----Wilt thou hunt?
The hounds shall make the welkin answer them,
And fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth.
SHAKSPEARE.
“What sort of a morning?” said Fitzalbert to Le Clair, as he entered
his room at six, the prescribed hour.
“Fine, only rather thick--a sort of fog,” was the reply.
“Ay--only heat, it will be a broiling day; so, call Mr. Germain
immediately.”
“Now for it,” said Fitzalbert, rising from the breakfast-table, and
walking towards the window; “why it can’t mean to rain!” he added, in a
tone of mingled astonishment and reproach.
But _it_ certainly did mean to rain; and any suspense on the subject
that it might have maintained was thrown aside, now that it had them
perfectly equipped, completely breakfasted, and utterly resourceless at
this early hour.
Nor was this the worst; rain alone, if light, might be braved, if
heavy, could not last; but it had now acquired a most formidable
auxiliary. “The sort of fog,” from which Fitzalbert’s sanguine
expectations had anticipated heat, had already, when they came to the
window, enveloped the heather-topped hill opposite. Slowly descending,
it wound about the straggling fir plantation; still thickening as it
advanced, it gave a gigantic appearance to the cattle browsing on the
lower pastures, as for a while they were still indistinctly seen--then
Lady Latimer’s neglected exotics looked more than ever unhappy under
its influence; at last, even these were completely obscured, and not
an object could be distinguished beyond the fresh marks left by their
own recent arrival on the otherwise unbroken surface of the gravel
road. Each wheel track was soon a running stream, and every hoof-mark
contained water enough to reflect the pattering rain.
Fitzalbert had watched the progress of the storm with a whistle, which
Germain was too observant to mistake for indifference, and though he
did not care so much for the disappointment himself, yet as he could
suggest no adequate topic of consolation, he prudently said nothing.
“Pleasant!” was all that Fitzalbert at length exclaimed, but no word,
or words, could have conveyed so much as the look which he alternately
cast at an old-fashioned clock which had yet to strike seven, and at
the dilapidations of the breakfast-table, which shewed that even that
resource was numbered with the things that were past.
The horror of this situation was increased by learning, from the most
weather-wise of the local authorities, that this was what was called
in that part of the country a Sea-fret; and that its usual duration
was three days. Lord Latimer’s limits were even more circumscribed by
the German Ocean on one side, than they were by Lord Rockington on
the other; and his marine majesty sometimes proved, as on the present
occasion, the most encroaching and intrusive neighbour of the two. It
is no drawback upon Fitzalbert’s general estimation of his friend,
that as he looked round at the bookshelves, he regretted at the
moment that he had exchanged for him those discarded tomes of which he
had spoken so slightingly--and he would gladly have wished him away,
to have had the dullest of the productions of the day, the weakest
literary bantling that ever dragged out a few weeks’ existence, “dieted
on praises, sauced with lies.” The few apartments were soon ransacked
for resources, but without success. In Lady Latimer’s they found a
piano-forte, some netting-needles, and a paint-box,--all equally
satisfactory! Some neatly bound volumes were seized with avidity,
but, alas! they turned out to contain only manuscript music, and
water-coloured drawings. In the course of their search, they stumbled
into the old gamekeeper’s own room; here they did find one book between
them--it was about half “The Whole Duty of Man,” with the first and
last leaves torn out, probably for wadding.
“By the bye,” exclaimed Fitzalbert, his noble countenance lighting up,
evidently with a bright thought, “I wonder whether they have any cards
in the house; let’s send for old Coverdale, and ask.”
Old Coverdale had been game-keeper in Lord Latimer’s father’s time, but
as the present Lord had always brought all his shooting establishment
from Latimer, he had (though somewhat superannuated) continued him
for his negative qualities; for though he could no longer shoot much
himself, he would not let any one else shoot at all. Fitzalbert too,
having sent his own man with his dogs, was independent of the veteran’s
somewhat rheumatic assistance.
