“But now we talk of mounting steed.”
_Hudibras._
After lunch I wrote to Conny. I should like to see that letter now. I
composed it as one of Johnson’s poets wrote poetry: “with an incessant
ambition of wit;” mentioned that little affair with O’Twist, but made
no further reference to Teazer’s treatment (holding that both she and
her father would expect my silence); asked if I was missed, if there
was anybody at Grove End who would particularly care to see me back
again; diversified my pregnant sentimental “asides” with well laboured
bursts of cynicism, and concluded four pages of close writing with a
very eloquent, “Believe me,” &c.
As I addressed the envelope, Theresa came into the library, and asked
me if I would ride with her.
“I should greatly enjoy a ride,” I answered, hardily; “but you mustn’t
expect to find me a very good horseman. However, providing my horse
doesn’t rear, I daresay I shall be able to hold on.”
“You shall have papa’s horse. He is very quiet.”
“I don’t think I could take a gate,” said I.
“Oh, we’ll keep to the main road.”
This being settled, she went to get on her habit. I was rather sorry I
had no straps by me. I am aware that they are not much worn by riders;
but depend upon it, they are very useful to incipient horsemen, since
they prevent the trowsers from mounting up to the knees, should the
horse grow at all distracted. Hat-guards are also valuable. Indeed,
a bad rider ought to be sewn into his clothes; and it would not be
sometimes amiss, if his clothes were also tacked on to the saddle.
In about ten minutes’ time Theresa was ready. The horses were brought
by the groom to the door: and my cousin mounted with fine grace. I,
like a blockhead, clambered up the wrong side; but though my uncle, as
well as the groom and Teazer, was looking, nobody laughed; and I had,
therefore, the satisfaction of believing I had acquitted myself well.
To my great relief the animal, under my weight, stood as motionless as
a clothes’-horse. Teazer’s, on the other hand, began to dance, like one
of your trained brutes at a circus, when the band strikes up.
“Here’s a whip, sir,” said the groom. I jerked the reins, my uncle
waved his hand, my horse broke into a trot (I into a perspiration),
off went Teazer’s animal sideways, I watching the lateral beast with
speechless anxiety, fearful every moment of running into him; we got
out of the avenue into the high-road, and away we clattered--God help
me!--under an Indian sun.
Teazer kept ahead of me for some ten minutes, her horse being very
nettlesome and restive, and defying her restraint. I had settled into
a good solid trot, was growing used to the motion, and had no wish to
gallop. However, Teazer slackened her pace after a little, and fell
into a walk, which I thought uncommonly safe and agreeable.
“Where would you like to go?” she asked.
“Wherever you please.”
“Shall we ride to Blenhall Abbey? We are on the road to it, and the
ruins are well worth seeing.”
“I shall be very glad.”
Here her horse sprang forward, mine followed, and away we dashed at
full gallop, I stooping my head like a hunchback to keep my hat on, and
wondering what pleasure people could take in having their hearts shaken
into their throats, and their midriffs into their boots. However, use
will father other things besides those begot by sense; and before long
I not only began to discover that swift motion was a sensation by no
means disagreeable, but found courage to raise my head and attend to my
cousin’s figure.
Although, in spite of my fashionable and aristocratic prejudices, I
knew almost nothing about riding, the stable, or the turf, I had a good
eye for picturesque combinations and graceful movements, for small
waists and easy attitudes. I was therefore qualified to admire Theresa
on horseback, nor did I require to be told that she was a splendid
horsewoman. Even her man’s hat could not deform the perfection of
outline submitted to my following gaze by her noble figure. So much
has been written about female riders, that all description of Theresa
in the saddle would be supererogatory, and I will therefore save you
a long account here by briefly referring you for full information on
this important subject to the Entertaining Library of six shillings,
two shillings, one shilling, and sixpenny novels to be found at all
bookstalls and railway stations in town and country.
“I am afraid you find it very hot,” said she, checking; her horse’s
canter and dropping alongside of me.
“It is rather hot,” I answered, glancing at a sky whose colour would
have figured well in a view of Palmyra. “But I am enjoying my ride very
much.”
“I could give you several jumps if you’d care about them. There are
some good hedges yonder,” and she pointed with her whip to the plains
beneath.
“I am very well satisfied,” I replied. “Let me see! There’s the railway
station, and yonder’s the hot road I trudged along yesterday. The view
from here is very pretty, but I fancy a ride would be more enjoyable in
the cool of the evening. Hallo! are we to go down that hill?”
“Yes. Keep a firm hold of your reins.”
We turned into an abominably steep lane. I shoved my feet well out into
the stirrups, and uttered no observation whatever until we had reached
the bottom. Then I exclaimed,
“Such a descent is enough to try the nerves of a mule.”
“We shall meet with nothing but level roads now,” said she. “Are you
for a gallop?”
