LADY BASSETT'S forebodings, like most of our insights into the future,
were confuted by the event.
She became the happy mother of a flaxen-haired boy. She insisted on
nursing him herself; and the experienced persons who attended her
raised no objection.
In connection with this she gave Sir Charles a peck, not very severe,
but sudden, and remarkable as the only one on record.
He was contemplating her and her nursling with the deepest affection,
and happened to say, “My own Bella, what delight it gives me to see
you!”
“Yes,” said she, “we will have only one mother this time, will we, my
darling? and it shall be Me.” Then suddenly, turning her head like a
snake, “Oh, I saw the looks you gave that woman!”
This was the famous peck; administered in return for a look that he had
bestowed on Mary Gosport not more than five years ago.
Sir Charles would, doubtless, have bled to death on the spot, but
either he had never been aware how he looked, or time and business had
obliterated the impression, for he was unaffectedly puzzled, and said,
“What woman do you mean, dear?”
“No matter, darling,” said Lady Bassett, who had already repented her
dire severity: “all I say is that a nurse is a rival I could not endure
now; and another thing, I do believe those wet-nurses give their
disposition to the child: it is dreadful to think of.”
“Well, if so, baby is safe. He will be the most amiable boy in
England.”
“He shall be more amiable than I am--scolding my husband of husbands;”
and she leaned toward him, baby and all, for a kiss from his lips.
We say at school “Seniores priores”--let favor go by seniority; but
where babies adorn the scene, it is “juniores priores” with that sex to
which the very young are confided.
To this rule, as might be expected, Lady Bassett furnished no
exception; she was absorbed in baby, and trusted Mr. Bassett a good
deal to his attendant, who bore an excellent character for care and
attention.
Now Mr. Bassett was strong on his pins and in his will, and his
nurse-maid, after all, was young; so he used to take his walks nearly
every day to Mrs. Meyrick's: she petted him enough, and spoiled him in
every way, while the nurse-maid was flirting with the farm-servants out
of sight.
Sir Charles Bassett was devoted to the boy, and used always to have him
to his study in the morning, and to the drawing-room after dinner, when
the party was small, and that happened much oftener now than
heretofore; but at other hours he did not look after him, being a
business man, and considering him at that age to be under his mother's
care.
One day the only guest was Mr. Rolfe; he was staying in the house for
three days, upon a condition suggested by himself--viz., that he might
enjoy his friends' society in peace and comfort, and not be set to roll
the stone of conversation up some young lady's back, and obtain
monosyllables in reply, faintly lisped amid a clatter of fourteen
knives and forks. As he would not leave his writing-table on any milder
terms, they took him on these.
After dinner in came Mr. Bassett, erect, and a proud nurse with little
Compton, just able to hold his nurse's gown and toddle.
Rolfe did not care for small children; he just glanced at the angelic,
fair-haired infant, but his admiring gaze rested on the elder boy.
“Why, what is here--an Oriental prince?”
The boy ran to him directly. “Who are you?”
“Rolfe the writer. Who are you--the Gipsy King?”
“No; but I am very fond of gypsies. I'm _Mister_ Bassett; and when papa
dies I shall be Sir Charles Bassett.”
Sir Charles laughed at this with paternal fatuity, especially as the
boy's name happened to be Reginald Francis, after his grandfather.
Rolfe smiled satirically, for these little speeches from children did
much to reconcile him to his lot.
“Meantime,” said he, “let us feed off him; for it may be forty years
before we can dance over his grave. First let us see what is the
unwholesomest thing on the table.”
He rose, and to the infinite delight of Mr. Bassett, and even of Master
Compton, who pointed and crowed from his mother's lap, he got up on his
chair, and put on a pair of spectacles to look.
“Eureka!” said he; “behold that dish by Lady Bassett; those are
_marrons glaces;_ fetch them here, and let us go in for a fit of the
gout at once.”
“Gout! what's that?” inquired Mr. Bassett.
“Don't ask me.”
“You don't know.
“Not know! What, didn't I tell you I was Rolfe the writer? Writers know
everything. That is what makes them so modest.”
Mr. Bassett was now unnaturally silent for five minutes, munching
chestnuts; this enabled his guests to converse; but as soon as he had
cleared his plate, he cut right across the conversation, with that
savage contempt for all topics but his own which characterizes
gentlemen of his age, and says he to Rolfe, “You know everything? Then
what's a parson's brat?”
“Well, that's the one thing I don't know,” said Rolfe; “but a brat I
take to be a boy who interrupts ladies and gentlemen with nonsense when
they are talking sense.”
“I am very much obliged to you, Mr. Rolfe,” said Lady Bassett. “That
remark was very much needed.”
Then she called Reginald to her, and lectured him, _sotto voce,_ to the
same tune.
“You old bachelors are rather hard,” said Sir Charles, not very well
pleased.
“We are obliged to be; you parents are so soft. After all, it is no
wonder. What a superb boy it is!--Here is nurse. I'm so sorry. Now we
shall be cabined, cribbed, confined to rational conversation, and I
shall not be expected to--(good-night, little flaxen angel; good-by,
handsome and loquacious demon; kiss and be friends)--expected to know,
all in a minute, what is a parson's brat. By-the-by, talking of
parsons, what has become of Angelo?”
