_Isaac._ “Good lack, with what eyes a father sees! As I have life she
is the very reverse of all this.”
_The Duenna._
Monday morning came; a still and hazy morning, portentous of noontide
heat. I had not written to uncle Richard to tell him the train I meant
to leave by, for two reasons: I didn’t want to give him or his daughter
the trouble of meeting me, and as there were several trains during the
day, I could not say at what hour I might take it into my head to start.
However, as it was not possible for me to see Conny, and as the time
promised to hang tediously upon my hands, I sent the landlady for a
fly, packed a carpetbag, and started to catch a train that left at
half-past twelve.
On my way to the station, I stopped at the bank to bid my uncle a final
farewell, but found him out.
“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” said Mr. Curling, with a grave face.
“I hope I may.”
“Will you be long absent?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps a week; perhaps a fortnight. Good-bye.” And out
I went.
Great heaven! as I recall the nod I gave him, I am amazed to think how
full of the unexpected the future is. You shake a man by the hand and
leave him, and by the time you meet him again, everything the least
likely to occur has happened. Though you held him the most honest of
living beings, he is committed for forgery; or though you thought him
doomed to be a struggling man all his life, he has made a fortune on
the Stock Exchange, and is surrounded by architects with plans for a
mansion; or though you considered him a very ordinary-minded person, he
has just acknowledged himself the author of a book the world has gone
into ecstacies over. So shifting is this life, it is scarcely possible
to turn your back upon the most familiar object, without finding it
changed on looking at it again. It is a pantomime, but not a droll one.
Harlequin Time does indeed frisk it merrily; but there is too much of
the scythe about his rod, too much tragedy about the metamorphoses he
works, to make us think him diverting.
It was a little after half-past twelve when I got into the train, and
it was very nearly half-past two when I got out. Thistlewood Station
was a little platform, backed by a diminutive shed, with a great hill
running up behind it. I asked a porter the way to Mr. Hargrave’s house,
and he directed me to a high road.
This high road was terribly dusty and dazzling to the eyes. There was
not an inch of shade to right or left of it to protect me from the
overpowering rays of the sun. Worst of all, for half a mile at least,
it was a steep hill. I felt my face gradually turning to the colour of
a boiled lobster as I toiled along, and deplored my want of foresight
in not providing against this sweltering exertion, by asking my uncle
to send his carriage to meet me.
On either side was a boundless extent of corn-fields, with never a sigh
of air to disturb their yellowing heads. On reaching the summit of
the hill, however, I was cheered by a very extensive view, not indeed
comparable in beauty to that which was to be obtained from any of the
hills about Updown, but exceedingly pretty, nevertheless. Far away down
on the level plains were little white villages, shining amid groups
of trees. A long line of railroad ruled the landscape, along which
rolled a white cloud, that no doubt represented the train I had just
quitted. The slate-coloured hills of the far-off horizon stood sharp
and well-defined against the pale blue sky.
I trudged forward, gasping for air, and stopping frequently to press a
handkerchief to my forehead, until I espied, at the extreme end of the
road, a long wall bounding a perfect forest of trees. In a few minutes
I had gained a gate surmounted by stone effigies. Close at hand was a
lodge. I pulled the bell, and on a man presenting himself, inquired
if this were Mr. Hargrave’s house? It was. The gate was opened, and I
passed out of the broiling road into a deliciously cool avenue, with
deep glades and sunny openings among the trees, under which I observed
some young deer browsing. The whole place was alive with the pipings of
birds. Such a babel of airy voices I never before heard.
I was stepping pretty briskly along the avenue, wondering what sort of
reception I should get, and whether my uncle was as cheery and hearty
a man in his own house as he was out of it, when I suddenly heard the
word “Halt!” uttered in a loud, clear, imperious female voice.
I looked about me, being uncertain from which side of the avenue the
voice had proceeded, and seeing nobody, was in the act of advancing
again, when bang! went the report of a pistol, so close and so loud,
that, for the moment, I actually believed myself shot, and pulled off
my hat, feeling pretty sure that I should find a bullet hole in it.
“Good God!” I thought. “What is the meaning of this?”
A thin cloud of blue smoke curled up from a tree on the right, and, as
I gazed with a stupefied air in that direction, the tall commanding
figure of a woman stepped forward, and approached me.
