There is a small house in the purlieus of fashion, surrounded on every
side by mansions five times as big as itself. You know it quite well,
dear reader--you have passed it a dozen times or more, and looked up
and wondered what it did there, surrounded as it is by the mansions of
ancient aristocracy; for the part of the town in which it is situated
is not one of the new rookeries of new people which have risen up to
the south-west and north-west of the capital, upon spots that were
fields within these thirty years.
It is tall, and thin, and brown, like a spinster of a certain age at a
county ball, amongst a row of bland and brilliant dowagers--quite the
sort of house, in short, which the wonderful George Robins would have
advertised for sale as "a unique bachelor's residence, situate in the
very heart of the fashionable world, commanding advantages rarely met
with singly, but never, perhaps, united, except in this most charming
abode."
Nevertheless, it was not the residence of a bachelor at all, nor of a
married man, nor of a spinster, old or young. It was the town house
(and indeed the only house) of a very excellent and respectable widow
lady, with a moderate income and the best intentions in the world, but
not the best wits to guide them.
Having spoken of her income, I must make that matter quite clear. She
had just seven hundred a-year, and would not, indeed, have had that,
had it not been for the care and circumspection of a very prudent
brother, who had interfered to see the affairs of her marriage
settlement properly conducted.
I need not add, after this, that there dwelt Lady Fleetwood. When she
was alone, her household consisted of a footman, well powdered and
laced, a cook, a housemaid, and her own maid--a somewhat extravagant
establishment, considering her income; but in all other things she was
very economical--at least she thought so, and Maria Monkton fully
agreed in her opinion. She did not pamper any of the appetites, nor
indeed any of the vanities, of the flesh, except in the instance of
the powdered footman. Her table was always regulated with great
exactness, and her certain number of glasses of wine was never
exceeded. Her dresses, by the skill of her maid, appeared in various
forms, with very great success; and when Maria was with her there was
always a carriage at her command. Nor, in truth, when Maria was at
Bolton Park, did Lady Fleetwood go without; for a chariot and a pair
of horses were always left at the stables, with a particular request
from the niece that her aunt would use them every day, lest the horses
should grow frisky for want of exercise.
When Maria was in town, however, the case was different. Three or four
servants were always in the hall; the whole establishment was
increased; the little house had more occupants than it seemed capable
of containing--more, indeed, than it really did contain at night; and
then, as this was all for Maria Monkton's convenience, Maria Monkton
insisted upon paying the whole expenses. Now, as, upon an average,
Maria was eight months out of the twelve with her aunt and two or
three of the remaining four Lady Fleetwood passed at Bolton Park, the
fact of her income fully meeting her expenditure, and leaving her a
little surplus at the end of the year, may be accounted for. Lady
Fleetwood, it is true, did not understand it altogether, and would
sometimes run up her accounts with a somewhat bewildered air, and in
the end give up the task, acknowledging that she never had a head for
figures.
It might be a little wrong of Maria thus to mystify her aunt; but she
was a dear, good girl, notwithstanding; and, accustomed to pet Lady
Fleetwood from her own childhood, she well knew there was only one way
of managing her, and what that way was. She even went farther than
saving her good aunt's income for her by taking the greater share of
all her expenses upon herself: she calculated that one of two
events--one very common, and one universal--might occur to herself:
that she might die, or that she might marry; and, to put it out of the
power of any one to leave her aunt in embarrassed circumstances, her
first act on coming of age was to settle upon her, without her knowing
a word of the matter, a sufficient sum to make her income a very
comfortable one.
In the month of May, then, about the middle of the day, Lady Fleetwood
was seated in her drawing-room, writing little notes--an occupation of
which she was rather fond. Maria was out of town, but expected to
return on that day or the following morning, and all was duly prepared
for her reception. The curtains of the room were partly drawn, to keep
out too much light, for the house was on the sunny side of the square;
and in the mitigated glow Lady Fleetwood, though her hair was now very
grey, and the wrinkled impress of Time's claw was on her fair skin,
showed many traces of that great beauty which had once distinguished
her.
She had just sealed one small billet and begun a second, when she
heard the near rush of wheels through the roll of many others more
distant, and a carriage stopped at her own door.
It was too early for ordinary visiters, who, with a due economy of
time, always choose the hour to call when they are likely to find
their dear friends absent.
"It is Maria," said Lady Fleetwood to herself. "She has come up
early."
The next instant the door was flung open, but not by a servant; and
without announcement a young and good-looking man entered with a light
and gay step, and threw wide open his arms before the good lady.