“He has been away a good many years. Consumption, I hear.”
“He was a fine-built fellow too; was he not, Lady Bassett?”
“I don't know; but he was beautifully strong. I think I see him now
carrying dear Charles in his arms all down the garden.”
“Ah, you see he was raised in a university that does not do things by
halves, but trains both body and mind, as they did at Athens; for the
union of study and athletic sports is spoken of as a novelty, but it is
only a return to antiquity.”
Here letters were brought by the second post. Sir Charles glanced at
his, and sent them to his study. Lady Bassett had but one. She said,
_“May_ I?” to both gentlemen, and then opened it.
“How strange!” said she. “It is from Mr. Angelo: just a line to say he
is coming home quite cured.”
She began this composedly, but blushed afterward--blushed quite red.
_“May_ I?” said she, and tossed it delicately half-way to Rolfe. He
handed it to Sir Charles.
Some remarks were then made about the coincidence, and nothing further
passed worth recording at that time.
Next day Lady Bassett, with instinctive curiosity, asked Master
Reginald how he came to put such a question as that to Mr. Rolfe.
“Because I wanted to know.”
“But what put such words into your head? I never heard a gentleman say
such words; and you must never say them again, Reginald.”
“Tell me what it means, and I won't,” said he.
“Oh,” said Lady Bassett, “since you bargain with me, sir, I must
bargain with you. Tell me first where you ever heard such words.”
“When I was staying at nurse's. Ah, that was jolly.”
“You like that better than being here?”
“Yes.”
“I am sorry for that. Well, dear, did nurse say that? Surely not?”
“Oh, no; it was the man.”
“What man?”
“Why, the man that came to the gate one morning, and talked to me, and
I talked to him, and that nasty nurse ran out and caught us, and
carried me in, and gave me such a hiding, and all for nothing.”
“A hiding! What words the poor child picks up! But I don't understand
why nurse should beat _you.”_
“For speaking to the man. She said he was a bad man, and she would kill
me if ever I spoke to him again.”
“Oh, it was a bad man, and said bad words--to somebody he was
quarreling with?”
“No, he said them to nurse because she took me away.”
“What _did_ he say, Reginald?” asked Lady Bassett, becoming very grave
and thoughtful all at once.
“He said, 'That's too late; I've seen the parson's brat.'”
“Oh!”
“And I've asked nurse again and again what it meant, but she won't tell
me. She only says the man is a liar, and I am not to say it again; and
so I never did say it again--for a long time; but last night, when
Rolfe the writer said he knew everything, it struck my head--what is
the matter, mamma?”
“Nothing; nothing.”
“You look so white. Are you ill, mamma?” and he went to put his arms
round her, which was a mighty rare thing with him.
She trembled a good deal, and did not either embrace him or repel him.
She only trembled.
After some time she recovered herself enough to say, in a voice and
with a manner that impressed itself at once on this sharp boy:
“Reginald, your nurse was quite right. Understand this: the man was
your enemy--and mine; the words he said you must not say again. It
would be like taking up dirt and flinging some on your own face and
some on mine.”
“I won't do that,” said the boy, firmly. “Are you afraid of the man
that you look so white?”
“A man with a woman's tongue--who can help fearing?”
“Don't you be afraid; as soon as I'm big enough, I'll kill him.”
Lady Bassett looked with surprise at the child, he uttered this resolve
with such a steady resolution.
She drew him to her, and kissed him on the forehead.
“No, Reginald,” said she; “we must not shed blood; it is as wicked to
kill our enemies as to kill any one else. But never speak to him, never
even listen to him; if he tries to speak to you, run away from him, and
don't let him--he is our enemy.”
That same day she went to Mrs. Meyrick, to examine her. But she found
the boy had told her all there was to tell.
Mrs. Meyrick, whose affection for her was not diminished, was downright
vexed. “Dear me!” said she; “I did think I had kept that from vexing of
you. To think of the dear child hiding it for nigh two years, and then
to blurt it out like that! Nobody heard him I hope?”
“Others heard; but--”
“Didn't heed; the Lord be praised for that.”
“Mary,” said Lady Bassett, solemnly, “I am not equal to another battle
with Mr. Richard Bassett; and such a battle! Better tell all, and die.”
“Don't think of it,” said Mary. “You're safe from Richard Bassett now.
Times are changed since he came spying to my gate. His own boy is gone.
You have got two. He'll lie still if you do. But if you tell your tale,
he must hear on't, and he'll tell his. For God's sake, my lady, keep
close. It is the curse of women that they can't just hold their
tongues, and see how things turn. And is this a time to spill good
liquor? Look at Sir Charles! why, he is another man; he have got flesh
on his bones now, and color into his cheeks, and 'twas you and I made a
man of him. It is my belief you'd never have had this other little
angel but for us having sense and courage to see what _must_ be done.
Knock down our own work, and send him wild again, and give that Richard
Bassett a handle? You'll never be so mad.”
