipped state, forms the hedges, imparts a richness not only to the wide landscape, but to each broken nook of ground and sequestered corner; the fern, which grows only in contiguity to the oak, giving a wild forest appearance to the glades. The mansion itself was large, convenient, and cheerful. The grounds were extensive; and from points of view you could see the wide sea—the more picturesque bay—and the undulating, varied shore that curves in towards Winchelsea. It was impossible to conceive a scene more adapted to revive the spirits, and give variety and amusement to the thoughts.

Elizabeth grew better, as by a miracle, the very day after her arrival; and within a week a sensible change had taken place in her appearance, as well as her health. The roses bloomed in her cheeks—her step regained its elasticity—her spirits rose even to gayety. All was new and animating. Lady Cecil’s beautiful and spirited children delighted her. It was a domestic scene, adorned by elegance and warmed by affection. Elizabeth had, despite her attachment to her father, often felt the weight of loneliness when left by him at Zante; or when his illness threw her back entirely on herself. Now on each side there were sweet, kind faces—playful, tender caresses—and a laughing mirth, cheering in its perfect innocence.

The only annoyance she suffered arose from the great influx of visiters. Having lived a life disjoined from the crowd, she soon began to conceive the hermitess, delight in loneliness, and the vexation of being intruded upon by the frivolous and indifferent. She found that she loved friends, but hated acquaintance. Nor was this strange. Her mind was quite empty of conventional frivolities. She had not been at a ball twice in her life, and then only when a mere child; yet all had been interest and occupation. To unbend with her was to converse with a friend—to play with children—or to enjoy the scenes of nature with one who felt their beauties with her. “It was hard labour,” she often said, “to talk with people with whom she had not one pursuit—one taste in common.” Often when a barouche, crowded with gay bonnets, appeared, she stole away. Lady Cecil could not understand this. Brought up in the thick of fashionable life, no person of her clique was a stranger; and if any odd people called on her—still they were in some way entertaining; or if bores—bores are an integral portion of life, not to be shaken off with impunity, for, as oysters, they often retain the fairest pearls in close conjunction. “You are wrong,” said Lady Cecil. “You must not be a savage—I cannot have mercy on you; this little jagged point in your character must be worn off—you must be as smooth and glossy in exterior as you are incalculably precious in the substance of your mind.”