THE HOUSE OF FOGGO.
It was ten o’clock, and now only this little family circle was left in
the Lodge of Killiecrankie. Miss Willsie, with one of the big silver
candlesticks drawn so very close that her blue turban trembled, and
stood in jeopardy, read the _Times_; Mr Foggo sat in his armchair, doing
nothing save contemplating the other light in the other candlestick; and
at the unoccupied sides of the table, between the seniors, were the two
young men.
These nephews did not live at Killiecrankie Lodge; but Miss Willsie, who
was very careful, and a notable manager, considered it would be unsafe
for “the boys” to go home to their lodgings at so late an hour as
this--so her invitations always included a night’s lodging; and the kind
and arbitrary little woman was not accustomed to be disobeyed. Yet “the
boys” found it dull, we confess. Mr Foggo was not pleased with Harry,
and by no means “took” to Endicott. Miss Willsie could not deny herself
her evening’s reading. They yawned at each other, these unfortunate
young men, and with a glance of mutual jealousy thought of Marian
Atheling. It was strange to see how dull and disenchanted this place
looked when the beautiful face that brightened it was gone.
So Mr Foggo S. Endicott took from his pocket his own paper, the
_Mississippi Gazette_, and Harry possessed himself of the half of Miss
Willsie’s _Times_. It was odd to observe the difference between them
even in manner and attitude. Harry bent half over the table, with his
hands thrust up into the thick masses of his curling hair; the American
sat perfectly upright, lifting his thin broadsheet to the height of his
spectacles, and reading loftily his own lucubrations. You could scarcely
see the handsome face of Harry as he hung over his half of the paper,
partly reading, partly dreaming over certain fond fancies of his own;
but you could not only see the lofty lineaments of Foggo, which were not
at all handsome, but also could perceive at a glance that he had “a
remarkable profile,” and silently called your attention to it.
Unfortunately, nobody in the present company was at all concerned about
the profile of Mr Endicott. That philosophical young gentleman,
notwithstanding, read his “Letter from England” in his best manner, and
demeaned himself as loftily as if he were a “portrait of a distinguished
literary gentleman” in an American museum. What more could any man do?
Meanwhile Mr Foggo sat in his armchair steadily regarding the candle
before him. He loved conversation, but he was not talkative, especially
in his own house. Sometimes the old man’s acute eyes glanced from under
his shaggy brow with a momentary keenness towards Harry--sometimes they
shot across the table a momentary sparkle of grim contempt; but to make
out from Mr Foggo’s face what Mr Foggo was thinking, was about the
vainest enterprise in the world. It was different with his sister: Miss
Willsie’s well-complexioned countenance changed and varied like the sky.
You could pursue her sudden flashes of satisfaction, resentment,
compassion, and injury into all her dimples, as easily as you could
follow the clouds over the heavens. Nor was it by her looks alone that
you could discover the fluctuating sympathies of Miss Willsie. Short,
abrupt, hasty exclamations, broke from her perpetually. “The
vagabond!--to think of that!” “Ay, that’s right now; I thought there was
something in _him_.” “Bless me--such a story!” After this manner ran on
her unconscious comments. She was a considerable politician, and this
was an interesting debate; and you could very soon make out by her
continual observations the political opinions of the mistress of
Killiecrankie. She was a desperate Tory, and at the same moment the
most direful and unconstitutional of Radicals. With a hereditary respect
she applauded the sentiments of the old country-party, and clung to
every institution with the pertinacity of a martyr; yet with the same
breath, and the most delightful inconsistency, was vehement and
enthusiastic in favour of the wildest schemes of reform; which, we
suppose, is as much as to say that Miss Willsie was a very feminine
politician, the most unreasonable of optimists, and had the sublimest
contempt for all practical considerations when she had convinced herself
that anything was _right_.
“I knew it!” cried Miss Willsie, with a burst of triumph; “he’s out, and
every one disowning him--a mean crew, big and little! If there’s one
thing I hate, it’s setting a man forward to tell an untruth, and then
letting him bear all the blame!”
“He’s got his lawful deserts,” said Mr Foggo. This gentleman, more
learned than his sister, took a very philosophical view of public
matters, and acknowledged no particular leaning to any “party” in his
general interest in the affairs of state.
“I never can find out now,” said Miss Willsie suddenly, “what the like
of Mr Atheling can have to do with this man--a lord and a great person,
and an officer of state--but his eye kindles up at the name of him, as
if it was the name of a friend. There cannot be ill-will unless there is
acquaintance, that’s my opinion; and an ill-will at this lord I am sure
Mr Atheling has.”
“They come from the same countryside,” said Mr Foggo; “when they were
lads they knew each other.”
“And who is this Mr Atheling?” said Endicott, speaking for the first
time. “I have a letter of introduction to Viscount Winterbourne myself.
His son, the Honourable George Rivers, travelled in the States a year or
two since, and I mean to see him by-and-by; but who is Mr Atheling, to
know an English Secretary of State?”
“He’s Cash and Ledger’s chief clerk,” said Mr Foggo, very laconically,
looking with a steady eye at the candlestick, and bestowing as little
attention upon his questioner as his questioner did upon him.
“Marvellous! in this country!” said the American; but Mr Endicott
belonged to that young America which is mightily respectful of the old
country. He thought it vulgar to do too much republicanism. He only
heightened the zest of his admiration now and then by a refined little
sneer.
“In this country! Where did ye ever see such a country, I would like to
know?” cried Miss Willsie. “If it was but for your own small concerns,
you ought to be thankful; for London itself will keep ye in writing
this many a day. If there’s one thing I cannot bear, it’s ingratitude!
I’m a long-suffering person myself; but that, I grant, gets the better
of me.”
“Mr Atheling, I suppose, has not many lords in his acquaintance,” said
Harry Oswald, looking up from his paper. “Endicott is right enough,
aunt; he is not quite in the rank for that; he has better----” said
Harry, something lowering his voice; “I would rather know myself welcome
at the Athelings’ than in any other house in England.”
This was said with a little enthusiasm, and brought the rising colour to
Harry Oswald’s brow. His cousin looked at him, with a curl of his thin
lip and a somewhat malignant eye. Miss Willsie looked at him hastily,
with a quick impatient nod of her head, and a most rapid and emphatic
frown. Finally, Mr Foggo lifted to the young man’s face his acute and
steady eye.
“Keep to your physic, Harry,” said Mr Foggo. The hapless Harry did not
meet the glance, but he understood the tone.
“Well, uncle, well,” said Harry hastily, raising his eyes; “but a man
cannot always keep to physic. There are more things in the world than
drugs and lancets. A man must have some margin for his thoughts.”
Again Miss Willsie gave the culprit a nod and a frown, saying as plain
as telegraphic communication ever said, “I am your friend, but this is
not the time to plead.” Again Mr Endicott surveyed his cousin with a
vague impulse of malice and of rivalry. Harry Oswald plunged down again
on his paper, and was no more heard of that night.