If a cordial host and a graceful hostess can throw a wondrous charm over
the hospitalities of a house, there is a feature in those houses where
neither host nor hostess is felt which contributes largely to the
enjoyment of the assembled company. I suspect, indeed, that republics
work more smoothly domestically than nationally. Tilney was certainly
a case in point. Mrs. Maxwell was indeed the owner,--the demesne, the
stables, the horses, the gardens, the fish-ponds, were all hers; but
somehow none of the persons under her roof felt themselves her guests.
It was an establishment in which each lived as he liked, gave his own
orders, and felt very possibly more at home, in the pleasant sense
of the phrase, than in his own house. Dinner alone was a “fixture;”
everything else was at the caprice of each. The old lady herself was
believed to take great pride in the perfect freedom her guests enjoyed;
and there was a story current of a whole family who partook of her
hospitalities for three weeks, meeting her once afterwards in a
watering-place, and only recognizing her as an old woman they saw at
Tilney. Other tales there were of free comments of strangers made upon
the household, the dinners, and such-like to herself, in ignorance of
who she was, which she enjoyed vastly, and was fond of relating, in
strict confidence, to her few intimates.
If there were a number of pleasant features in such a household, there
were occasionally little trifling drawbacks that detracted slightly from
its perfect working,--mere specks in the sun, it is true, and, after
all, only such defects as are inseparable from all things where humanity
enters and influences. One of these--perhaps the most marked one--was
the presumption of certain _habitués_ to install themselves in certain
rooms, which, from long usage, they had come to regard as their own.
These prescriptive rights were so well understood that the frequenters
of Tilney no more thought of disturbing them than they would of
contesting their neighbors' title-deeds, or appropriating to themselves
some portions of their wardrobes. Occasionally, however, it did
happen that some guest of more than ordinary pretension
arrived,--some individual whose rank or station placed him above these
conventionalities,--and in such cases some deviations from ordinary
routine would occur, but so quietly and peacefully withal as never to
disturb the uniform working of the domestic machinery.
“I find my rooms always ready for me here,” said Mrs. Trafford; “and
I have no doubt that Mrs. Maxwell has given orders about yours, Mr.
Maitland; but it's your own fault, remember, if you 're not lodged to
your liking.”
Maitland was not long in making his choice. A little garden pavilion,
which was connected with the house by a glass corridor, suited him
perfectly; it combined comfort and quiet and isolation,--who could ask
for more?--within an easy access of society when it was wanted. There
was the vast old garden, as much orchard and shrubbery as garden,
to stroll in unobserved; and a little bathroom into which the water
trickled all day long with a pleasant drip, drip, that sounded most
soothingly.
“It's the Commodore's favorite place, sir, this garden-house,” said the
butler, who did the honors to Maitland, “and it's only a chance that
he's not here to claim it. There was some mistake about his invitation,
and I suppose he's not coming.”
“Yes, I passed him a couple of miles off; he 'll be here almost
immediately.”
“We 'll put him up on the second floor, sir; the rooms are all newly
done up, and very handsome.”
“I 'm sorry if I inconvenience him, Mr. Raikes,” said Maitland,
languidly; “but I've got here now, and I'm tired, and my traps are half
taken out; and, in fact, I should be sorrier still to have to change.
You understand me,--don't you?”
“Perfectly, sir; and my mistress, too, gave orders that you were to have
any room you pleased; and your own hours, too, for everything.”
“She is most kind. When can I pay my respects to her?”
“Before dinner, sir, is the usual time. All the new company meet her in
the drawing-room. Oh, there's the Commodore now; I hear his voice, and I
declare they 're bringing his trunks here, after all I said.”
The old sailor was now heard, in tones that might have roused a
main-deck, calling to the servants to bring down all his baggage to the
pavilion, to heat the bath, and send him some sherry and a sandwich.
“I see you 're getting ready for me, Raikes,” said he, as the somewhat
nervous functionary appeared at the door.
“Well, indeed, Commodore Graham, these rooms are just taken.”
