----There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face:
He was a gentleman on whom I built
An absolute trust.
SHAKSPEARE.
The next morning, having despatched an early breakfast, our travellers
were becoming rather impatient at the slowness of the progress of
the preparations making for their separate departures, when these
preparations were suddenly interrupted by an arrival which at once
engrossed the attention of the whole establishment, and in a moment
collected from hole and corner every one, from the Landlady down to
Boots.
It was a post-chaise and four which came clattering up to the door; and
the sudden jerk with which it stopped, and the loud cry of “first and
second turn out,” which followed, rousing its slumbering burden, caused
him to raise himself from his _Dormeuse_. Germain recognised the well
known Frederick Fitzalbert, whose acquaintance he had made last winter
at Paris. The recognition was speedy and mutual.
“Ah! Germain, my dear fellow,” said Fitzalbert, rubbing his eyes and
giving a portentous yawn, “how goes it? What, you too, I suppose, have
been dreaming of to-morrow?”
Germain, to whom to-morrow conveyed no distinct idea, and who had
been dreaming of nothing at all, (except, perhaps, a little of Fanny
Dormer,) was rather at a loss for a reply. But Fitzalbert soon
enlightened him by continuing--
“Latimer has lent me Peatburn Lodge, and I am to have his moors all to
myself--Where are you going to?”
“Why, as I am but just returned from Paris, I have not been able to
make any arrangements, and therefore I have not----” stammered Germain,
struggling in vain against a sense of shame at not having any moors to
shoot upon; when five minutes before, he would as soon have repined at
not having the mines of Golconda.
Fitzalbert was one of those whose good word was conceived at once to
confer fame in the world of fashion. He had taken a great fancy to
Germain at Paris, and in the course of their acquaintance had much
amused him with his ever-ready turn for quizzing, the recollection of
which talent, however Germain had enjoyed it when applied to others,
had left a feeling of fear lest it should be exercised against himself.
“I have not got any moors,” he therefore reluctantly acknowledged.
“You had much better come with me then, my dear fellow,” said
Fitzalbert; “you shall have a separate beat and a separate bed, and for
the rest of the four-and-twenty hours I shall be delighted with your
company.”
“I should like it very much,” said Germain, “but I have engaged
myself----”
The Rev. Mr. Dormer and Rosedale Rectory were on the threshold of his
lips, but he checked himself; for though the mere fact of paying a
visit to an old parson might only be reckoned a twaddle, yet he could
not bear the idea of the cross-examination which might follow; and it
seemed little less than suicide, to run the chance of offering to his
satirical friend such a fund for ridicule as “pastoral parsonage,”
“private tutor,” “pretty daughter,” and “first love,” compared to which
fair game, the loan even of Lord Latimer’s moors, abundant as they
might prove, would afford but poor promise of sport. He therefore left
that sentence unfinished, and replied instead; “But I have neither gun
nor shooting dress with me.”
“Oh! as for that,” said Fitzalbert, “I have four guns with me--a Joe,
a John, and two Eggs, from which I choose according as I feel in
the morning. You may always have any one of the other three; and as
to shooting costume, I believe I have got with me all the different
dresses of the last five years, most of which have never been worn.”
It need hardly be added, that the end of all this was, that Germain
was persuaded to alter his destination, and to accompany Fitzalbert to
Peatburn Lodge.
“Then, instead of sleeping over another stage,” said Fitzalbert, “I
will dress here, and be ready for you in a few minutes.--Here, Le
Clair, take out all this lumber, and make room for Mr. Germain,”
added he, opprobriously shovelling out new publications by the dozen,
which had hitherto slept quietly, side by side with him, and were now
discarded with leaves as yet uncut, and the stiffness of still unbroken
boards.
“And what am I to do with all these?” asked Le Clair.
“Leave them here, to be sure; let the chambermaids study sentiment from
the novels, and the post-boys learn geography from the travels--they
will have found their proper level at last. But,” added he to Germain,
“who is that with you?”
“Oakley; you must remember him at Paris.”
“What, still inseparable! Have you not got quit of him yet? Well, my
Frankenstein, I must rid you of _Le Monstre_, as we used to call him.”
