A DREARY ONE.
"Couldn't you get a holiday on Saturday, Tom?" said Mr. Worboise. "I
mean to have one, and I should like to take you with me."
"I don't know, father," answered Tom, who did not regard the proposal
as involving any great probability of enjoyment; "my holiday is coming
so soon that I should not like to ask for it, especially as Mr.
Stopper--"
"What about Mr. Stopper? Not over friendly, eh? He is not a bad fellow,
though, is Stopper. I'll ask for you, if you like that better."
"I would much rather you wouldn't, father."
"Pooh, pooh! nonsense, man! It's quite a different thing if I ask for
it, you know."
Thomas made no further objection, for he had nothing at hand upon which
to ground a fresh one; nor, indeed, could he well have persisted in
opposing what seemed a kind wish of his father. It was not, however,
merely because they had little to talk about, and that Thomas always
felt a considerable restraint in his father's presence--a feeling not
very uncommon to young men--but he lived in constant dread of something
coming to light about Lucy. He feared his father much more than he
loved him; not that he had ever been hardly treated by him; not that
he had ever even seen him in a passion, for Mr. Worboise had a very
fair command of his temper; it was the hardness and inflexibility read
upon his face from earliest childhood, that caused fear thus to overlay
love. If a father finds that from any cause such is the case, he ought
at once to change his system, and to require very little of any sort
from his child till a new crop has begun to appear on the ill-farmed
ground of that child's heart.
Now the meaning of the holiday was this: Mr. Worboise had a
city-client--a carpet-knight--by name Sir Jonathan Hubbard, a decent
man, as the Scotch would say; jolly, companionable, with a husky
laugh, and friendly unfinished countenance in which the color was of
more weight than the drawing--for, to quote Chaucer of the Franklin,
"a better envined man," either in regard of body or cellar, "was
nowhere none;" upon Sir Jonathan's sociability Mr. Worboise had
founded the scheme of the holiday. Not that he intended to risk any
intrusion--Mr. Worboise was far too knowing a man for that. The fact
was that he had appointed to wait upon his client at his house near
Bickley on that day--at such an hour, however, as would afford cover
to his pretense of having brought his son out with him for a holiday
in the country. It was most probable that Sir Jonathan would invite
them to stay to dinner, and so to spend their holiday with him. There
was no Lady Hubbard alive, but there was a Miss Hubbard at the head
of the house; and hence Mr. Worboise's strategy. Nor had he reckoned
without his host, for if Sir Jonathan was anything he was hospitable;
things fell out as the lawyer had forehoped, if not foreseen. Sir
Jonathan was pleased with the young fellow, would not allow him to wait
companionless in the drawing-room till business was over--sent, on the
contrary, for his daughter, and insisted on the two staying to dinner.
He was one of those eaters and drinkers who have the redeeming merit of
enjoying good things a great deal more in good company. Sir Jonathan's
best port would seem to him to have something the matter with it if he
had no one to share it. If, however, it had come to the question of a
half-bottle or no companion, I would not answer for Sir Jonathan. But
his cellar would stand a heavy siege.
Thomas was seated in the drawing-room, which looked cold and rather
cheerless; for no company was expected, and I presume Miss Hubbard did
not care for color, save as reflected from her guests, seeing she had
all her furniture in pinafores. How little some rich people know how to
inherit the earth! The good things of it they only uncover when they
can _make_, not _receive_, a show.
My dear reader--No, I will not take a liberty to which I have no right;
for perhaps were he to see me he would not like me, and possibly were
I to meet him I should not like him: I will rather say _My Reader_,
without the impertinence or the pledge of an adjective--have a little
patience while I paint Miss Hubbard just with the feather-end of my
pen. I shall not be long about it.