“Taken! and by whom? Don't you know, and have n't you explained, that
they are always mine?”
“We thought up to this morning, Commodore, that you were not coming.”
“Who are 'we,'--you and the housemaids, eh? Tell me who are 'we,' sir?”
“My mistress was greatly distressed, sir, at George's mistake, and she
sent him back late last night.”
“Don't bother me about that. Who's here,--who has got my quarters, and
where is he? I suppose it's a man.”
“It's a Mr. Norman Maitland.”
“By George, I'd have sworn it!” cried the Commodore, getting purple
with passion. “I knew it before you spoke. Go in and say that Commodore
Graham would wish to speak with him.”
“He has just lain down, sir; he said he did n't feel quite well, and
desired he mightn't be disturbed.”
“He's not too ill to hear a message. Go in and say that Commodore Graham
wishes to have one word with him. Do you hear me, sir?”
A flash of the old man's eye and a tighter grasp of his cane--very
significant in their way--sent Mr. Raikes on his errand, from which,
after a few minutes, he came back, saying, in a low whisper, “He's
asleep, sir,--at least I think so; for the bedroom door is locked, and
his breathing comes very long.”
“This is about the most barefaced, the most outrageously impudent--” He
stopped, checked by the presence of the servant, which he had totally
forgotten. “Take my traps back into the hall,--do you hear me?--the
hall.”
“If you 'd allow me, sir, to show the yellow rooms upstairs, with the
bow window--”
“In the attics, I hope?”
“No, sir,--just over the mistress's own room on the second floor.”
“I 'll save you that trouble, Mr. Raikes; send Corrie here, my
coachman,--send him here at once.”
While Mr. Raikes went, or affected to go, towards the stables,--a
mission which his dignity secretly scorned,--the Commodore called out
after him, “And tell him to give the mare a double feed, and put on the
harness again,--do you hear me?--to put the harness on her.”
Mr. Raikes bowed respectfully; but had the Commodore only seen his face,
he would have seen a look that said, “What I now do must not be taken as
a precedent,--I do it, as the lawyers say, 'without prejudice.'”
In a glow of hot temper, to which the ascent of two pairs of stairs
contributed something, the old Commodore burst into the room where his
daughters were engaged unpacking. Sofas, tables, and chairs were already
covered with articles of dress, rendering his progress a matter of very
nice steering through the midst of them.
“Cram them in again,--stow them all away!” cried he; “we 're going
back.”
“Back where?” asked the elder, in a tone of dignified resistance years
of strong opposition had taught her.
“Back to Port-Graham, if you know such a place. I 've ordered the car
round to the door, and I mean to be off in a quarter of an hour.”
“But why--what has happened? what's the reason for this?”
“The reason is that I 'm not going to be packed up in the top story, or
given a bed in a barrack room. That fellow Raikes,--I 'll remember it to
him next Christmas,--that fellow has gone and given the garden-house to
that Mr. Maitland.”
“Oh, is that all?” broke in Miss Graham.
“All, all! Why, what more would you have? Did you expect that he had
told me to brush his coat or fetch his hot water? What the d----l do you
mean by 'all'?”
“Then why don't you take Mrs. Chetwyn's rooms? They are on this floor.
She's going now. They are most comfortable, and have a south aspect: by
the way she was just talking of Maitland; she knows all about him, and
he is the celebrated Norman Maitland.”
“Ah, let us hear that. I want to unearth the fellow if I only knew how,”
said he, taking a chair.
“There's nothing to unearth, papa,” said the younger daughter. “Mrs.
Chetwyn says that there's not a man in England so courted and feted as
he is; that people positively fight for him at country-houses; and it's
a regular bait to one's company to say, 'We 're to have Maitland with
us.'”
“And who is he?”
“She does n't know.”
“What's his fortune?”
“She doesn't know.”
“Where is it?”
“She's not sure. It must be somewhere abroad,--in India, perhaps.”
