“Although her father is ... excessively rich, I should, were I a
youth of quality, hesitate between a girl so neglected and a negro.”
_Dr. Johnson._
There was nobody in the drawing-room.
“Why doesn’t Teazer come to us?” exclaimed my uncle. “Stay you here, my
boy, and I’ll go and call her.”
I took a chair at the table, and began to inspect the contents of an
album filled with photographs. Here was something to interest me, for
on the very first page was a portrait of my father, taken ten years
before, by little Chatelain, of the Rue d’Epingle. Next him was my
uncle, and below, Dick, facing Tom’s wife. All these were capital
photographs, and made me laugh. On the next pages were, on the left
a photograph of Theresa, and on the right a portrait of Conny. I had
now my two cousins before me, and could compare them. Conny looked
indescribably pretty, in spite of a somewhat affected _pose_. Teazer’s
face was in profile, and a handsome profile it was. There was plenty of
intellect in the low, square brow, over which the plentiful dark hair
was roughly drawn. The eyelashes were long, but contributed little of
tenderness to the determined gaze of the large eye. The contour of the
bust was noble. She held a stout riding-whip across her shoulder, as
a man holds a gun. Yet there was something very striking about this
photograph. I caught myself examining it intently and not without
admiration; though when my eye reverted to the sunny-haired beauty on
the other page, my heart welcomed the sweeter attraction that drew it
away from the fascination of the stern and handsome Teazer.
All at once the door was violently pushed open, and in walked the lady
of the pistol! I closed the album and stood up. She gave me a manly
nod, though such a figure as hers ought to have been capable of the
most graceful and sweeping bow in the world, and said, “Are you my
cousin?”
“I believe so,” I answered, “that is, if you are Theresa Hargrave.”
To this she made no reply, but stood for some moments with a curling
lip, examining me from head to foot in a manner the most depressing to
my self-conceit that can well be imagined.
Meanwhile, I honoured her with a similar inspection. Her portrait
scarce]y did her justice--it made her a brunette; whereas, her skin
was delicately fair, though her eyes were dark and piercing, and her
hair brown. She had a full red underlip, a fine tinge of red upon her
cheeks, a straight Greek nose, and finely arched eyebrows. She held
herself perfectly erect. I unhesitatingly admitted, in spite of the
prejudice her extraordinary behaviour excited in me, that she was a
strikingly handsome girl; but I sought in her face in vain for some
sign of the capacity of tender impulse and the womanly characteristics
her father had claimed for her.
“What made you afraid of me just now?” she enquired without a smile.
“You must be a very nervous person.”
“I am much obliged to you for your good opinion,” I replied loftily.
And then conceiving that her singular manner was assumed, perhaps, for
the purpose of raising a laugh at me, I said, “A very brave man might
be allowed to feel a little timid on seeing a loaded pistol levelled
at his head. But perhaps you mistook surprise for fear. You see, I was
quite unprepared for your very noisy reception. I had heard much of
your skill as a marksman, but I had no idea you were possessed of such
immense courage as to shoot at a guest from behind a tree.”
“A bumpkin!” she muttered, turning on her heel and throwing herself in
a decidedly inelegant posture on the sofa. “You may sit down if you
like.”
I accepted her polite invitation, but with so perplexed a face that I
could almost believe the expression on it merited the contemptuous gaze
she fastened on me.
“Where’s the governor?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My father,” she exclaimed petulantly. “Did you never hear a father
called governor before?”
“Oh yes, very often. I believe your governor has gone in search of you.”
“Well, you don’t need to whistle for a dog when he’s at your feet, do
you?”
“No, that would be a waste of time.”
“Were you ever in these parts before?”
“These parts?” said I, not quite sure that I had heard her rightly.
“If my father had told me you were deaf, I’d have ordered a
speaking-trumpet ready for your visit.”
“I am not deaf. On the contrary, I am afflicted with a most torturing
sensibility of hearing. In answer to your question, let me say that I
never was in these parts before.”
“What do you do? Are you clever? Can you draw, and spell, and read?”
I was sure now that she was laughing at me, but I thought her taste
execrable.
“I cannot be certain about my spelling,” I replied, “but I believe I
can read.”
“How old are you?”
