A BREAKFAST SCENE.—A MATCH-MAKING MOTHER.
The next day there was some anxiety on the part of Mrs. Meredith, to
ascertain how far her new lodger might have been disturbed by this
event; and in what temper of mind he felt upon the occasion. It is
usual in all lodgings, to have some little regard to the lodger’s
comforts for some days, perhaps a week or two, and then things are
allowed to take their chance; and if the lodger complains, he gets
for an answer, that they take a vast deal of pains to oblige him, and
intimate that he is a peculiarly lucky man for having become a lodger
at that place; and you would have been worse off if you had gone
elsewhere, which, of course, you don’t believe, though they tell you so.
It is an old and favourite saying, that a new broom sweeps clean;
and, in time, an old one becomes very nearly useless. So it is with
lodging-house keepers; the longer you remain, the more inattentive they
become, until you get wearied, and are compelled to leave, and then you
get some scurvy insolence, and your landlady eventually believes she is
an ill-used woman.
But, in the present instance, Mrs. Meredith had other hopes and fears
than those of a mere lodging-house keeper. Not that she had formed any
plan in her own mind; but she had some floating idea that there was
seldom such a chance turned up, because the colonel had evidently no
relations; and who could tell what, in the chapter of accidents, might
happen?
“I am quite grieved,” she said to her daughter, “it should have
happened this night. What could be the meaning of the disturbance, I
can’t think. Now, it’s very tiresome things will happen so cross as
this, that I don’t know what to think of it.”
“It really appears as if it was done on purpose.”
“It does; but I am sorry for it, because it would seem as though
we were liable to some kind of interruption at all times, for they
generally expect attention at the first, if at no other time; and he
may think this is a bad beginning, at all events.”
“But we shall convince him that we shall not treat him neglectfully,
ma’.”
“No, my dear; but these Indians are strange-tempered people, and when
they once take a fancy, there is no knowing what they may do; and there
is no knowing what a dislike taken at such an occurrence might produce,
and likes and dislikes are taken without rhyme or reason.”
“Yes, ma’, so they are; and that is the reason why you took such a
dislike to young Willis, for he was as nice a young man as I have seen.”
“Nice, my dear—nice! I don’t see why he was nice, unless it was because
he was presumptuous, and had no money,” said the amiable parent.
“He was not rich, ma’——”
“He was positively poor, Margaret,” interrupted the mother, “and
therefore it was absolutely necessary to discourage such persons; for,
if they do no good, they are sure to be productive of mischief; for
their hanging about, you know, deters others from coming forward who
have means.”
“He was very handsome.”
“‘Handsome is as handsome does,’ my dear. You’ll find that is a motto
through life, that will carry weight at any time. All the good looks
in the world would never put a gown on your back, or a sixpence in your
purse, recollect; besides, he was not handsome.”
“You are prejudiced against the young man. Not that I care anything
about him, though he was a very agreeable and nice young man; so it’s
no use in saying that he wasn’t.”
“Well, my dear, it doesn’t much matter; this is a matter of opinion.
What do you think of our colonel? He is a fine man, and a rich one
besides.”
“He is tall, I admit, but stoops a great deal; is very lame; one eye
much worse than the other, and one arm in a sling. Well, I can’t see
much beauty in all that; much out of repair, you must admit, ma’.”
“Yes; Colonel Deverill has seen some service, and his misfortunes are
so many points of honour; they are like so many medals which speak of
his worth. Besides that, he is a most gentlemanly and pleasant man. I
don’t know that I ever spoke to a more fascinating man.”
“That might be at times; but then that was evidently a constraint upon
his natural temper, because he every now and then broke out abruptly
about something or other, which proves that he has an abrupt and
imperious temper, not to say savage and snappish.”
“There you are clearly unjustifiable, my dear Margaret. The colonel,
you see, is a military man, and used to command, and therefore it is a
very usual occurrence, and not a matter of disposition at all; but what
can that matter when you come to consider his wealth?”
“There is certainly room for congratulation there,” said Margaret.
“Indeed, my child, there is room for congratulation; and I am convinced
there is happiness where there is a fortune, for that will obtain all
you want, and, when you obtain all you want, what can you be otherwise
than entirely happy?—therefore, riches are happiness.”
“Yes; there is much truth in all that, ma’,” said Margaret; “and
all I hope is, that I might obtain a fortune; then I would make you
comfortable, ma’.”
“I am sure you would, Margaret. My whole life has been spent in shifts
to maintain you and bring you up in a manner that would enable you to
become a fortune; which, thanks to my care, example, and precept, you
are fully equal to at any moment it may become your lot.”
“Yes, ma’; I feel that I was born to command, and the lady of a colonel
would not be a bit too high in rank for my ambition or deserts.”
