The first people at Screwstown were indisputably the Pompleys. Colonel
Pompley was grand, but Mrs. Pompley was grander. The Colonel was stately
in right of his military rank and his services in India; Mrs. Pompley
was majestic in right of her connections. Indeed, Colonel Pompley
himself would have been crushed under the weight of the dignities which
his lady heaped upon him, if he had not been enabled to prop his
position with a "connection" of his own. He would never have held his
own, nor been permitted to have an independent opinion on matters
aristocratic, but for the well-sounding name of his relations, "the
Digbies." Perhaps on the principle that obscurity increases the natural
size of objects, and is an element of the Sublime, the Colonel did not
too accurately define his relations "the Digbies;" he let it be casually
understood that they were the Digbies to be found in Debrett. But if
some indiscreet _Vulgarian_ (a favorite word with both the Pompleys)
asked point-blank if he meant "my Lord Digby," the Colonel, with a lofty
air, answered--"The elder branch, sir." No one at Screwstown had ever
seen these Digbies: they lay amidst the Far--the Recondite--even to the
wife of Colonel Pompley's bosom. Now and then, when the Colonel referred
to the lapse of years, and the uncertainty of human affections, he would
say--"When young Digby and I were boys together," and then add with a
sigh, "but we shall never meet again in this world. His family interest
secured him a valuable appointment in a distant part of the British
dominions." Mrs Pompley was always rather cowed by the Digbies. She
could not be skeptical as to this connection, for the Colonel's mother
was certainly a Digby, and the Colonel impaled the Digby arms. _En
revanche_, as the French say, for these marital connections, Mrs.
Pompley had her own favorite affinity, which she specially selected from
all others when she most desired to produce effect; nay, even upon
ordinary occasions the name rose spontaneously to her lips--the name of
the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Was the fashion of a gown or cap admired,
her cousin, Mrs. M'Catchley, had just sent to her the pattern from
Paris. Was it a question whether the Ministry would stand, Mrs.
M'Catchley was in the secret, but Mrs. Pompley had been requested not to
say. Did it freeze, "my cousin, Mrs. M'Catchley, had written word that
the icebergs at the Pole were supposed to be coming this way." Did the
sun glow with more than usual fervor, Mrs. M'Catchley had informed her
"that it was Sir Henry Halford's decided opinion that it was on account
of the cholera." The good people knew all that was doing at London, at
court, in this world--nay, almost in the other--through the medium of
the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Mrs. M'Catchley was, moreover, the most
elegant of women, the wittiest creature, the dearest. King George the
Fourth had presumed to admire Mrs. M'Catchley, but Mrs. M'Catchley,
though no prude, let him see that she was proof against the corruptions
of a throne. So long had the ears of Mrs. Pompley's friends been filled
with the renown of Mrs. M'Catchley, that at last Mrs. M'Catchley was
secretly supposed to be a myth, a creature of the elements, a poetic
fiction of Mrs. Pompley's. Richard Avenel, however, though by no means a
credulous man, was an implicit believer in Mrs. M'Catchley. He had
learned that she was a widow--an honorable by birth, an honorable by
marriage--living on her handsome jointure, and refusing offers every day
that she so lived. Somehow or other, whenever Richard Avenel thought of
a wife, he thought of the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. Perhaps that
romantic attachment to the fair invisible preserved him heart-whole
among the temptations of Screwstown. Suddenly, to the astonishment of
the Abbey Gardens, Mrs. M'Catchley proved her identity, and arrived at
Col. Pompley's in a handsome traveling-carriage, attended by her maid
and footman. She had come to stay some weeks--a tea-party was given in
her honor. Mr. Avenel and his nephew were invited. Colonel Pompley, who
kept his head clear in the midst of the greatest excitement, had a
desire to get from the Corporation a lease of a piece of ground
adjoining his garden, and he no sooner saw Richard Avenel enter, than he
caught him by the button, and drew him into a quiet corner in order to
secure his interest. Leonard, meanwhile, was borne on by the stream,
till his progress was arrested by a sofa table at which sat Mrs.
M'Catchley herself, with Mrs. Pompley by her side. For on this great
occasion the hostess had abandoned her proper post at the entrance, and,
whether to show her respect to Mrs. M'Catchley, or to show Mrs.
M'Catchley her well-bred contempt for the people of Screwstown, remained
in state by her friend, honoring only the _élite_ of the town with
introductions to the illustrious visitor.
Mrs. M'Catchley was a very fine woman--a woman who justified Mrs.
Pompley's pride in her. Her cheek-bones were rather high, it is true,
but that proved the purity of her Caledonian descent; for the rest, she
had a brilliant complexion, heightened by a _soupçon_ of rouge--good
eyes and teeth, a showy figure, and all the ladies of Screwstown
pronounced her dress to be perfect. She might have arriven at that age
at which one intends to stop for the next ten years, but even a
Frenchman would not have called her _passée_--that is, for a widow. For
a spinster, it would have been different.