“Four-and-twenty.”
“Why, you’re a mere boy!” she exclaimed with a loud laugh. “No wonder
you’re afraid of noises!”
I began to wish that my uncle would come in. I was really alarmed by
the girl’s extravagance. There was something indescribably impudent
in her manner and a slanginess in her speech, to say nothing of its
grammatical deficiencies, that was inexpressibly repulsive to me. Uncle
Tom had suggested that she wanted taming, but that word suggested
nothing. She stood in need of greater discipline than taming.
“Haven’t you brought any messages for me from Grove End?” she demanded.
“I don’t want to be thought rude; but really, you seem a perfect stick,
without a word to say for yourself.”
“Your pistol has blown all my confidence out of me.”
“You think me rather outspoken, don’t you?”
“Rather.”
“Don’t you like outspoken people? I do.”
“Pray give me a little time. We scarcely know each other yet. By-and-by
I may turn out as outspoken as you like.”
“Oh! My father told me you have come here with the intention of being
agreeable. I hope you won’t be. I shall expect to be treated as a
woman, not as an overgrown child, who is only happy when she is sucking
sugar-candy. I have got some intellect, my father says, and I’ll
trouble you to respect me.”
This extraordinary speech she delivered with a most consummately grave
face. Had I detected but the faintest twinkle in her eye, I should have
made up my mind to treat the reception she was giving me as a joke,
and enter into the spirit of her badinage, offensive as the taste
was that could dictate it. But her gravity was not to be mistaken.
Like the country girl of the play, she appeared to have neither tact
nor breeding enough to restrain or moderate the violent and sudden
exhibition of her character; and I sat listening to and watching
her with much such mingled emotions of astonishment and disgust, as
would no doubt possess me, were I compelled to make love to a female
chimpanzee.
I was spared the trouble of hunting after some suitable answer to her
singular remarks by the entrance of her father. He came in, saying that
he had been giving orders to the servants to hurry forward with the
dinner, which was faithfully promised by five o’clock; and then going
up to his daughter, he exclaimed:
“Teazer, what on earth made you play Charlie so vile a trick? He tells
me you fired a pistol at him! He will have to possess an uncommon share
of good sense, not to suspect that he has been invited to a menagerie,
if you don’t behave yourself.”
“Pray say no more about it,” I exclaimed.
Theresa fixed her shining eyes upon me, and I suspected, from the
expression on her face, that she was going to “let out” at me in
violent and powerful language. Instead of which she looked at her
father, with a smile, and answered gently,
“I thought all visits of state and ceremony were celebrated by
discharges of artillery.”
“Come, come, you were very wrong,” said her father, turning his head
aside to conceal a grin. “I can only promise you Charlie’s forgiveness
on one condition--that you will never be guilty of such folly again.”
Once more I encountered her eyes fixed upon me, haughtily and angrily;
and, anxious to conciliate her, I entreated my uncle to change the
subject, assuring him that so far from being offended, I was only too
pleased that Theresa should treat me _sans ceremonie_.
This handsome speech produced no impression on her whatever. She
continued staring at me for some moments, in a way that appeared to me
almost indelicate; then sneered, tossed her head, and asked me “to hand
her that book near my elbow on the table.” I obeyed her, and noticed
that her father watched her with curiosity and surprise. She kept the
book open in her lap, I believe, as an excuse not to talk; for, several
times, whilst her father and I conversed, I caught her watching me,
though she always took care to avert her eyes and curl her lip when
I glanced at her. I thought her a perfect Tartar, and wondered at my
uncle Tom’s extraordinary want of penetration, in supposing that I
could ever be brought to couple myself with such a woman.
She never opened her lips until the Irish man-servant, whose name I
afterwards learnt was O’Twist, announced dinner. I thought it odd that
my cousin made no change in her dress for the table, but supposed that
her love of ease and freedom had long ago triumphed over all fiddling
restraints of etiquette.
I rose and offered her my arm; but as I approached, she swept her dress
away from me, and exclaimed in a low tone, “When I want a crutch, I’ll
buy one. I have still the use of both my legs, thank God!”
I will leave you to imagine my feelings. “She may have a handsome
person,” thought I, “but I’ll be hanged if she hasn’t the soul of a
kangaroo!”