Lady Bassett replied. The other answered; and so powerfully that Lady
Bassett yielded, and went home sick at heart, but helpless, and in a
sea of doubt.
Mr. Angelo did not call. Sir Charles asked Lady Bassett if he had
called on her.
She said “No.”
“That is odd,” said Sir Charles. “Perhaps he thinks we ought to welcome
him home. Write and ask him to dinner.”
“Yes, dear. Or you can write.”
“Very well, I will. No, I will call.”
Sir Charles called, and welcomed him home, and asked him to dinner.
Angelo received him rather stiffly at first, but accepted his
invitation.
He came, looking a good deal older and graver, but almost as handsome
as ever; only somewhat changed in mind. He had become a zealous
clergyman, and his soul appeared to be in his work. He was distant and
very respectful to Lady Bassett; I might say obsequious. Seemed almost
afraid of her at first.
That wore off in a few months; but he was never quite so much at his
ease with her as he had been before he left some years ago.
And so did time roll on.
Every morning and every night Lady Bassett used to look wistfully at
Sir Charles, and say--
“Are you happy, dear? Are you sure you are happy?”
And he used always to say, and with truth, that he was the happiest man
in England, thanks to her.
Then she used to relax the wild and wistful look with which she asked
the question, and give a sort of sigh, half content, half resignation.
In due course another fine boy came, and filled the royal office of
baby in his turn.
But my story does not follow him.
Reginald was over ten years old, and Compton nearly six. They were as
different in character as complexion--both remarkable boys.
Reginald, Sir Charles's favorite, was a wonderful boy for riding,
running, talking; and had a downright genius for melody; he whistled to
the admiration of the village, and latterly he practiced the fiddle in
woods and under hedges, being aided and abetted therein by a gypsy boy
whom he loved, and who, indeed, provided the instrument.
He rode with Sir Charles, and rather liked him; his brother he never
noticed, except to tease him. Lady Bassett he admired, and almost loved
her while she was in the act of playing him undeniable melodies. But he
liked his nurse Meyrick better, on the whole; she flattered him more,
and was more uniformly subservient.
With these two exceptions he despised the whole race of women, and
affected male society only, especially of grooms, stable-boys, and
gypsies; these last welcomed him to their tents, and almost prostrated
themselves before him, so dazzled were they by his beauty and his
color. It is believed they suspected him of having gypsy blood in his
veins. They let him into their tents, and even into some of their
secrets, and he promised them they should have it all their own way as
soon as he was Sir Reginald; he had outgrown his original theory that
he was to be Sir Charles on his father's death.
He hated in-doors; when fixed by command to a book, would beg hard to
be allowed to take it into the sun; and at night would open his window
and poke his black head out to wash in the moonshine, as he said.
He despised ladies and gentlemen, said they were all affected fools,
and gave imitations of all his father's guests to prove it; and so keen
was this child of nature's eye for affectation that very often his
disapproving parents were obliged to confess the imp had seen with his
fresh eye defects custom had made them overlook, or the solid good
qualities that lay beneath had overbalanced.
Now all this may appear amusing and eccentric, and so on, to strangers;
but after the first hundred laughs or so with which paternal indulgence
dismisses the faults of childhood, Sir Charles became very grave.
The boy was his darling and his pride. He was ambitious for him. He
earnestly desired to solve for him a problem which is as impossible as
squaring the circle, viz., how to transmit our experience to our
children. The years and the health he had wasted before he knew Bella
Bruce, these he resolved his successor should not waste. He looked
higher for this beautiful boy than for himself. He had fully resolved
to be member for the county one day; but he did not care about it for
himself; it was only to pave the way for his successor; that Sir
Reginald, after a long career in the Commons, might find his way into
the House of Peers, and so obtain dignity in exchange for antiquity;
for, to tell the truth, the ancestors of four-fifths of the British
House of Peers had been hewers of wood and drawers of water at a time
when these Bassetts had already been gentlemen of distinction for
centuries.
All this love and this vicarious ambition were now mortified daily.
Some fathers could do wonders for a brilliant boy, and with him; they
expect him, and a dull boy appears; that is a bitter pill; but this was
worse. Reginald was a sharp boy; he could do anything; fasten him to a
book for twenty minutes, he would learn as much as most boys in an
hour; but there was no keeping him to it, unless you strapped him or
nailed him, for he had the will of a mule, and the suppleness of an eel
to carry out his will. And then his tastes--low as his features were
refined; he was a sort of moral dung-fork; picked up all the slang of
the stable and scattered it in the dining-room and drawing-room; and
once or twice he stole out of his comfortable room at night, and slept
in a gypsy's tent with his arm round a gypsy boy, unsullied from his
cradle by soap.
At last Sir Charles could no longer reply to his wife at night as he
had done for this ten years past. He was obliged to confess that there
was one cloud upon his happiness. “Dear Reginald grieves me, and makes
me dread the future; for if the child is father to the man, there is a
bitter disappointment in store for us. He is like no other boy; he is
like no human creature I ever saw. At his age, and long after, I was a
fool; I was a fool till I knew you; but surely I was a gentleman. I
cannot see myself again--in my first-born.”