Looking round her with a glass, which Mrs. Pompley was in the habit of
declaring that "Mrs. M'Catchley used like an angel," this lady suddenly
perceived Leonard Avenel; and his quiet, simple, thoughtful air and
looks so contrasted with the stiff beaux to whom she had been presented,
that experienced in fashion as so fine a personage must be supposed to
be, she was nevertheless deceived into whispering to Mrs. Pompley--
"That young man has really an _air distingué_--who is he?"
"Oh," said Mrs. Pompley, in unaffected surprise, "that is the nephew of
the rich Vulgarian I was telling you of this morning."
"Ah! and you say that he is Mr. Arundel's heir?"
"Avenel--not Arundel--my sweet friend."
"Avenel is not a bad name," said Mrs. M'Catchley. "But is the uncle
really so rich?"
"The Colonel was trying this very day to guess what he is worth; but he
says it is impossible to guess it."
"And the young man is his heir?"
"It is thought so: and reading for College, I hear. They say he is
clever."
"Present him, my love; I like clever people," said Mrs. M'Catchley,
falling back, languidly.
About ten minutes afterward, Richard Avenel, having effected his escape
from the Colonel, and his gaze being attracted toward the sofa table by
the buzz of the admiring crowd, beheld his nephew in animated
conversation with the long-cherished idol of his dreams. A fierce pang
of jealousy shot through his breast. His nephew had never looked so
handsome and so intelligent; in fact, poor Leonard had never before been
drawn out by a woman of the world, who had learned how to make the most
of what little she knew. And, as jealousy operates like a pair of
bellows on incipient flames, so, at first sight of the smile which the
fair widow bestowed upon Leonard, the heart of Mr. Avenel felt in a
blaze.
He approached with a step less assured than usual, and, overhearing
Leonard's talk, marveled much at the boy's audacity. Mrs. M'Catchley had
been speaking of Scotland and the Waverley Novels, about which Leonard
knew nothing. But he knew Burns, and on Burns he grew artlessly
eloquent. Burns the poet and peasant; Leonard might well be eloquent on
_him_. Mrs. M'Catchley was amused and pleased with his freshness and
_naïveté_, so unlike any thing she had ever heard or seen, and she drew
him on and on, till Leonard fell to quoting: and Richard heard, with
less respect for the sentiment than might be supposed, that
"Rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that."
"Well!" exclaimed Mr. Avenel. "Pretty piece of politeness to tell that
to a lady like the Honorable Mrs. M'Catchley. You'll excuse him, ma'am."
"Sir!" said Mrs. M'Catchley, startled, and lifting her glass. Leonard,
rather confused, rose, and offered his chair to Richard, who dropped
into it. The lady, without waiting for formal introduction, guessed that
she saw the rich uncle.
"Such a sweet poet--Burns!" said she, dropping her glass. "And it is so
refreshing to find so much youthful enthusiasm," she added, pointing her
fan toward Leonard, who was receding fast among the crowd.
"Well, he is youthful, my nephew--rather green!"
"Don't say green!" said Mrs. M'Catchley. Richard blushed scarlet. He was
afraid he had committed himself to some expression low and shocking. The
lady resumed, "Say unsophisticated."
"A tarnation long word," thought Richard; but he prudently bowed, and
held his tongue.
"Young men nowadays," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, resettling herself on
the sofa, "affect to be so old. They don't dance, and they don't read,
and they don't talk much; and a great many of them wear _toupets_ before
they are two-and-twenty!"
Richard mechanically passed his hand through his thick curls. But he was
still mute; he was still ruefully chewing the cud of the epithet
_green_. What occult horrid meaning did the word convey to ears polite?
Why should he not say "green?"
"A very fine young man your nephew, sir," resumed Mrs. M'Catchley.
Richard grunted.
"And seems full of talent. Not yet at the University? Will he go to
Oxford or Cambridge?"
"I have not made up my mind yet, if I shall send him to the University
at all."
"A young man of his expectations!" exclaimed Mrs. M'Catchley, artfully.
"Expectations!" repeated Richard, firing up. "Has the boy been talking
to you of his expectations?"
"No, indeed, sir. But the nephew of the rich Mr. Avenel. Ah, one hears a
great deal, you know, of rich people; it is the penalty of wealth, Mr.
Avenel!"
Richard was very much flattered. His crest rose.
"And they say," continued Mrs. M'Catchley, dropping out her words very
slowly, as she adjusted her blonde scarf, "that Mr. Avenel has resolved
not to marry."
"The devil they do, ma'am!" bolted out Richard, gruffly; and then,
ashamed of his _lapsus linguæ,_ screwed up his lips firmly, and glared
on the company with an eye of indignant fire.
Mrs. M'Catchley observed him over her fan. Richard turned abruptly, and
she withdrew her eyes modestly, and raised the fan.
"She's a real beauty," said Richard, between his teeth.
The fan fluttered.
Five minutes afterward, the widow and the bachelor seemed so much at
their ease that Mrs. Pompley--who had been forced to leave her friend,
in order to receive the Dean's lady--could scarcely believe her eyes
when she returned to the sofa.
Now, it was from that evening that Mr. Richard Avenel exhibited the
change of mood which I have described. And from that evening he
abstained from taking Leonard with him to any of the parties in the
Abbey Gardens.