My uncle, who was near the door when she made her overwhelming remark,
and therefore could not have heard it, led the way to the dining-room.
I caught him looking behind as if rather surprised that I hadn’t his
daughter on my arm; but this, after a moment’s reflection, I concluded
to be a mere fancy.
She took a seat opposite me, and whilst her father said grace, smiled
over her shoulder at O’Twist, whose eyes were on me. I had very little
doubt that she was not in her right senses, and marvelled at the
blindness of her father in attributing virtues to her which seemed so
entirely absent from her nature, that I could not conceive how he had
imagined their existence. He made as good a host as Tom; but though the
dinner was first-rate, the wines superior to any my uncle Tom had, I
never in all my life felt so miserable nor enjoyed my food less. That
confounded O’Twist, who stood behind his master’s chair, scarcely ever
removed his eyes from my face. I tried once to stare him out, but the
longer I looked the more intent became his gaze. The discomfort his
groggy eyes caused me I cannot describe. What, I kept thinking, _what_
is there about me to provoke such insolence? Am I in a madhouse? Have
I mistaken my way, and found a welcome in an asylum for lunatics?
My uncle talked incessantly. The more agitated and dispirited I
became, the more he plied me with his recollections, with stories of
his doings in his young days, of actors and authors, of noble lords
and needy parasites. Whether it was that he was spoiled in my esteem
by the outrageous behaviour of his daughter and servant, or that I
regarded him as heading a conspiracy against my peace of mind, I did
not find half so much to like in him as I had at Grove End. He, it is
true, could not see O’Twist’s behaviour, as the rude creature stood
behind his chair; and queer as his daughter’s manners were, I could not
reasonably expect him to chide her before me. But these considerations
gave me no encouragement. Now and then he would stay his monologue to
ask Theresa for a date or a name, and she answered him readily enough;
but to _my_ questions and remarks she seldom vouchsafed a longer answer
than yes or no.
Shortly after the dessert was placed upon the table she left the room,
and to my great relief was followed by O’Twist. Vexed as I was, my
politeness would not suffer me to make any comments on her behaviour.
Had her father questioned me I should have been candid enough; but
throughout our after-dinner chat he never mentioned her name, but
confined his remarks entirely to books and pictures, or told stories,
over which I should have roared as heartily as he, perhaps, had I been
in a better temper.
When we had smoked our cigars out, he invited me to see his grounds. I
consented, having made up my mind to convert myself into a perfectly
passive agent for him and his daughter to do what they chose with,
whilst I remained at Thistlewood, which, I registered a secret vow,
should not be for long. He peeped into the drawing-room on passing
across the hall, and, seeing his daughter, entered and called to me,
“Teazer shall sing us a song before we go out. You’ll get none of your
die-away ballads here, Charlie. My girl has my taste, and stubbornly
refuses to learn any song tainted with the least suggestion of
molly-coddleism; eh, Teazer? Come, my dear, what shall it be?”
She walked to the piano at once, with the air of a person who has a
very disagreeable task to perform, but who knows that the sooner it
is begun the sooner it will be over. The first thing she did was to
knock the stool down. I instantly darted forward to pick it up, but she
whispered angrily, “I am accustomed to help myself, thanks!” and set
it upright with a smart bang. I paid her the compliment of considering
that she was purposely clumsy in her movements, for she seemed to
forget her ungainly part when seating herself, which she did with
perfect but unconscious grace. I earnestly hoped she did not propose to
play from music, for I dreaded the prospect of having to stand by her
and turn over the pages, being ignorant of my notes, and only knowing
when to turn by following the performer’s eye.
She struck the piano, and I breathed freely. But anything more
distressing and feeble than her performance I never listened to. Why,
Conny was a Patti and a Thalberg rolled into one compared to her! The
song she sung was “Cease, rude Boreas,” of all the songs ever written,
the one, to my mind, the least suitable for a woman’s voice. She was
for ever striking the wrong notes, pausing often to cough or think, and
singing with such ludicrous affectation, that it cost me an immense
effort to preserve my gravity. Her father lost patience at the end of
the first stanza, and exclaimed, “What’s the use of asking Boreas to
cease, when all the while you’re raising a worse squall than ever he
was known to blow? I never heard you sing like this before.”