“Indeed, it would not, my dear; but now listen to me. You know, my
dear, I never plan anything but what is for your benefit. Now, I am
given to understand that Colonel Deverill has no relatives at all, and
I think hardly any friends, and we can make ourselves quite necessary
to him—in fact, perfect friends to him. He will look upon us as his
nearest relatives, and he may take a fancy to you, as you may easily
induce him. Old men like flattery, there is no doubt, and that kind of
flattery which is called attention. Wait upon him most assiduously, and
read to him, and all that kind of thing, my dear.”
“Yes; I know, ma’.”
“And then, dear, if you mind what you are about, the colonel and all
his wealth may be yours before six months are over, or I am no witch.”
“Hush! I hear him stirring.”
“He’s coming down stairs; there he is in the drawing-room; I hear him
over head. Go up stairs, my dear, and inquire when he will choose to
have his breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’,” said the young lady, who betrayed an extraordinary desire
to obey her parent, a matter not equally to be said of all young
ladies, nor of this one upon many occasions; but, then, this was one
that was quite agreeable to her own feelings, which explains the secret.
Colonel Deverill had, indeed, descended, and was seated in the
drawing-room, with his feet on the fender and his head leaning on his
hand, and his elbow on the table, when Margaret entered. He appeared to
be thoughtful and unwell; he had, perhaps, passed a bad night, or the
interruption had robbed him of his sleep, which to an invalid was the
more severely felt.
“Good morning, colonel,” said Margaret, advancing. “I hope the
disturbance that so inopportunely took place, did not have the effect
of destroying your night’s rest.”
“Indeed, it did do so to a very great extent,” replied the colonel,
“though not entirely; but still it makes one very poorly, gives one the
headache, and causes a sense of lassitude and fatigue to oppress the
body, which, added to the weariness incident to such cases, makes one
very uncomfortable.”
“I am sorry you have been so discomposed, and so is my ma’. She really
is grieved; but you see, sir, it was a matter so entirely beyond any
control, that she cannot be blamed for it, though it happened, most
unfortunately, at a time when it was least wanted, or most to be
avoided.”
“True—very true. I can imagine all that. I am not unjust enough to
blame you for it. I could no more help it than you could, and I dare
say you were none the better for such a disagreeable disturbance; I am
not, I am very certain.
“No, sir, I am not. When would you please to breakfast?”
“As soon as I can have it,” replied the colonel.
“You can have it at once.”
“Then be pleased to let me have it. I have the use of but one arm
entirely; may I beg your aid in making tea for me?”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Margaret immediately left the room, and informed her mother of what
had passed upon the occasion; and when the breakfast was laid, and
all things ready, Margaret Meredith sat down with Colonel Deverill to
breakfast. Before, however, they had gone far, he inquired if she had
breakfasted.
“No, I have not.”
“And your mother—has she breakfasted?”
“No, sir, she has not.”
“Then give her my compliments, and I shall be glad to take breakfast
in her company too; for I am very poorly this morning, and company is
agreeable.”
This was soon effected, and in a few minutes more they all sat down,
the colonel being duly waited upon by Margaret and her mother; the
latter being employed in aiding the former to pay great attention to
their host; for they breakfasted at his expense, as a matter of course.
“It was really a most unfortunate occurrence, that of last night,” said
Mrs. Meredith; “very unfortunate; because some people have a difficulty
in sleeping in a strange bed; and when once awake, they cannot easily,
if at all, get asleep again, and that I had great fears might have been
your case.”
“Not precisely,” said the colonel; “but the fact is, I have seen so
much hard service, that I can sleep anywhere without any effort of
mine; but when one has suffered from wounds, the heats of climate, and
the terrors of imprisonments in Indian prisons, one’s health becomes so
shattered, that one’s rest is not so good as it ought to be—but that is
no one’s fault.”
“It is a grievous misfortune,” said Mrs. Meredith.
“Yes,” added Margaret; “and I think there is not enough gratitude in
the country towards those who so nobly defend us in our homes; to do
which they must not only brave danger and death in the field of battle,
but all the evils that spring from climate, insidious diseases, brought
on by the exposures and hardships of a soldier’s life; and then when
they see them return to their own country, with wounds that ought to
bring honour, glory, and sure profit, they are omitted and neglected.”
The colonel sighed deeply, but said nothing.
“My dear Miss Meredith, will you fetch me my keys?—I left them in the
bureau.”
“Yes, sir,” said the amiable young lady, who arose, and left the room.
“Your daughter is an amiable girl, Mrs. Meredith,” said Colonel
Deverill. “She reminds me of one who is now dead, and at whose decease
I left England for India; the country became insupportable to me at
that time, but she now recalls all the feelings and aspirations of
youth.”