“No. Let’s have a talk.... How superbly you ride, Theresa.”
“Do I?”
“You make me feel as inelegant as a Hindoo, sitting like a tailor on an
elephant’s head.”
“Have you ridden with Conny?”
“No. I don’t think she rides, does she?”
“A little. She is not like me: she is womanly in her tastes and
aversions.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” I exclaimed, not quite sure whether she meant to
compliment herself or her cousin.
“She would never have played you such a trick as I did.”
“Impossible to say. Had she misjudged the motive of my visit to Grove
End--imagined, as you did, that I had come to make love to her for the
sake of her money--oh, Theresa! she might have poisoned me!”
“Tell me, do you think it is proper that a girl should be made love to
only for her money?”
“Certainly not. I consider it insulting.”
“I acted wrongly in not giving myself time to find out what sort of a
man you were, before I began my tricks. But then it would have been
too late; for after you had seen me in my natural capacity, as the
menagerie people say, shamming would have been ridiculous.”
“Don’t let us talk about anything that vexes us, Theresa. Yesterday
is dead and gone, and our acquaintance dates from this morning. But
there is one view of the question of marrying for money which ought to
be considered: Suppose a fellow falls in love with a girl who has a
fortune? doesn’t he run a great risk of being misjudged?”
“If a girl has any sense, she will soon see whether he is fond of her
or not.”
I shook my head.
“Some men flatter so well, feign so skilfully, appeal so dexterously
to a woman’s weaknesses, that it needs more clear-sightedness than
most girls possess to divine either their real feelings or their real
motives.”
Her fine eyes sparkled as she answered, “That is why I hate flattery.
Honest people won’t flatter. I always look upon a compliment as the
mask of some sentiment which would be very offensive were it exposed.”
“That’s an extreme view. A man may sometimes flatter with the wish to
please; and whom should he wish to please but his sweetheart?”
“I would rather not be complimented by the man I love.”
“He’ll have to be dumb, then,” said I.
“I will agree with you in this,” said she, with a smile, “a girl with
money is under great disadvantages as regards courtship and marriage.
For she may love a man whose sensitiveness finds an obstacle in her
fortune, and keeps him back, lest a proposal should subject him to
misconstruction. Or she may meet with a man who sincerely loves her,
but whose sincerity she distrusts because she has money. Now a girl
without money knows very well that when an offer is made her, she is
loved only for herself. That feeling is worth more than the largest
fortune, I should think.”
“Girls,” said I, “must find out the truth for themselves, as men have
to do. Marriage is a game that takes two to play. The man has just as
much right to suspect the girl’s sincerity, as the girl has to suspect
his. They ought, both of them, to be above suspicion. Loyalty begets
loyalty. Where doubt is----whoa!”
Here my horse stumbled, and I barely saved my hat from falling. The
movement of my horse startled hers, and away we galloped. Talk was
at an end between us; but though many of my faculties were engrossed
by the labour of keeping my seat, I could still think. Was Theresa
disappointed? Had she a worm i’ the bud? What made her so sensitive
about money? She talked very candidly; but then she knew I was in
love, and that knowledge conferred on us both privileges we could
hardly have exercised had my affections been disengaged. What a change,
_mon Dieu!_ from the rude vixen of yesterday! I couldn’t conceive
a more agreeable girl than she. Considering that she must still
be embarrassed by the memory of her behaviour to me, her ease was
wonderful, her amiability delightful.
We had turned, by this time, into a long lane, with a tall hedge
on either side of us, and plenty of trees, which, however, did not
protect us from the sun. I have no doubt the country around looked very
beautiful, and golden and green, with flashes of yellow light here, and
splashes of some other kind of colour there--crammed, in a word, with
a thousand effects, such as, properly catalogued here, would entitle
me to a place in English fiction second only to that occupied by the
immortal author of Black’s picturesque Guide Books. But to speak the
truth, I was thinking too much about my neck to remark the beautiful
and the lovely; for my horse, on entering the lane, had indescribably
shocked me by shying at an old man in a blouse, and from that moment I
was afflicted with misgivings.
Happily the Ruins were at the end of the lane. We came to an open
grassy space, my cousin halted, and pointed to some pieces of wall here
and there, supporting what might have been the frame of a window in the
reign of St. Lucius.
“Hallo! a fire!” said I, imagining for the moment that here were the
remains of a house that had very nearly been burnt to the ground.
Teazer burst into a loud laugh, the merriest that ever made the summer
air jocund with human glee.
“Why,” cried she, “this is Blenhall Abbey, the most famous ruin in the
county. I don’t know how many books have been written about it.”
“Oh, yes, I see the ivy now, and the green mould about the bricks.”