“Why didn’t you halt when I ordered you?” she demanded, fixing a pair
of dark, glittering eyes on me.
I looked at her with amazement. She was dressed in a tight-fitting
body, with a long skirt, which she held up in one hand, whilst she
grasped a small revolver in the other. On her head was a large garden
hat which threw so dark a shadow over her face that I could master no
more of its details than the keen bright eyes. Could this be my cousin
Theresa?
I was so much astonished by the report of the pistol, and her
peremptory address, that I quite forgot my manners. I had hastily
put my hat on, and there I kept it. “You may bless your stars,” she
exclaimed, “that I didn’t take the curl out of your mustache with a
pistol ball. I could do it. Do you doubt me? Turn your face round, so
that I get your profile.”
And she levelled her pistol full at my head.
“Who are you?” I stammered; “and what do you mean to do? Put that
pistol down. Don’t you know that you can’t play with a more dangerous
toy?”
“Turn your face round as I order you, sir,” was her answer.
“I shall do no such thing,” I said, picking up my carpet bag, which I
had dropped, but furtively watching her movements with indescribable
anxiety.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, to my inexpressible relief, turning the muzzle
of the pistol aside, “if you are _afraid_, that is another matter.
However, for the future, when I order you to stop, I should advise you
to do so.”
And so saying, she wheeled round, and disappeared among the trees.
I hastened forward, not doubting for a moment that, whether she
was my cousin or not, she was not in possession of her reason, and
congratulating myself on what I could not but consider a very narrow
escape of my life. In a few moments I reached the house, a fine old
building with a great door and many windows, the upper ones hooded, and
a broad carpet of grass all round it, on to which the queerest little
doors opened, with large bow-windows on the ground-floor.
The door was opened by a corpulent man in a claret-coloured livery, and
a groggy eye, who, on my asking if Mr. Hargrave was within, cocked his
head, and reflected a little before he answered,
“He is, sir.”
“Well, show me in, and tell Mr. Hargrave I am here.”
“I will, sir,” answered the man, whose accent intimated his nationality
pretty powerfully.
I thought him a bit of a fool, or perhaps new to his place, and entered
the hall, remarking, however, that he shrank away from me as I passed
him. Burnt up by the sun, and blinded by the glare in the road, and
wearied by my walk, and half-choked with dust, and, above all, utterly
disgusted with the extraordinary behaviour of the young lady of the
avenue, I flung my hat and bag pettishly on the hall table and marched
into a long, handsome drawing-room, the fat man-servant meanwhile
watching me intently as I entered, and hurriedly banging the door to
when I was within.
I threw myself into an arm-chair, thankful for the privilege of resting
myself, and glanced languidly around the spacious room. In any other
mood I should have found a great deal to admire; but I was so vexed and
amazed by my reception in the avenue, and so irritated by the imbecile
behaviour of the footman, that I could think of nothing else.
However, I had scarcely been seated a minute when my uncle came in.
“How are you? how are you?” he cried, grasping my hand. “Delighted to
see you and to welcome you. Why didn’t you let us know the train you
came by? We would have saved you a scorching walk.”
“I wish I had,” I answered; “that hill near the station has nearly been
the death of me.”
“Ay, that road in summer is awful. But a glass of seltzer and brandy
will soon set you right,” and he rang the bell. “How did you leave them
at Grove End?” he inquired.
“They are all very well.”
“They’re a happy family, aren’t they? It always does me good to spend a
day or two with Tom. He has the very best nature in the world.”
Here my fat friend entered. How the fool stared at me! I thought there
must be something extraordinary in my appearance, and under that
impression, got up, after he had left the room, and looked at myself in
the glass.
“Oh, don’t mind being a little sunburnt,” called out my uncle, who
mistook my object. “I like men well tanned.”
“Indeed,” said I, “I was looking to see what there could be in my face
to cause your man to stare at me.”
“Did he? Pray don’t mind him. He’s an Irishman and a faithful fellow,
though not a smart waiter. I keep him for his wit, which is sometimes
first-rate. He came to me with a high character out of Lord Lavender’s
family. Every Hibernian must be forgiven something. You know what Burke
said: ‘All Irishmen carry a bit of potato in their heads.’”