"Here I am, my dear aunt! here I am!" cried Charles Marston; "safe and
sound from perils by land and perils by water, perils by robbers,
perils by cooks, and perils by chambermaids. Come to the nepotal arms,
and banish all anxieties upon the bosom of kindred love!"
"Charles, Charles!--you mad boy!" cried Lady Fleetwood, embracing him
tenderly; "how can you startle me so?--you know how nervous I am. Why,
you have come back six months before you intended."
"And three days," answered Charles, laughing; "which means to say, my
dear aunt Flee, that you think I have come back six months too soon.
I'll be affronted--I'll pout. Really!--'well, I never!' as the
Kellnerin at Brixen said when I kissed her before company. This is the
coolest reception of a returned prodigal that ever I heard of."
"How can you be so absurd, Charles?" exclaimed his aunt. "What is a
Kellnerin? Where is Brixen? Do you mean Brixton?"
Charles burst into a shout of laughter, patted his aunt's cheek in the
most paternal manner, and led her back to her seat by the tips of her
fingers.
"Haven't time, my dear aunt--haven't time," he said. "I'll tell you
all about Kellnerins and Brixens by-and-by, if you're a good girl.
Just now, I've got a particular friend and travelling companion in the
carriage with me--Mr. Winkworth--the most extraordinary piece of
yellow skin and dry bones you ever saw. He comes from Egypt; and I
have brought him over, intending to present him to the British Museum
or the Zoological Society, either as an extraordinary and almost
unique specimen of the fossil man, or the only instance in Europe of
the living mummy. I must bring him up-stairs and introduce him to you,
and you must ask him to dinner. I've invited him already in your name:
was not that a kind, considerate nephew?"
"Impossible, my dear Charles!" exclaimed Lady Fleetwood, in a great
flutter. "I am really not prepared--you forget, my dear boy, my small
means. I am not always ready to receive people at dinner: a stranger,
too! There is no turbot--nothing but some slices of cod and----"
"Never mind, never mind, my dear aunt. It will do quite well. Cod is
excellent," exclaimed Charles Marston. "I have not tasted cod for a
year and a half, and I'll answer for it my mummy has not seen such a
thing since he was cook to one of the Ptolemies--I forget which, but
he'll tell you all about it. I'll go and bring him.--Heaven and earth!
I do believe the carriage is driving off."
And down-stairs he ran as fast as possible, but only to see his
carriage-and-four driving round the square at a very rapid rate.
"Why, where are they gone? What the devil's the matter with them?"
cried Charles.
"The gentleman inside told the boys to drive him to Lloyd's Hotel,
sir," said Lady Fleetwood's servant--"just on the opposite side, sir.
The carriage will be back in a minute."
"Well, the old gentleman must have his own way, I suppose," said
Charles Marston; "and so I'll go up to my dear aunt again."
"Well, now, my dear aunt, he's gone," continued the nephew, in a mock
reproachful tone. "I am quite sure he heard all you said, and thought
it very inhospitable."
"Nonsense, Charles! he could not hear, I am sure," replied Lady
Fleetwood, going to the window to see if it were open. "Is that your
carriage? Why, it is loaded like a wagon."
"Well it may be," answered her nephew, "or more like a stage-coach
licensed to carry twelve outside, for there are the nine Muses
and the three Graces. I am afraid it would come under the penalties
of the act, however; for there are moreover two or three Apollos,
half-a-dozen Venuses, to say nothing of Seneca and Aristides, Osiris,
and Acis and Galatea. I intend, my dear aunt, to have them all
arranged here in this very drawing-room. Your room will look like a
Walhalla, or a studio, or a Greek temple, or Spode's manufactory, or a
stone-mason's shop; and you shall have a helmet, and a shield, and an
owl, and pass for Minerva."
"Indeed, Charles, you are mad, I think," said Lady Fleetwood: "the
room is small enough as it is, without being loaded with Graces and
Muses, and all sorts of things."
"Tell my servant to open the cases when he comes back," cried
unpitying Charles Marston, as Lady Fleetwood's footman entered with a
note; "and bid him get seven men to help him, and bring up the
statues--I always have my own way, my dear aunt. I will see your room
classically decorated; and then, if you do not like your marble
palace, you can throw the statues out of the window, or get in a
number of porters to do it for you. They will be capital metal for
macadamising the roads. Then the people will say you have been playing
at marbles, you know, and it will all pass off as a joke."