“Are there any cards in the house?” asked Fitzalbert, as old Coverdale
hobbled in.
“Na’, there not loik,” growled out the old man, who had grown a little
Methodistical in his solitude, and had therefore a horror of such
abominations.
“But could not you get us a pack?”
“Why, any thing in loife for you, gentlemen; but the gamest shop to
find them is Jemmy Macpherson, at Boggleby-Moorside: that’s a matter of
sax miles, and Smoiler’ll be matched to get there to-day, for he an so
canny on his legs as might be, and the road’s a webit stony; a power
of steep bank-sides--and Jemmy, I doubt, will na ha’ gitten his winter
stock of any thing till the first October carrier--neither cards, nor
yet flannel,” added he, casting a rueful look _at_ the window, not out
of it, for that was no longer possible; and thinking, no doubt, that
going for one in such weather would render the other necessary.
This last statement, which showed that Jemmy Macpherson was more
famous for the variety of his goods, than for the extent of his stock,
prevented their proposing to send any other messenger.
“May be you may foind some’at to whoile away the toime in yon
cupboard,” said he, opening a closet-door which they had not yet
perceived.
“Soho!” exclaimed Fitzalbert, as he prepared to drag out from under
a load of lumber a backgammon-board. “Well! we shall at least have a
little chicken-hazard.”
A backgammon-board it certainly was: that it only contained a skeleton
regiment of men, signified not for their present purpose. Dice they
luckily found, but no box.
“This will be the very thing,” said Fitzalbert, taking one of a row of
old Sèvre’s coffee-cups, which Mrs. Coverdale had arranged on the shelf
above; and with this ingenious substitute they set to work, and played
for some hours.
“Seven’s the main!” was alternately shouted, with varying fortunes, and
increasing stakes, till at the end of the time, Germain rose a winner
of four hundred pounds.
“Pigeon-shooting,” thought he, “I wish Oakley was here;” and from this
moment he had caught the infectious love of play.
Fitzalbert did not in any way show the slightest annoyance at the
result. To be sure, towards the end of the time, he broke six of the
coffee-cups, but that was very probably an accidental contingency. He
seemed in much higher spirits than he had been, and the next morning
was rewarded by the weather completely relenting, in spite of the
saying. He never shot better in his life, brought home forty-five
brace, and was not a little gratified at Germain only having attained a
tithe of his performances.
On the next day, the weather, though not decidedly bad, was rather
wild and windy. He proposed an adjournment to a neighbouring
watering-place; for he probably preferred to any chance of obscuring
his former brilliant achievements, the being able to say, that _in
spite_ of the weather, which drove him away, _the one_ day he was out,
he had killed forty-five brace. Germain, who had not been made more
fond of shooting by finding his performances so considerably inferior
to those of his friend, readily consented.
Soon after their arrival they sought the beach, which was the public
promenade, and as usual, covered with those shoals of the productive
classes from the inland counties, who annually become amphibious in
the autumn, and instead of being pinioned between the counter and
the wall, sport themselves between high and low water-mark--naked or
clothed--tumbling out of bathing-machines, or donkey-carts--according
to the time of tide.
Fitzalbert, part of whose system it was to affect even more than he
felt of contempt for all that was not useless, as well as ornamental,
exclaimed--
“A nation of shopkeepers, indeed! but heaven forefend that either cloth
or cotton goods should be denied their periodical plunge into the sea;
for I swear one can smell the smoke of steam-engines as they pass.
Hands off, and a broad walk, is all I bargain for.”
As he said this, Germain felt himself lightly touched on the shoulder,
and a woman’s voice cried out, laughingly, “Ah! we’ve caught you at
last, Mr. Germain.”