When Germain went to take leave of Oakley, and to announce to him that
he was going grouse-shooting with Fitzalbert--“Grouse-shooting?” asked
Oakley;--“well, remember that Fitzalbert is sometimes supposed a--a
pretty good long shot at a pigeon, that’s all.”
Before Germain could reply, it was announced that Fitzalbert was ready,
and the cousins took a hasty leave of each other; for though there was
an end of their companionship, yet as they had purposed shortly to meet
in London, they did not consider this separation as final.
Fitzalbert was one of the best specimens of that sect whose whole
soul is centered in self; for, after having well weighed and duly
considered the question in all its bearings, provided he was perfectly
convinced that no possible inconvenience could arise to himself, he
would rather do a good-natured thing than not. And he was even supposed
to have derived real satisfaction from the pleasure his doing so
gave to others. But most of his actions originated in more compound
calculations; for as his objects were never on a grand scale, his acute
and calculating character would enable him to foresee advantages to
himself from trifles, which a more enlarged mind or a more careless
disposition would alike have overlooked. Whether it was from the
successful exertion of these qualities, or from some other cause, he
was one of those phenomena which puzzle the world,--a man who, without
any visible means of subsistence, always continued in the enjoyment
of every luxury, whilst distress and ruin were constantly assailing
his more wealthy companions. He was constitutionally good-humoured,
and he had such a happy knack in conversation, that though he never
spared an absent friend, the attack seemed at once unintentional and
irresistible--he liked him even whilst he lashed. He could expose his
most secret follies with an air of regard, and if the object of the
general laugh he had just raised had entered the room at the moment,
every one would rather have expected him to join in the jest than
to resent it. All his qualities, as an agreeable member of society,
were crowned by an easy off-hand manner, which most people avowedly
(and probably all) really prefer to the Grandison, Gold-Stick sort of
address.
There were many reasons which induced him to take up Germain:
first, his society was welcome, as that of a cheerful, agreeable,
good-humoured fellow, who, he observed with pleasure, had a great
respect for him. In the next place, Germain’s fortune, connexions,
and personal qualifications, were such as to entitle him to make a
great figure in the world when he should come out; and Fitzalbert
had experience enough of the world to know that there is an awkward
period, when a young man is not quite fledged, when a little attention
goes a great way, and is afterwards gratefully remembered. Then perhaps
(for it was by no means a trifle beneath his consideration,) he easily
perceived that Germain was not much of a sportsman; and as he was going
to shoot principally _for book_, and to boast of it afterwards, he had
no objection to a foil.
Fitzalbert was in high spirits, and as well inclined to be amusing, as
Germain was to be amused. The journey was therefore agreeable to both
parties, though of the topics chosen by Fitzalbert, some might in less
skilful hands have been tiresome, and others offensive.
He expatiated, in the first place, at very considerable length, upon
the peculiar merits of every thing about or belonging to himself,--his
carriage, his dogs, and his dress; from this, by an easy transition,
he became inquisitive about Germain’s private concerns, and those too
of a more important description, such as his fortune, his prospects,
future plans, &c. But the manner in which he handled these subjects
made even his egotism interesting, and gave an appearance of friendly
concern to his idle curiosity. These topics being at length exhausted,
it was natural that, as they approached Peatburn Lodge, Lord and Lady
Latimer should be brought upon the tapis. Of them Germain (who, it must
be recollected, was not fairly launched into the world) had only heard
just enough to make him wish to hear more.
“I must take the very first opportunity to make you acquainted with the
Latimers,” said Fitzalbert. “Latimer,” continued he, “to ninety-nine
men in a hundred, would seem one of themselves--that is, he drives a
_cab_ down the same streets, and sits in the same club-window--but
he has, or rather had, qualities of a higher order. His talents are
rusted by indolence, and his principles warped by prejudice. It is
his misfortune to combine with a naturally generous disposition, an
irresistible inclination to be sharp and knowing, which he has acquired
in the world. He would lend a friend a thousand pounds, and _do_ him
out of ten of it. He would give all he has, and take all he can get--an
exchange by no means advantageous; and as he himself boasts of his
littlenesses, and no one is equally busy in telling of his liberality,
the balance in coin and character is against him; and all this for want
of some adequate employment for an active mind.”