"Charles, Charles! do let me have one moment's peace to read what
Maria says," exclaimed Lady Fleetwood: "really, I had forgotten what a
wild creature you are, or else you are worse than ever."
"Mere exuberance of spirits, my dear aunt, at seeing you and England
once more," replied Charles Marston; "but I'll be serious--nay, I am
quite serious. What does Maria say? Where is she? When shall I have
the pleasure of giving her a kiss? It is not every man who has the
privilege of kissing such a lovely girl gratis. I long for it, I
assure you. Nay, I am quite serious; I have several very serious
things to talk to you about--most profound. But somehow, my dear aunt
Flee, when I see you, I get quite boyish again--you are so charming.
It's a pity the prayer-book says we must not marry our mother's
sister. You are the only woman who would suit me in the whole
world--indeed you are.--There, I'm as grave as a judge! Read your
note, read your note, and tell me all about Maria afterwards."
And sitting down, Charles bent his head, gazed at his clasped hands,
and fell into a fit of thought, to all appearance much more deep than
his rattling manner would have led one to suppose his mind capable of
sustaining for two minutes.
"There! Maria does not return till to-morrow," said Lady Fleetwood,
finishing the reading of her note.
"Then I shall have you and the cod all to myself," replied Charles
Marston, looking up with one of his gay laughs; but, instantly
resuming a more serious tone, he said, "And now, my dear aunt, I have
three very grave subjects to talk to you about."
"Indeed!" exclaimed Lady Fleetwood, putting on an important look:
"what may they be, Charles? I am sure I am ready to give you any
advice in my power."
"Dear creature!" cried Charles Marston--"as if she thought I ever took
anybody's advice! But to the point. Has a gentleman of the name of
Frank Middleton called to inquire for me within the last week or two."
"Oh, dear, yes!" exclaimed Lady Fleetwood; "he called yesterday. I
forgot to tell you."
"As if she had had time to tell me anything!" said Charles.
"His card is in the dish," continued Lady Fleetwood. "There is no
address on it, or I would have written to him to say you were not
expected for some months."
"That would have been kind," said her nephew; "now, how the deuce am I
to find him out?"
"Oh! he will call again--he said he would call in a day or two,"
replied his aunt.
"Wise Frank Middleton!" exclaimed Charles; "he seems to have divined
you, my dear aunt."
Lady Fleetwood looked bewildered.
"And now," continued her nephew, "can you tell me what my mysterious
uncle, Scriven, wrote to me for, to come back directly, as he wanted
to see me on particular business? I always like to meet my excellent
uncle prepared--with full forethought of what is to come next; and he
was as dark in his communication as the Sphinx's mouth."
"No! did he send for you?" exclaimed Lady Fleetwood. "He did not tell
me a word about it--how strange! I saw him only yesterday, and was
talking about you, but he did not say a word. He was always very close
and discreet, you know, Charles."
"Wise man!" said Charles Marston; and he fell into thought again for a
moment or two. "Pray, my dear aunt, what was he saying about me?" he
inquired after this pause.
"Oh, I don't recollect--nothing particular, I believe," replied Lady
Fleetwood, the colour growing a little deeper in her cheek.
"Ho, ho! a secret!" said Charles to himself, and then continued aloud,
"Well, my dear aunt, I know you have a short memory, and I know my
uncle never tells you anything of importance, for he says you forget
it as soon as you hear it."
"He is very wrong there," said Lady Fleetwood, who rather piqued
herself upon her powers of recollection, "for I never forget
anything----"
"Then what was it he said?" inquired Charles, abruptly.
"Oh! I do not know it was intended for your ears," replied Lady
Fleetwood, "or that Maria would like such a thing to be talked about."
"Then it was about Maria too?" said Charles with a laugh: "now I know
all about it. It was that Maria was dying with love for me, and that I
was wandering all over the world, flirting with every pretty woman I
met. Well, I dare say she will not be much obliged to him for saying
that."
"He did not say that at all, my dear Charles," replied Lady Fleetwood
in a little alarm: "he only said what a good thing it would be if you
and Maria were to marry; and I thought so too, for you are very fond
of each other, and you are both only-children, and----"
"Poor orphans!" exclaimed Charles Marston, laughing heartily. "Well,
matrimony is as good as any other orphan asylum. I don't think it will
do, my dear aunt. We are more like brother and sister than lovers.
However, to my third profound problem. Now, tell me, dear lady mine,
do you recollect a certain Mr. Hayley, who was once my uncle's
partner?"