Turning suddenly round, he could not be mistaken in recognising
the form of Fanny Dormer. True, it was not exactly what he had
recollected--the bright red and white was there, but it seemed as
if the former colour had made undue inroads upon the territory of
the latter. The well-rounded form of the growing girl had, perhaps,
somewhat exceeded its former promise in the full-blown woman before
him. The brilliancy of the teeth remained unimpaired; but _surely_
their ample display had not been always owing to the size of the mouth.
These reflections passed rapidly through Germain’s mind, and had
probably their effect upon his countenance, though not perceived by
Fanny, as she gaily continued--
“Here’s my father--his lumbago, which caused our coming here, would
have prevented his catching you----”
“So I despatched my Hebe after you,” interrupted a respectable looking
middle-aged man, with an intelligent countenance, and a still fresh,
florid face, though his nose might be accused of engrossing more
than its share of the ruby, the origin of which usurpation might be
convivial, but if constitutional, would excite alarm for the future,
as to the somewhat unsettled hues of Fanny’s complexion.
“How could you play the truant with your old tutor?” continued he;
“when we got your letter, we delayed our departure from home, and
Fanny had prepared your favourite whipped syllabub for you, for she
never forgets any thing,” added the fond father, reciprocating an
affectionate glance with his dutiful daughter. “And as you also were
coming here, it would have been so handy, for you might have come
bodkin with us in the chaise; you have done so before now--do you
remember Plateford races?”
“And Wrangleby Sessions Ball?” said Fanny, her bright eyes beaming with
undisguised pleasure at the recollection.
“She never forgets any thing, indeed,” thought Germain, with the
reviving consciousness of having made rather a fool of himself upon
that occasion with the rustic beauty.
“We thought it so kind of you,” rejoined the father, “to recollect your
old friends immediately upon your return to England; and when we talked
you over upon the receipt of your letter, Fanny said that she was
afraid you would find us rather dull after all the fine people you had
been living with. Why so, said I, we have not changed, and his anxiety
to see us shows that he is not.”
Germain was somewhat touched at the good man’s simplicity, and not a
little ashamed of being ashamed at the meeting; so he replied, almost
earnestly--“But I hope you got my second letter, saying how very sorry
I was that it was utterly impossible for me to fulfil my intention of
visiting you.”
But though his better feelings dictated this excuse, he could not help
being annoyed at Fitzalbert’s presence. The imperturbable patience with
which this gentleman stood all the while, convinced him that he was
imbibing food for future ridicule; and he feared, not without reason,
that he should come in for his full share. He could not deny that
Fanny’s appearance afforded not a little food for the gratification of
that taste.
“She ought to have known,” thought he, “that so small a bonnet must
make her face look ten times larger--and why that bright-green cloth
pelisse, which looks as if it had formed part of the lining of a pew in
her father’s church?”
In the pauses of the conversation, he had suspiciously watched the
movement of his friend’s eyes; he observed them fixed on the ground
near Miss Dormer’s feet. Even in the height of his infatuation, he had
occasionally had his misgivings that Fanny Dormer had not a pretty
foot; since then, his mind had been particularly enlightened on the
subject by his trip to Paris, as well as his taste formed during some
of his connexions in that capital, to which allusion has been made, as
to the best artificial modes of setting off that very attractive part
of the person. Great was his horror therefore at seeing the exposure of
yawning leather boots, on which Fitzalbert’s eyes were rivetted: and
taking a hasty leave of father and daughter, with a promise to call on
them, he hurried away.
“Where, in the name of wonder, did you pick up those treats?” asked
Fitzalbert.
“Mr. Dormer was the private tutor to whom I was condemned on leaving
school,” answered Germain.
“And you consoled yourself with studying Ovid’s Art of Love,” said
Fitzalbert, with a suppressed sneer.
This was the only comment he made at the time, and it was not till long
afterwards that Germain discovered that no part of the foregoing scene
had lost in his hands by repetition. Little was he aware that it was
his own over-evident morbid sensibility to ridicule which gave the zest
to the exposure, and that a more manly indifference would have disarmed
even Fitzalbert.