“I hate singing,” she answered, rising from the music-stool, which she
overturned again. This time I didn’t offer to pick it up. Neither did
she; and thus I was placed in an abominably awkward position, for her
father, of course, wondered at my want of manners.
“How awkward you are!” he exclaimed, peevishly, making a tremendous but
futile effort to reach the stool himself.
She laughed, and coolly put the stool on end with her foot.
“I’ll finish the song if my cousin likes,” said she.
“No, thank you. He’s had enough of it, I’ll warrant. Come along into
the garden, my boy, and let us breathe some fresh air.”
As we went out, he said: “How wretchedly my daughter sang! Would you
believe that she has a fine contralto voice, and can play the piano
brilliantly?”
I was amazed by his perverse partiality, which persisted in attributing
all kinds of graces and perfections to a girl who seemed to me to be
wanting in everything but a good figure and a handsome face.
“Perhaps she was nervous,” said I, secretly ridiculing the absurdity of
my remark.
“I don’t think that was the reason,” he answered, “although she
_is_ nervous. She is courageous in many things--would ride in a
steeple-chase, let off a cannon, or handle a spider. But in society
she is very bashful and shy, will shrink within herself if she finds
that she attracts attention (which she generally does), and, I really
believe, would prefer to lead a forlorn hope up a hill, than parade to
and fro before rows of lookers-on, such as you get at the seaside, and
in public gardens.”
“She doesn’t give me the impression of being nervous in any sense,” I
answered, thinking how true was the saying, that the last person to
know a child’s character was the parent.
The subject was changed by his asking me what I thought of the grounds.
I praised everything. I had made up my mind to reverse the Horatian
precept, and do nothing but admire. However, the grounds really
deserved my admiration. They were richly wooded, lavishly stocked,
covering altogether not less than fifteen acres. My uncle was very
communicative and affectionate, held my arm as we wandered, and gave
me a long account of his early life, his prejudices, tastes, and
present love of seclusion. He had but very few neighbours, which, he
said, was one great reason for his purchasing the property.
“I have outlived my love of society,” he remarked. “The friends I
cared for are gone, and I have neglected Johnson’s advice to keep
friendship in repair by forming new attachments. Dinner parties and
balls are no treats to me. The tone of society has changed wonderfully
within the last twenty years. There is little or no conversation, no
friendly rivalries of wit, none of that heartiness which used to make
our old social gatherings so enjoyable. However, I have little to
complain of. No man can be alone who has his books. Do you remember
what Macaulay says of them? ‘These are the old friends who are never
seen with new faces, who are the same in wealth and in poverty, in
glory and obscurity. With the dead there is no rivalry. In the dead
there is no change.’”
“But doesn’t your daughter care for society?”
“No. If she did she should have it.”
“How does she pass the time?”
“In sewing, and reading and writing: and latterly in shooting. You
smile! Well, shooting does seem a queer pastime for a young lady
to indulge in, but I really don’t see why a girl shouldn’t amuse
herself with a pistol if she has the courage. My objection is not a
conventional one. I fear that she will one day injure herself. But
for that, I can discover no reason why a girl living in the country
shouldn’t shoot at a mark, as girls frequently in town amuse themselves
by shooting in saloons erected for that purpose.”
“Is the revolver her own that I saw in her hand?”
“No, it is mine. She took it out of my bed-room, and has kept it ever
since.”
“Is she as fond as you of books?”
“She is a great reader,” he answered with a smile that seemed like an
admission of my peculiar right to make these enquiries. “I am sometimes
quite astonished by the information she possesses in directions which
even professed students find too dry and uninviting to pursue.”
“Good gracious!” I thought, “what a delusion he is labouring under! I
would bet a hundred pounds Theresa couldn’t write a dozen lines that
shouldn’t contain half as many blunders.”
Thus conversing, we reached the stables, where I found three fine
horses, one of which he pointed out as his daughter’s. This supplied
him with a text for a long discourse on the subject of breeding horses;
he then branched off into topics connected with the Stock Exchange,
and finally, after an absence of nearly an hour, reconducted me to the
house.