“Some say it was built in the reign of Henry II., and some in Richard
I.’s time. Two gentlemen belonging to a society came to visit it a few
months ago, and afterwards called upon papa. That evening there was an
argument. Papa’s library was turned topsy-turvey to prove things. One
gentleman in a passion smashed his spectacles by thumping his fist on
the table where they lay. The best part of it was, papa has a theory
that the Abbey is of much more recent date, and declares he can show it
was constructed in Queen Mary’s time. You may imagine the hubbub! It
ended in all three of them becoming enemies.”
“Oh, those antiquarians!” I exclaimed. “They would wrangle for hours
over a brick fresh from a kiln, one swearing it was made in the time
of Agricola, and another that it was the work of those Israelites who
built the pyramids. I call those ruins rubbish, don’t you?”
Theresa shrugged her shoulders affirmatively. “But don’t tell papa I
think so,” she exclaimed with a gay laugh, wheeling her horse round.
It was five o’clock when we sighted home. On the whole, in spite of
the heat and my nervousness, I had enjoyed the ride. Going up the
hill, a gadfly had bitten my horse; the animal plunged, and I gave
myself up for lost. The movement dislodged the fly, and the horse
became calm; but feeling by the coolness in that part that my left leg
showed its sock, I did not doubt that I had made a spectacle of myself.
Judge my surprise when Teazer congratulated me upon the first-rate
style in which I had handled the horse. She assured me I had saved him
from falling with enviable coolness and address; and added that she
was certain I was laughing at her when I pretended I couldn’t ride!
My conscience smarted, but I held my tongue. Thus, Eugenio, is honour
heaped on the undeserving. Thus do muffs become great by the very
ignorance that ought to suppress them. Thus does the simpleton become
a field-marshal, the ninny a bishop, the frump a privy-councillor, the
sumph a court-physician.
My uncle was very jolly at dinner. He roared over my mistake about the
ruins, and brought the tears to my eyes by his description of the two
members of the antiquarian society. It was plain that both he and his
daughter were striving might and main to make amends for the sufferings
I had undergone on the previous day. Teazer, perhaps, was a little
bashful, a little demure under her father’s eye; but _he_ was not to
be resisted. I daresay a good many of his stories enriched the pages
of Joe Miller; I daresay he had told them over and over again any time
these twenty years. But what was that to me? What anecdotes he had,
he related well. He was so anxious, moreover, that I should be amused,
that I more than once echoed his own kindly roar, when the best of his
joke lay in his broad, honest, hearty, British expanse of face.
As to O’Twist, the man pained me with his officiousness. He was for
ever at my ear, whispering with silvery softness, “A little more
sherry, sir?” “I can ricommind this claret, sir;” “Will you throy the
champeene, sir?” “Perhaps your honour would preefar the Meedeery?”
I think he wanted to make me tipsy to show his remorse. He avoided
looking at me from motives of memory and delicacy I could sincerely
appreciate; but I could not move without bringing him to my side.
After dinner we went into the grounds, where coffee was brought us.
This is a pretty fine life for a banker’s clerk! thought I, stretching
back in an arm-chair and smoking one of my uncle’s _Imperiales_, a
cigar, Matilda, worth half-a-crown, as thick as your dainty wrist, and
nearly ten inches long. Ten inches of bliss! _O crudele fuoco!_ that so
much leaf paradisaical should ever turn to innutritious ash!
Yesterday I should have expected Teazer to pull out a black cutty pipe,
load it with cavendish tobacco, and call for a glass of rum. Now she
sat in a low chair, her hands folded on her lap, quiet, attentive,
gentle in aspect and manner, despite the bright flash that filled her
eyes each time she raised them. I thought of yesterday’s comedy, the
queer resolution that had prompted her, the histrionic ability that
had fooled me. Were I to write such a story, I thought, who would
believe me? It was one of those possible things that are incredible.
Ghosts, murders, and bigamies, living burials, exhumations, and
pushing-your-sweetheart’s-husband-over-precipices, are events which
happen every moment, which you may number among the sights you witness
every time you take your walks abroad, and are therefore fit subjects
for novel-writers to deal with. But that any young lady, calling
herself a lady, could act----
Oh! Eugenio!--thou whom I have apostrophised so often, and may now
publish thee no myth, but rather my bosom friend--thou knowest I am
writing true history; that Theresa _did_ so receive me; that I _did_
so undeceive her; that she _did_ drop her nonsense, and become on a
sudden a charming English lady, whom it was a rapture to look at, and a
joy to listen to.
“Teazer,” said I----
Here I halted, coughed, and said, “Have you any objection to my calling
you by this familiar name?”
“Certainly not. My behaviour yesterday privileges you to find me an
uglier title.”
“It hits her character, doesn’t it?” exclaimed her father. “I gave it
her, and she shall wear it as long as she deserves it.”
“I was going to ask you,” said I, “to give me a proof of your
pistolling powers.”
