I returned from town with a hundred triumphs, but my heart intact. The whirl of fashion had palled upon me for a season. I was weary of the fume I had created in St. James’s and the Mall, and I retired to my northern home in the late January of ’46. Sweet High Cleeby, cradle of my joyous girlhood, home of romance and these strange events I now relate, let me mention you with reverence and love. Yet our ancestral seat is a cold and sombre place enough, wrapped in ivy and gray ghostliness. The manor is folded in on every side by a shivering gloom of woods, and in winter you can hear them cry in company with those uneasy souls that make our casements rattle. ’Tis dreary as November with its wee…
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