Just then the man returned. He fixed his little black eyes on me as he
handed me the foaming draught, and for the life of me I couldn’t help
bursting into a laugh when, on quitting the room, he stared at me
intently, whilst he slowly closed the door.
“That has refreshed you, hasn’t it?” said my uncle.
“Yes, thank you. By the way, I must ask you not to be surprised or
shocked if you catch me drinking more brandy than may seem good for me
whilst I am with you. I don’t possess my father’s iron nerves, and have
a foreboding that I shall stand in need of strong stimulants to sustain
me.”
“What now, Charlie?”
“Did you hear a shot fired about ten minutes ago?”
“A what?”
“A shot.”
“No.”
“My life has been attempted,” said I.
“Where? When? By whom?” cried my uncle, staring at me.
“In your avenue, and by a tall lady in a tight-fitting dress, whom I
have strong reasons for suspecting to be your daughter.”
His face relaxed, and he burst out into one of his stunning roars of
laughter.
“Tell me what the minx did?” he shouted.
I told him. Again the room resounded to his roar. As there was really
nothing in the incident to occasion so much violent hilarity, I assumed
that his sense of the ridiculous was aggravated by the pertinacious
gravity of my face.
“Excuse me! excuse me!” he cried. “It was wrong--it was rude--but oh!
what an idea! what an idea! Did you think you were shot?”
“Really, I had no time to think. I was too much surprised by the lady’s
very novel reception of her father’s guest, to reflect upon my danger.”
“Nay, don’t be annoyed by the child’s nonsense,” he exclaimed,
recovering his composure. “She is very much to blame for alarming you,
and I shall rate her soundly for her conduct.”
“Oh, pray say no more about it, uncle. I confess she surprised me, but
I should be very sorry for her to think that I am offended. One thing I
must hasten to do when we meet: I must vindicate my character from the
charge of cowardice. She looked so very fierce, and levelled her loaded
pistol in so very threatening a manner, that the stoutest hero might
well have been allowed to feel a little timid.”
“I wish,” answered my uncle, looking now thoroughly annoyed, “that
she would give up this foolish practice of firing pistols. I like
to think my girl plucky; but every day I expect to hear of some
accident. Ever since her mother’s death, she has had her own way in
everything--though, for all that, I don’t think her nature has been
spoilt by my indulgence.” He said this with a shake of the head, that
plainly said, “I am sure it hasn’t.”
“You have a charming house,” said I, anxious to change the subject, now
that I saw he was annoyed.
“Not such a snuggery as Tom’s,” he answered, and took me to a window
at the back of the drawing-room, which commanded a fair view of the
grounds, and told me of some titled poet, I forget what lord, who had
resided here in seventeen hundred and something four, and of the
several famous people, such as Wilkes and Foote, and Selwyn, whom his
lordship had entertained. These memories appeared to constitute its
great charm in his eyes, and it was with no small pride that he told
me there was a room upstairs, in which Soame Jenyns had written his
“Art of Dancing.” (I quote from memory, and won’t be sure that I give
the right names.) Had he only guessed how tired I was, he would have
reserved his gossip.
He presently asked me if I would like to go to my bed-room, and on
my answering yes, laid hold of my carpet bag--which by the way he
laughed at, desiring me to tell him what time I meant to spend at
his house--and conducted me to a room furnished so luxuriously, and
commanding so fine a view, that I couldn’t have been more impressed,
had I been shown into a state bed-chamber at Windsor Castle.
“There,” said he, looking round him with a glowing face, “in this
room, my boy, I have been told, on the very best authority, Smollett
corrected the last pages of his ‘Adventures of an Atom.’ What do you
say to _that_?”
“I have read ‘Roderick Random,’” I answered, “and think it in parts as
funny as ‘Pickwick.’”
“No, no!” he exclaimed, seating himself near the open window, whilst I,
seeing it was not his intention to leave, pulled off my coat, and fell
to cooling my face in a basin of water, “nothing equal to Pickwick was
ever written. Dickens is a truer humourist than Smollett, and what’s
more,” he added, warmly, “there are portions of his writings of which
the irony is as good as anything to be found in Swift. Tell me in what
particular Dickens isn’t a match for any writer that’s gone before him?