“Make her give up that nonsense, Charlie,” remarked my uncle.
“It is harmless enough,” I replied.
“If the pistol don’t burst. That is all I care about. However, Teazer,
since your fame is concerned--for I remember boasting of your dexterity
to Charlie, at Grove End--go and get the pistol and show him what you
can do.”
She went into the house, and after a short absence, returned with a
pistol case, and a small worsted ball, to which a piece of thread was
attached.
“Please go and hang this up for me on that rose tree there.”
I took the ball and suspended it to a branch. She loaded her pistol
very scientifically.
“Your white hand,” said I, “entirely robs the pistol of its murderous
significance.”
“Go and stand near the tree,” she answered, “and then you’ll see the
thread cut.”
She had sneered at my courage yesterday, and the wound still bled.
That she might have no further occasion to doubt my prodigious valour,
I took up a position so close to the tree that, had she suffered me
to remain there, it would have been ten to one but I had received the
ball. She guessed my motive, and called out laughingly, “Not so near: I
_might_ hit you!”
I stalked a few paces away, with a great air of nonchalance, as if I
should say, “Pshaw! I am quite used to be shot at.” She levelled her
pistol. I looked at her.
“Watch the thread,” she said. She was twenty paces off. I fixed my
eyes on the string-bang! a sharp, clear report, and down dropped the
ball.
“Wonderful!” I exclaimed.
She came to the tree, re-affixed the ball, and, putting the pistol in
my hand, asked me to shoot.
“I’ll try,” said I; “but you must keep behind me. Anybody within a
hundred yards either side that tree would run the fearfullest risk.
Winkle was a neater shot than I.”
I measured twenty paces, faced the tree, levelled the pistol, pulled
the trigger, and by heaven! _the ball fell!_
Teazer stared: my uncle clapped his hands.
“You are a soldier’s son,” said he, “and ought to be able to shoot
well. After that, Teazer, boast no more.”
I was now afraid that Teazer would challenge me to shoot again.
Another fluke had added another leaf to the crown I felt sprouting
about my brows: it would be a great blow to have the growth of that
vegetation checked. But to my delight Theresa returned to her chair.
I rather fancied that she felt somewhat ashamed of this amusement of
hers. Perhaps because it was now associated with her conduct of the
previous day; and she would naturally not care to deal with so direct a
reference to her rudeness.
This exploit of mine naturally persuaded them that I was a far more
accomplished person than my modesty suffered me to represent; and of
course Theresa was sure that I could play and sing as well as I could
shoot and ride.
“No, on my honour, I can’t sing a note.”
My uncle looked incredulous.
“But you can play?” said Theresa.
“By ear only,” I replied. “But I’ll tell you what I can do, I can
appreciate fine music and playing when I hear them, and as I am quite
sure you are a good singer, you ought to oblige me by teaching me to
forget your well-acted noises of yesterday.”
“That’s only fair,” exclaimed my uncle.
So saying, he led the way to the drawing-room.
“What shall I sing?” asked Teazer, taking her place at the piano, and
this time not knocking over the music stool.
“Whatever comes into your head,” I answered.
“Anything not maudlin,” said her father.
She reflected a moment, and then struck up a very simple, but a very
sweet melody, which she accompanied with a voice remarkably pure and
rich. Indeed, I never listened to any amateur whose voice I liked so
well, nor to any song which gave me more pleasure.
“What a very pretty song,” said I when she had finished.
“Old Kit Marlow’s words, ‘Come, live with me,’ set by some eighteenth
century composer,” exclaimed my uncle.
“What a dreadful struggle it must have cost you to sing so badly,” said
I, looking at Theresa with a smile.
She coloured up and asked me if I knew--I forget the name of the piece:
one of Chopin’s, I think. I begged her to play it; but though she
went through it in dashing style, I can’t say I was pleased. It was
not music--there were no tunes in it. Here and there a little fragment
of melody popped up and provoked the fingers into giving chase, but it
invariably vanished among the growls of the bass, or finished with a
scream amid the writhings and chatterings and shiverings of the treble.
I was well aware that it was one of those pieces which the musical
public pay half-a-guinea for sofa-stalls to hear, and so I seemed to
applaud. That it was as little to my uncle’s taste as mine, I had no
doubt; but then it was his daughter who played it, and he couldn’t be
captious.
When she rose, he took her place, and made me laugh heartily over his
imitation of the Italian opera. He was a capital mimic--struck his
breast and clenched his fist as the basso--shrugged his shoulders, and
elevated his arm to heaven, as the tenor--squeaked and wailed as the
prima donna; and concluded with a duet, making the oddest noises with
his mouth, in excellent imitation of a violoncello. This done, he bowed
to the room, and pretended to collect bouquets.
I passed the rest of the evening in playing double-dummy with him,
while Theresa sat near us, sometimes reading, but more often watching
the game.