“And Lady Latimer?” interrupted Germain, to whom this portrait of her
lord did not appear particularly attractive.
“Oh, I cannot attempt to describe her, either in person or character;
only by way of warning, don’t fall in love with her.”
“Who was she?” asked Germain, adopting the regular routine of inquiry
upon such occasions.
“A Sydenham--Lady Louisa Sydenham. She and Latimer came out the same
year, and were both very much admired. In short, they were the talk of
the hour. I believe it bored them always to hear their names coupled,
and so they married,--a very effectual expedient, for no one _now_ ever
mentions them together.”
“Let me see,” said his companion, “Sydenham--then she was a daughter of
Lady Flamborough.”
“Yes,” rejoined Fitzalbert, “her first and hitherto only successful
speculation. If any thing could have warned off Latimer, it would have
been the dread of Lady Flamborough’s manœuvring. As for Caroline and
Jane, I should be sorry to prophesy their fate, pretty girls as they
are. By the bye, suppose, after all, she was to catch you? You are
rather sentimental, I think, and I foresee she will certainly make a
dead set at it.”
There was something in the tone in which this was said, too nearly
approaching to banter, to be perfectly pleasing to Germain. The idea,
too, of being “caught,” was in itself not flattering, and, after all,
made it more mortifying. He could not help looking a little disgusted,
which being perceived by Fitzalbert, who had no wish to produce any
such effect, he turned the conversation.
“I dined, for my sins,” he resumed, “with Lady Flamborough yesterday,
just before I set out. It was her first culinary attempt since the
death of my Lord, and was undertaken in consequence of balls and
accidental rencontres being at an end, as a desperate attempt to bring
Sir Gregory Greenford to the point before they all separate for the
season. Quite a failure; I never shall forget her look of despair, when
the feelings of the managing mistress of the house struggled with those
of the manœuvring mother, when she perceived that the _petits pâtés_,
and the _pâtés mêlés_ had got next each other, and that Caroline and
the baronet had not.”
All further discussion of the disasters of the last evening was
interrupted by the deepening shades of the present bringing them to
their destination.
Peatburn Lodge was situated in a deep glen in the midst of extensive
moors. In front, a brook meandered through the meadow, which
interposed between a small neglected flower-garden, and the steep
banks of the heather-topped hills, the sides of which were scantily
clothed with a straggling fir plantation. There was no attempt at a
pleasure-ground, for the twenty yards of gravel road that led from the
gate of the garden, to the front door, had been carefully raked and
rolled for their arrival. The house was small, and though it had some
distinguishing marks of a gentleman’s residence, yet it seemed as if
it had been promoted from the ranks, and had at some time been a _bonâ
fide_ cottage.
The whole scene was one, the impression of which must have depended
upon the state of the spirits when it was visited. But at present
the sun was setting brilliantly, and gave a gaiety to all around, as
stepping from their carriages, Germain and Fitzalbert strolled through
the long grass which divided the weed-grown plots of the flower-garden,
where various rare plants were growing wild, and left to themselves to
struggle with briars and brambles for their existence.
“These were Lady Latimer’s handy work the year she was married,” said
Fitzalbert. “Latimer has not seen her since. You probably never heard
of an old savage who lives not far from here, Lord Rockington?”
“Only my uncle,” said Germain.
“True; so he is--but never mind, uncles I reckon fair game; but as I
was saying, Latimer had a law-suit with your uncle about boundaries,
and was cast wrongfully, as he says; and though this new limitation was
twenty miles off, he said he would as soon shoot fowls in a farm-yard,
as come here to be cramped and confined. They talk of the deadly feuds
of wild Indians, but for genuine unconquerable hatred, give me country
neighbours in this Christian country.”
A plain but ample supper, provided by the gamekeeper’s wife, was here a
welcome interruption; and by the help of a most minute examination and
trial of all the four guns, they contrived to get through the rest of
the evening.