“So that this old woman knows just as much as we do ourselves,--which
is simply nothing, but that people go on asking this man about to this
dinner and that shooting just because they met him somewhere else, and
he amused them.”
“'T is pretty clear that he has money, wherever it comes from,” said
Miss Graham, authoritatively. “He came to Hamilton Court with four
hunters and three hackneys, the like of which were never seen in the
county.”
“Tell papa about his yacht,” broke in the younger.
“I don't want to hear about his yacht; I 'd rather learn why he turned
me out of my old quarters.”
“In all probability he never heard they were yours. Don't you know well
what sort of house this is,--how everybody does what he likes?”
“Why didn't Alice Lyle--Mrs. Trafford, I mean--tell him that I always
took these rooms.”
“Because probably she was thinking of something else,” said Miss Graham,
significantly. “Mrs. Chetwyn watched them as they drove up, and she
declared that, if Maitland had n't his hand in her muff, her eyes have
greatly deceived her.”
“And what if he had?”
“Simply that it means they are on very excellent terms. Not that Alice
will make any real conquest there: for, as Mrs. Chetwyn said, 'he has
seen far too many of these fine-lady airs and graces to be taken by
them;' and she added, 'A frank, outspoken, natural girl, like your
sister there, always attracts men of this stamp.'”
“Why didn't he come over on Wednesday, then? It was his own appointment,
and we waited dinner till seven o'clock, and have not had so much as one
line--no, not one line of apology.”
“Perhaps he was ill, perhaps he was absent; his note might have
miscarried. At all events, I 'd wait till we meet him, and see what
explanation he 'll make.”
“Yes, papa,” chimed in Beck, “just leave things alone. 'A strange hand
on the rod never hooked the salmon,' is a saying of your own.”
“There's that stupid fellow brought the car round to the door; just
as if our splendid equipage had n't attracted criticism enough on our
arrival,” said Miss Graham, as she opened the window, and by a gesture
more eloquent than graceful motioned to the servant to return to the
stableyard; “and there come the post-horses,” added she, “for the
Chetwyns. Go now and secure her rooms before you 're too late;” and,
rather forcibly aiding her counsel, she bundled the old Commodore out of
the chamber, and resumed the unpacking of the wardrobe.
“I declare, I don't know what he'll interfere in next,” said Miss
Graham.
“Yes,” said Beck, with a weary sigh, “I wish he'd go back to the
American war, and what we did or did not do at Ticonderoga.”
Leaving these young ladies to discuss in a spirit more critical than
affectionate the old Commodore's ways and habits, let us for a moment
return to Maitland who had admitted young Lyle after two unsuccessful
attempts to see him.
“It's no easy matter to get an audience of you,” said Mark. “I have been
here I can't say how many times, always to hear Fenton lisp out. In the
bath sir.”
“Yes. I usually take my siesta that way. With plenty of eau-de-Cologne
in it there 'a no weakening effect. Well, and what is going on here? any
people that I know? I suppose not.”
“I don't think it very likely: they are all country families, except a
few refreshers from the garrison at Newry and Dundalk.”
“And what do they do?”
“Pretty much the same sort of thing you 'd find in an English
country-house. There 's some not very good shooting. They make
riding-parties. They have archery when it's fine, and billiards when it
rains; but they always dine very well at seven, that much I can promise
you.”
“Not such a cook as your father's, Lyle, I 'm certain.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mark, evidently flattered by the compliment. “But
the cellar here is unequalled. Do you know that in the mere shadowy
possibility of being one day her heir, I groan every time I see that
glorious Madeira placed on the table before a set of fellows that smack
their lips and say, 'It's good sherry, but a trifle too sweet for my
taste.'”
“And this same heritage,--how do the chances look?”
“I shall want your power of penetration to say that. One day the old
woman will take me aside and consult me about fifty things; and the next
she'll say, 'Perhaps we'd better make no changes, Mark. Heaven knows
what ideas they may have who 'll come after me.' She drives me half
distracted with these capricious turns.”
“It is provoking, no doubt of it.”