Thomas sat in the drawing-room, I say, feeling vacant, for he was only
waiting, not expecting, when the door opened, and in came a fashionable
girl--rather tall, handsome, bright-eyed, well-dressed, and yet--What
was it that Thomas did not like about her? Was it that she was dressed
in the extreme of the fashion? I will not go on to say what the fashion
was, for before I had finished writing it, it would have ceased to be
the fashion; and I will not paint my picture _knowingly_ with colors
that must fade the moment they are laid on. To be sure she had ridden
the fashion till it was only fit for the knacker's yard; but she soon
made him forget that, for she was clever, pleasant, fast--which means
affectedly unrefined, only her affectation did no violence to fact--and
altogether amusing. I believe what Thomas did not like about her at
first was just all wherein she differed from Lucy. Yet he could not
help being taken with her; and when his father and Sir Jonathan came
into the room, the two were talking like a sewing-machine.
"Laura, my dear," said the knight, "I have prevailed on Mr. Worboise to
spend the day with us. You have no engagement, I believe?"
"Fortunately, I have not, papa."
"Well, I'll just give orders about dinner, and then I'll take our
friends about the place. I want to show them my new stable. You had
better come with us."
[Illustration: "SHE WAS CLEVER, PLEASANT, FAST--"]
Sir Jonathan always ordered the dinner himself. He thought no woman was
capable of that department of the household economy. Laura put on her
hat--beautiful with a whole king-fisher--and they went out into the
grounds to the stable--trim as her drawing-room--where her favorite
horse ate apples out of her pocket; from the stable to the hothouses
and kitchen-garden; then out at a back door into the lane--shadowy with
trees--in which other colors than green were now very near carrying
the vote of the leaves. Sweet scents of decay filled the air, waved
about, swelling and sinking, on the flow of a west wind, gentle and
soft, as if it had been fanned from the wings of spring when nearest
to summer. Great white clouds in a brilliant sky tempered the heat of
the sun. What with the pure air, the fine light, and the handsome girl
by his side, Thomas was in a gayer mood than had been his for many a
long day. Miss Hubbard talked plenteously--about balls and theatres and
Mansion House dinners, about Rotten Row, and St. James's; and although
of all these Thomas knew very little, yet being quick and sympathetic,
he was able to satisfy the lady sufficiently to keep her going. He was
fortunate enough, besides, to say one or two clever things with which
she was pleased, and to make an excellent point once in a criticism
upon a girl they both knew, which, slighting her, conveyed, by no
very occult implication, a compliment to Miss Hubbard. By the time
they had reached this stage of acquaintanceship, they had left stout
Sir Jonathan and Mr. Worboise far behind; but Miss Hubbard was not in
the least danger of being made uncomfortable by any squeamish notions
of propriety; and, having nothing more amusing to do, and being out
already, she proposed that they should go home by a rather longer road,
which would lead them over a hill whence they would get a good view of
the country.
"Do you like living in the country, Miss Hubbard?"
"Oh! dear no. London for me. I can't tell what made papa come to this
dull place."
"The scenery is very lovely, though."
"People say so. I'm sure I don't know. Scenery wasn't taught where I
went to school."
"Were you taught horses there?" asked Thomas, slyly.
"No. That comes by nature. Do you know I won this bracelet in a
handicap last Derby?" she said, showing a very fine arm as well as
bracelet, though it was only the morning, so-called.
Miss Hubbard had no design upon Thomas. How could she have? She knew
nothing about him. She would have done the same with any gentleman she
liked well enough to chatter to. And if Thomas felt it and thought that
Laura Hubbard was more entertaining than sober Lucy Burton, he made
up to Lucy for it in his own idea by asserting to himself that, after
all, she was far handsomer than Miss Hubbard, handsome as she was. Yet
I should never think of calling Lucy handsome. She was lovely--almost
beautiful, too. _Handsome_ always indicates more or less vulgarity--no,
I mean commonness--in my ears. And certainly, whatever she might be
capable of, had she been blessed with poverty, Miss Hubbard was as
common as she was handsome. Thomas was fool enough to revert to Byron
to try his luck with that. She soon made him ashamed of showing any
liking for such a silly thing as poetry. That piqued him as well,
however.
"You sing, I suppose?" he said.
"Oh, yes, when I can't help it--after dinner, sometimes."
"Well, you sing poetry, don't you?"