His knowledge of human nature is as great as Fielding’s; his pathos is
deeper and truer than Sterne’s; he is as tender as Goldsmith, and far
funnier than Smollett, who is always farcical when he is comical. I
love this great man, and reverence him for the noble use he has made
of his noble genius. May the day never break,” he exclaimed, with a
solemnity that astonished me, “when Dickens shall cease to be admired;
for then surely will all the fine qualities that make up the English
character, the love of country, sympathy with the suffering, affection
for the past, hatred of cant, and devotion to all that is manly and
honest and true, have perished from among us. Whilst these qualities
last Dickens will last; his fame rests upon them.”
So saying, he pulled out a cigar-case, asked me if I would smoke, and
on my declining, began to puff away like a steam-engine.
“We may do what we like here,” said he, with a grin.
“Nothing to beat liberty,” I replied.
“And yet,” said he, expelling a great cloud of smoke with a sigh, “our
happiest days are most often the days of restraint. When my poor wife
was alive my liberties were jealously curtailed; and now I would give
up every liberty I possess to clasp her dear hand again, to look into
her dear eyes.”
“Does Theresa resemble you or her mother?”
“There is a mingling of us both in her. But the mother preponderates.
She has profound passions, the deepest nature a woman ever had. Such
tenderness! such generous impulses! She has not her equal.”
Good gracious! I thought. How affection blinds us! Tender,
indeed--confound her! she nearly killed me! And here I thought of
Conny, and inwardly groaned, “Always thine, my own! faithful unto the
end!”
“Shall we go down-stairs?” asked my uncle.
“I am ready,” I replied; and we left the room. But we didn’t go
down-stairs at once. My uncle was very proud of his house, and was
evidently determined to lose no time in showing me over it. My
amiability was proof against my weariness; but I really shuddered at
the prospect of being shown into, perhaps, twenty rooms, and detained
on each threshold in order to hear the literary and social history that
made up the interest of the floors and walls.
However, our progress was not so tedious as I had feared. On entering
one room, indeed, my misgivings returned: for, in this room somebody of
importance had, in a fit of intoxication, played a practical joke of a
very awful nature, the effect of which was to render a negro imbecile
for life; but, after this narrative, we got on pretty briskly.
A very few words will describe the house. It was full of long passages
and rooms, into which I was constantly stumbling, owing to the
majority of them being sunk a foot or so beneath the level of the
corridors. Some of them were empty: those that were furnished were
furnished handsomely. One side of the roof was flat, and my uncle led
me through a trap-door, whence we emerged into so broiling a sun, and
on to a floor so burning, that I darted hastily down the staircase,
protesting that if I wasn’t killed by a sunstroke, I should be roasted
alive. He told me that, in the cool of the evening, it was a great
treat to sit upon this roof, “for from it,” said he, “you may obtain as
fine a prospect as any to be found in England.”
I was beginning to grow somewhat curious to meet my cousin, and to
examine with calmness and courage a young lady who thought nothing of
enforcing her commands with a revolver; but my uncle had not yet done
with his house. I was to see the library before I was to be allowed
to take mine ease. I hardly cared enough about books in those days to
feel an interest in his collection. He was a complete Oldbuck in his
devotion to old volumes, broadsides, tracts, and scarce editions. Many
of his books, he assured me, as he stood with his back to the door,
complacently surveying the large collection that was ranged, row upon
row, round the walls, were worth their weight in gold.
“Here,” said he, pulling out a folio, “is a book for which I gave
eight guineas, and for which I should consider myself insulted by an
offer of twenty. Look at those engravings. You might search a thousand
libraries, and not find this gem.”
The name of the book I forget: but I wouldn’t own that the engraving
he opened the book at, and pointed to with immense triumph, struck me
as very rude, and not to be compared with illustrations to be found
in modern books, costing only a few shillings. Bibliomania must be
humoured, like any other form of madness. I was bitten with it myself
not many years ago, and thought more of old bundles of illegible print
stitched in parchment, well perforated with moths and worms, than of
emeralds and diamonds. He pulled down several other volumes to show me,
explaining their value and chattering about their contents in a style
which convinced me that he was one of the very few book-buyers who are
book-readers. I grew at last so thoroughly tired of having to stand and
feign attention and interest, that I proposed that we should return to
the drawing-room, where I might hope to meet my cousin.