“I 'd not care so much if I thought it was to fall to Bella; though, to
be sure, no good-looking girl needs such a fortune as this. Do you know
that the timber thrown down by the late gales is worth eight thousand
pounds? and Harris the steward tells me it's not one fourth of what
ought to be felled for the sake of the young wood.”
“And she has the whole and sole disposal of all this?”
“Every stick of it, and some six thousand acres besides!”
“I 'd marry her if I were you. I declare I would.”
“Nonsense! this is a little too absurd.”
“Amram married his aunt, and I never heard that she had such a dower;
not to say that the relationship in the present case is only a myth.”
“Please to remember that she is about thirty years older than my
mother.”
“I bear it most fully in mind, and I scout the vulgar impertinences of
those who ridicule these marriages. I think there is something actually
touching in the watchful care and solicitude of a youthful husband for
the venerable object of his affections.”
“Well, you shall not point the moral by my case, I promise you,” said
Mark, angrily.
“That sublime spectacle that the gods are said to love--a great man
struggling with adversity--is so beautifully depicted in these unions.”
“Then why not--” He was going to say, “Why not marry her yourself?” but
the fear of taking such a liberty with his distinguished friend just
caught him in time and stopped him.
“I 'll tell you why not,” said Maitland, replying to the unuttered
question. “If you have ever dined at a civic _fête_ you 'll have
remarked that there is some one dish or other the most gluttonous
alderman will suffer to pass untasted,--a sort of sacrifice offered to
public opinion. And so it is, an intensely worldly man, as people are
polite enough to regard me, must show, every now and then, that there
are temptations which he is able to resist. Marrying for money is one of
these. I might speculate in a bubble company, I might traffic in cotton
shares, or even 'walk into' my best friend al faro, but I mustn't marry
for money,--that's positive.”
“But apparently _I_ might,” said Mark, sulkily.
“You might,” replied Maitland, with calm dignity of manner.
“It is a privilege of which I do not mean to avail myself,” said Mark,
while his face was flushed with temper. “Do you know that your friends
the Grahams are here?”
“Yes; I caught a glimpse of the fair Rebecca slipping sideways through
life on a jaunting-car.”
“And there's the old Commodore tramping over the house, and worrying
every one with his complaints that you have turned him out of his rooms
here,--rooms dedicated to his comfort for the last thirty years.”
“Reason enough to surrender them now. Men quit even the Treasury benches
to give the Opposition a turn of office.”
“He 's a quarrelsome old blade, too,” said Mark, “particularly if he
suspects he's been 'put upon.'”
“No blame to him for that.”
“A word or two, said as you well know how to say it, will set all right;
or a line, perhaps, saying that having accidentally heard from me--”
“No, no, Mark. Written excuses are like undated acceptances, and they
may be presented unexpectedly to you years after you 've forgotten them.
I 'll tell the Commodore that I shall not inconvenience him beyond a day
or two, for I mean to start by the end of the week.”
“They expect you to come back with us. Alice told me you had promised.”
“_L'homme propose_,” said he, sighing. “By the way, I saw that young
fellow you told me about,--Butler; a good-looking fellow, too, well
limbed and well set up, but not a marvel of good-breeding or tact.”
“Did he attempt any impertinences with _you?_” asked Mark, in a tone of
amazement.
“Not exactly; he was not, perhaps, as courteous as men are who care to
make a favorable impression; but he is not, as you suspected,--he is not
a snob.”
“Indeed!” said Mark, reddening; for, though provoked and angry, he did
not like to contest the judgment of Norman Maitland on such a point.
“You 'll delight my sisters by this expression of your opinion; for my
own part, I can only say I don't agree with it.”
“The more reason not to avow it, Lyle. Whenever you don't mean very well
by a man, never abuse him, since, after that, all your judgments of him
become _suspect_. Remember that where you praise you can detract;
nobody has such unlimited opportunities to poison as the doctor. There,
now,--there's a bit of Machiavelism to think over as you dress for
dinner, and I see it's almost time to do so.”