"I don't know. One must have some words or other just to make her open
her mouth. I never know what they're about. Why should I? Nobody ever
pays the least attention to them--or to the music either, except it be
somebody that wants to marry you."
But why should I go further with the record of such talk? It is not
interesting to me, and, therefore, can hardly be so to my reader. Even
if I had the art to set it forth aright, I hope I should yet hold to my
present belief, that nothing in which the art is uppermost is worth the
art expended upon it.
Thomas was a little shocked at her coolness, certainly; but at the same
time that very coolness seemed a challenge. Before they had reached the
house again, he was vexed to find he had made no impression upon Miss
Hubbard.
Farewell to such fencing. By the time he had heard her sing, and his
father and he were on their way home again, I am glad to say that
Thomas had had nearly enough of her. He thought her voice loud and
harsh in speech, showy and distressing in song, and her whole being
_bravura_. The contrasts in Lucy had come back upon him with a gush of
memorial loveliness; for, as I have said, she still held the fortress
of his heart, and held it for its lawful owner.
Scarcely were they seated in the railway carriage, of which they were
the sole occupants, when the elder Worboise threw a shot across the
bows of the younger.
"Well, Tom, my boy," he said, rubbing his lawyer palms, "how do you
like Miss Hubbard?"
"Oh, very well, father," answered Thomas, indifferently. "She's a very
jolly sort of girl."
"She's worth a hundred thousand," said his father, in a tone that
would have been dry but for a touch of slight resentment at the
indifference, possibly in the father's view irreverence, with which he
spoke of her.
"Girls?" asked Thomas.
"Pounds," answered his father, clenchingly.
Tom was now convinced of his father's design in taking him out for a
holiday. But even now he shrunk from confession. And how did he justify
his sneaking now? By saying to himself, "Lucy can't have anything like
that money; it won't do. I must wait a more fitting opportunity." But
he thought he was very brave indeed, and actually seizing the bull of
his father's will by the horns when he ventured to take his meaning for
granted, and replied:
"Why, father, a fellow has no chance with a girl like that, except
he could ride like Assheton Smith, and knew all the slang of the
hunting-field as well as the race-course."
"A few children will cure her of that," said his father.
"What I say is," persisted Thomas, "that she would never look at a
clerk."
"If I thought you had any chance, I would buy you a commission in the
Blues."
"It wants blue blood for that," said Thomas, whose heart,
notwithstanding, danced in his bosom at the sound of _commission_.
Then, afraid lest he should lose the least feather of such a chance, he
added hastily, "But any regiment would do."
"I dare say," returned his father, at right angles. "When you have made
a little progress it will be time enough. She knows nothing about what
you are now. Her father asked me, and I said I had not made up my mind
yet what to do with you."
"But, as I said before," resumed Thomas, fighting somewhat feebly,
"I haven't a chance with her. She likes better to talk about horses
than anything else, and I never had my leg across a horse's back in my
life--as you know, father," he added in a tone of reproach.
"You mean, Tom, that I have neglected your education. Well, it shall
be so no longer. You shall go to the riding-school on Monday night. It
won't be open to-morrow, I suppose."
I hope my reader is not so tired of this chapter as I am. It is bad
enough to have to read such uninteresting things--but to have to write
them! The history that is undertaken must be written, however, whether
the writer weary sometimes of his task, or the interest of his labor
carry him lightly through to the close.
Thomas, wretched creature, dallied with his father's proposal. He
did not intend accepting it, but the very idea of marrying a rich,
fashionable girl like that, with a knight for a father, flattered
him. Still more was he excited at the notion, the very possibility of
wearing a uniform. And what might he not do with so much money? Then,
when the thought of Lucy came, he soothed his conscience by saying to
himself, "See, how much I must love her when I am giving up all this
for her sake!" Still his thoughts hovered about what he said he was
giving up. He went to bed on Sunday night, after a very pathetic sermon
from Mr. Simon, with one resolution, and one only, namely, to go to the
riding-school in Finsbury on Monday night.
But something very different was waiting him.