Chapter 4

A few weeks previous to the holidays, "the old Queen" gave a magnificent _fête_ at Frogmore, when, to form a prominent feature in the day's amusements, her favourites, the Etonians, were invited to play a cricket-match, for which a beautiful space of lawn had already been most good-naturedly prepared.

I think the first approach to royalty must ever be most interesting to boys, at least it was deeply so to me on this day; for when I observed the wide-swelling lawns, the broad groves, and glassy lakes of this little paradise; the Queen, with the princesses and royal suite, as they glided over the turf in a train of pony-carriages, lined and shining with the richest satins; the splendid and gaudy clusters of marquees, glittering in all the pride of Tippoo's eastern magnificence, from whom they had been rifled, with their bright crescents blazing in the sunbeams--I found all the lovely and dearly remembered fancies, conjured before my infant imagination by the nursery tale, at once placed in delightful reality before me.

Towards the evening, I had rambled, considerably fatigued with the restless pleasures of the day, into the most secluded parts of the shrubberies, and was resting on a seat, listening to the notes of a bugle band in the distance, when they were interrupted by the steps of some one passing quickly along the gravel walk towards me, and the next moment I saw a girl approaching the gate in front of me. I instantly rose and opened it for her; but as she passed, the little girl, after a slight hesitation, inquired with an expression of some anxiety if I had seen her father, Sir George Curzon.

"I do not know your father by sight," I answered, "and fear you will hardly meet with him here; for I have been more than half an hour on this seat, and have seen no one at all."

"I declare," she sighed, "I do not know how I shall find him, and I am quite tired, too! But will you, if you please, tell me the way towards the palace--I should be much obliged to you?"

"As well as I can," I answered; "but would it not be better that I ran and inquired for your father, and brought him here, for then, in the meanwhile, as you are tired, you can rest yourself on this bench?"

"You are very good-natured," replied Miss Curzon, as she sat down; "but if you will only wait until I have rested for a minute, perhaps you will go with me towards the palace, for I don't like being here quite alone."

I now perceived that the poor little girl had been crying.

"But why are you here by yourself?" she added, the next moment; "have you lost your way too? But sit down, there is room for both." And she looked up so kindly, while her beautiful little hand, contrasting with the rough bench, pressed it to enforce her request.

How happy was I to obey her, and yet how painfully confused! In a word, I was out of my element, this being my very first rencontre with one of the softer sex; for which reason, though so many years have since passed away, I cannot help reciting and recollecting it as an occurrence of yesterday.

"Are you not an Eton boy?" demanded Miss Curzon.

"Yes; but I have been one only for a few months."

"Papa says that Frederic shall be sent to Eton, by and bye," she replied, rather abstractedly.

"Perhaps, then," I answered, "I shall know him--at least, I hope I may."

"Oh, it will be a long while before he joins you, for he is quite little yet; and then, you know, he must be your fag, instead of your friend."

"I shall never fag a brother of yours," I answered.

"May I ask you some questions about this horrid fagging?" demanded Miss Curzon, and turning towards me.

"Of course," said I; "as many as you please."

"Have you got what they call a master?"

"Certainly; every lower boy must have one."

"What do you do for him?"

"Lay his breakfast and tea-things every day, and make his toast."

"Anything else?"

"Whatever he chooses."

"And if you did not choose to do it?"

"I should get a good thrashing; or, in other words, Miss Curzon, get a good licking."

After a brief silence, she resumed her questions.

"As you have been so short a time at Eton, I suppose you have not yet been punished?"

"O yes, many times. I got a capital flogging yesterday."

"Will you tell me what you were flogged for?"

"For eating in church."

"And what could make you do that?"

"I had been fagging all the morning, Miss Curzon; and having no time for breakfast, I went into church with my rolls in my pocket, and one of the masters saw me eating them."

"You have quite frightened me for poor little Frederic!"

"Perhaps he will be more fortunate," I replied; "so I must even wish, as you said just now, that he may indeed be my fag, for then he can breakfast with me every morning."

"I declare I will ask papa to place him under your care if you will let me?"

"You cannot know, Miss Curzon, how obliged I feel to you for thinking that I would take care of your brother; and depend upon it, I will."

"Yes," said the little lady, looking stedfastly in my face, "I feel quite certain you would. But," she added, as her own brightened with a smile, "you must now fulfil your first promise to me, and find my father, for I am so tired, I must rest here a little longer."

"Very well," I replied; "but how I should like to talk with you here all night! Do not go away until I return."

I now hurried away in search of her father, who, after many inquiries, was pointed out to me by Chrichton, though in a very inaccessible position; for he was standing with other important personages, among whom I could discern the Duke, by the side of her Majesty's poney-phaeton.

"Do, Chrichton," I begged--"do go up to Sir George Curzon for me; you are more used to that sort of thing than I."

All my eloquence being thrown away upon him, and on that instant thinking of my little lady in the grove, I walked towards the group with my hat in my hand, without further hesitation.

"If you please, Sir George Curzon, there is a young lady in the shrubberies who wants you."

"I think, young sir," replied Sir George, "you must make a mistake."

"No, sir. She has lost you, she says; it is Miss Curzon."

"Dear me! I thought she had been all this while with her aunt. Where is she?"

"A little beyond that temple on the hill, there," I replied, pointing with my hat.

"You need hardly go all that way yourself," said the Duke, observing Sir George about to follow me; "the boy can show her here very well."

"Yes, Sir George," added her Majesty; "let the little boy run and bring her."

"Well, then, my little gentleman," asked Sir George, "may I ask you to do so?"

"Oh, yes, Sir," I replied, and I was off on my way towards her in a moment.

"I have found your father. Miss Curzon," said I on my return, "and he has asked me to lead you to him. I hope I have not been long."

"I am sorry you should have had so much trouble," she answered, as she took my arm; "but we must now make haste, for it is getting quite late, and I know papa wishes to go part of the way home to-night."

"Do you live far from here, then?" I rather pointedly inquired.

"Oh, yes--I don't know how many miles--all the way down in Cheshire; we took this place in our road from town."

"Well, then, Miss Curzon," I said, as we approached her father, "I wonder if ever we shall meet again! You cannot think how I hope we may; but now good bye, and----"

"You need not leave me quite yet," she replied, interrupting me; "come a little further with me--what were you going to say?"

"Though I may never see you more, nobody will ever be so glad to hear that you are happy as I; for I would sooner see you so than any person I know."

"Thank you, thank you," she replied, rather earnestly, "and I hope we shall be able--indeed, I am certain I shall see you again somewhere--I will not," she added, as we approached the circle, "I will not, if you please, keep your arm before them. Good bye, then; I shall hear of you, at all events, from my brother."

She then left me, while I reluctantly directed my steps towards the college, which now appeared unwelcome and obtrusive. She was so different to everything I had hitherto experienced!--so gentle and kind--so unassuming, and yet so lovely--and now to be torn away and severed from such a person! That night I attempted to console myself in the following effusion; and as they are the first and last lines of which I was ever guilty, shall be here inserted; for though the versification is by no means faultless, they were true to my feelings at the time:--

When 'midst the deepest gloom of night, While all is still and lone, A heavenly meteor flashes bright, But floats away as soon;

Does not the bosom of the moor Seem doubly dark and drear, Frowning still sterner than before Did that false light appear!

So, lady, have you crossed my way, Brighter than cloudless morn-- So o'er this heart thy piercing ray. Gleamed--and thou art gone!