“Ah! she is an amiable and good girl—though I am her mother; yet I
must not do her less than justice, because it is usual to consider
it partial or silly of a parent praising her own child; but she does
deserve all that can be said of her.”
“It is a blessing. There was the same class of beauty, and the same
amiable and sensible deportment. Oh, dear! those days are gone by,
indeed!”
“Who knows but they may return?”
“It is doubtful; more than doubtful—certain. I am an old man, now, Mrs.
Meredith,—an old man. Yes; I have deserved some thanks at the hands of
my country; and I am rich—yes, Mrs. Meredith, I am rich—very rich, I
believe I may say.”
“That is some reward.”
“It is. But I cannot recall the past—I am no longer young—I have no
young wife by my side—to soothe my pillow—to attend to my wants. No; I
am an old man, as I said before, and cannot expect the attention of the
young and beautiful.”
“But, Colonel Deverill, you are not an old man; and as for your wounds,
they are honourable.”
“But my shattered constitution——”
“May be mended by care and attention, doubtless; and I am sure, while
you are here, you shall want no attention we can possibly bestow.”
“I thank you, Mrs. Meredith—I thank you,” said the colonel.
“I only regret the disturbance you suffered last night,” said Mrs.
Meredith. “I am afraid want of proper rest has made you melancholy. I
knew not of such a thing, neither was I at all aware of the fact of the
trap-door being open—indeed, I can’t understand it.”
“Nor I, ma’am. I do not clearly understand what they said; they talked
of some young lady being strangled or assaulted in her sleep.”
“Yes, colonel. It was in her sleep, and I cannot help thinking it must
have been a dream; however, if it were not, I do not know what to think
of it.”
“Nor I,” said the colonel, thoughtfully.
“They talked about a vampyre, and said Miss Smith had been seized by
the arm; and the creature had attempted to suck the blood from the
veins.”
“Dear me, what a strange affair.”
“Very, sir; but I never heard of such things only in books; but,
goodness help us from such strange unearthly beings—have you seen any
in your travels, Colonel Deverill? You have travelled in hot countries,
and have seen them, I should imagine.”
“Not I, Mrs. Meredith; I have seen strange things, but I never saw a
vampyre, though I have heard of such things; indeed, there are many
disgusting things in creation, and that is one of them. But what could
be the reason they should come to that young lady above any other, I
cannot conceive.”
“Nor I, sir.”
At this moment Margaret returned, having recovered the keys, which were
not wanted; only the watchful mamma thought there was an opportunity
for a little tender gag relative to the amiability of the young lady,
and, therefore, it ought not to be omitted.
Moreover, she saw there was no necessity for leaving them alone yet;
there would be plenty of time yet for that, and she felt assured
there would be ample opportunity for the progress of the suit she now
confidently anticipated must take place; for she saw, however prompt
and ready the colonel might be from habit, yet there was a good deal of
the willing mood about him.
“His health and weakness,” she thought, “causes that; and now, while
his health lasts this way, he may be secured; or, at least, the
foundation laid upon which we may build our hopes. He shall want no aid
of mine to help him on that way.”
“Have you been long in England, colonel?” she inquired.
“Not very long.”
“The voyage homeward must have been very tedious.”
“It would have been, but I did not come that way. I crossed into Egypt,
and came to the Mediterranean, and thence to Italy; so I varied the
scene, and travelled at leisure, and got here a month before the vessel
I was to have come by.”
“Oh, that was much more pleasant.”
“Decidedly so; and then I came to the hotel; not that I had not all
proper attention paid me—but then there is no sociality there; men only
surround you with whom you can hold no converse whatever.”
“Certainly not, they are menials.”
“And of the lowest class. However, I sought out such a place as this,
where I wished to have some of the domestic comforts around me, that I
might have had, had I a home of my own; some one to whom I could speak
more seriously; for I am debarred the affectionate regard of near and
dear female relatives.”
“You must look upon us in that light, Colonel Deverill; as persons who
are anxious and desirous of causing you to forget these wants by our
assiduity and attention. I can speak for my daughter as myself; she
will do all in her power to render your stay comfortable.”
“She is young and beautiful.”
“Ahem!”
“And doubtless will change such occupations to those of a more
endearing character. Well, it is as it should be, and I am selfish to
feel jealous. I wish I was young myself—but, enough of this. I have to
express my obligation to you for the ready manner in which you came
forward to speak of my being in my room last night, when that man was
here and the watchmen.”
“Mr. Smith?”
“Yes, that was the man; they would not have taken my word for it;
however, I hope to be able to remain here until I find myself sinking
to the grave; and those who act as you have began to act for me, I must
and will remember at my death and afterwards.”
“I do not act with such a motive, Colonel Deverill.”
“No, no; I am well aware of that; but that renders it a duty in me.
However, we will say no more now; I am even wearied out.”