It would be difficult perhaps to define exactly the qualifications
which insure at once, without dispute and as a matter of course, a
fixed position in what is called the first society. Birth alone will
not do it. Wealth not only will not succeed alone, but is not always an
indispensable requisite. Neither personal appearance nor talents will
be separately sufficient; yet a fair allowance of the two combined,
and a slight infusion of one or both of the other two ingredients,
will go far towards establishing a claim to its fellowship. But from
whatever source the consciousness of this fixed position in society
is derived, it exempts a person from nothing more decidedly, than
from that which by some is ignorantly supposed its characteristic--a
propensity to cutting a casual acquaintance, on account of his personal
appearance, a weakness which arises from a false alarm that the
ridicule which attaches to a quiz is catching. Such a person, secure
of his own situation,--well-dressed himself, as a matter of course,
not of care,--would never imagine that there could be contagion in the
cut of a coat or the make of a gown, and therefore would, even in the
most public place, without a moment’s uneasiness, interchange common
civilities with the veriest quiz that ever adorned a print-shop. But as
passports are most examined in frontier towns, it is in the outskirts
of fashion that those who there occupy uncertain settlements are most
particular about external badges, and can see exclusive merit in their
own costume, or mortal offence in that of another. It is those who
dwell on what may be called the debateable land of society, who are in
most constant dread of inroads from without. It is here that slights
are incessantly fancied from above, and intrusion perpetually feared
from below.
But independent of the situation of society, there is an age at which
fear of ridicule is epidemic. The awkward state, for instance, of
having ceased to be a boy, without being universally acknowledged to be
a man. From this state Germain was just emerging. This, of course, gave
additional terrors to the idea of being quizzed about a private tutor,
and may account for a little of the otherwise indefensible sense of
shame he felt at the meeting with his former friends.
For there was much to esteem in the character of both father and
daughter. Mr. Dormer was an exemplary parish priest, and a kind
neighbour to the poor; and if (as he never read but one side of any
political subject, and never heard either discussed) his prejudices
had somewhat strengthened in thirty years’ utter seclusion, they
were at least sincere, and had never served as a stepping-stone to
preferment. If he seriously believed that it was the intention of half
the government, and one branch of the legislature, to establish the
Pope at Lambeth, it was an opinion which he shared with many who had
more opportunities of knowing better. Whenever the weekly county paper
promulgated the news of some fresh attack upon the church, he insisted
upon drowning the design in a third bottle of port, and supporting the
Protestant constitution whilst destroying his own. Yet the head-ache
that followed never was known to interfere with the timely composition
of the Sunday’s sermon.
Fanny Dormer had not escaped the defects almost inseparable from
a masculine education. Not only she was learned, and was not
accomplished, but in her slightest movement, almost in her every word,
it was evident that woman’s care had been wanting. In the innocence
of her heart, she said all that her high spirits dictated; and in the
vigour of her fine active person, she took every kind of manly exercise
that youth and health prompted. The little defects in her appearance
have been noted by Germain; but if it must be owned that she could not
make a decent gown for herself, she made plenty of flannel-petticoats
for the poor--and, whatever fault might be found with the cut of her
outward garment, it still covered one of the kindest hearts that ever
breathed.
From this character of Mr. and Miss Dormer, it may be expected that as
Germain had now seen more of the world, he might find the one less a
model for imitation--and the other, less an object of attraction than
he had done; but that he should expect to derive less instruction from
the society of the father, or pleasure in the company of the daughter,
was no excuse for his conduct at the meeting; and though his facility
of character, and anxiety to appear well in the world, may have done
much in making him dread the ridicule of Fitzalbert, yet his youth is
the best plea in his palliation. At thirty, his conduct would have been
inexcusable; for, as in the West Indies, the constant dread of the
yellow fever is considered a strong symptom that it is lurking in the
constitution, so an incessant fear of being thought vulgar, is a sure
sign of innate and inherent vulgarity.