"To be sure!" answered Lady Fleetwood: "don't you, Charles? Why, his
son, poor Henry----"
"I recollect him perfectly, dear aunt," replied Charles, gravely: "my
head is not such a colander, nor my heart either, that people can slip
out of either one or the other even in ten years. But what I want to
know is this: had not Mr. Hayley a sister?"
"Yes, to be sure he had," replied Lady Fleetwood--"a nice, quiet, good
sort of creature, devoted to her brother and the poor boy. She used to
play beautifully upon the piano and sing----"
"I don't care a pin about that," said Charles. "I never saw her more
than two or three times; but what I wish to know is, what was her
name?"
"Her name--her name," said Lady Fleetwood, "her name was Rebecca, I
think----"
"Which in the Hebrew means 'plump,'" said Charles Marston. "Well, when
I last saw her she was thin enough."
"No, indeed, Charles; she was quite the contrary," said Lady
Fleetwood. "I do not mean to say that she was fat; but----"
"Oh, say she was fat if you like, dear aunt," replied Charles Marston,
laughing: "she is not here to listen, and I won't betray you, so it
will not pain her."
"I would not pain a fly willingly, Charles," answered his relation.
"I am sure you would not," said her nephew, laying his hand upon hers
affectionately; "but now the case is, my dear aunt, how we can rescue
this poor thing from a situation of great misery. You must know that I
should have been in town last night, but that my carriage broke down
on a miserable wild common. It had to be mended; and while a
blacksmith was being sent for, Winkworth and I wandered on and met
with a poor crazy woman, in rags and wretchedness, who, we found, had
been living there in a dilapidated hovel for some years, with an
orphan boy, whose mother had been very kind to her as long as the poor
thing lived herself. As soon as I saw her, I thought that her face was
not unknown to me: you remember Miss Hayley had very peculiar large
black eyes; but six or seven years have passed since Hayley gave up
business altogether and went to live over at Highgate, and I have not
seen his sister since. Some words that she dropped, however, led my
mind back to the past, though all she said was rambling and
incoherent; and the more I think of this, the more I am convinced that
it is poor Henry Hayley's aunt."
"Good gracious!" cried Lady Fleetwood--"that is very sad indeed. I am
so sorry that I did not go again to see them at Highgate! I went
twice, but never found her, and she did not return my call; and your
uncle was so angry I had been at all, that I did not go back. I heard
that Hayley himself was dead some time ago, and I always intended to
inquire for his sister; but just then came poor Isabella's death, you
know."
"Nobody who knows you, my dear aunt, can suppose you would be unkind
to any one," replied Charles Marston; "but something must be done for
this poor thing."
"Certainly, certainly!" replied Lady Fleetwood. "I will talk to your
uncle about it, and I am sure he will----"
"Do nothing at all," said Charles, almost sharply, "or at best put her
into a cheap madhouse, where she will be dieted upon gruel and
maltreated by keepers--worse off than she is now. I will go down
to-morrow or the next day, and see about the matter myself. In the
mean time, both Winkworth and I have done something to make her and
the boy more comfortable."
"And who is this Mr. Winkworth?" asked Lady Fleetwood, whose mind was
of that peculiar species which may be called the collateral--one of
those minds that are always carried away to one side by the slightest
possible circumstance--to which a word, or a sound, or a look is ever
one of Hippomene's apples, and sets the wits running after it with all
the speed of an Atalanta--"who is Mr. Winkworth? He seems to have
become a great favourite of yours, Charles."
"He has laid me under the greatest possible obligation," replied her
nephew, smiling.
"Indeed! How was that?" inquired his aunt.
"Why, he was kind enough to permit me to save his life," answered
Charles. "You must know, as I was riding along, not a hundred miles
from a place called Antioch, which I dare say you never heard of----"
"Oh, dear, yes!" said Lady Fleet wood. "It's in the Bible."
"Yes, and in Syria, into the bargain," continued Charles. "But, as I
was saying, as I was riding along, not a hundred miles from Antioch,
with servants, and Arabs, and all manner of people with me, I came to
a place under the high rocks, when I suddenly heard half-a-dozen shots
fired. My guides thought it would be better to wait a little till the
firing was over, but I judged it proper to ride on and see what it was
about. So, when we turned the corner of a great, black, overhanging
rock, like Westminster Abbey turned topsy-turvy, I saw two or three
unfortunate servants upon the ground, rather silent, and quite still,
with about a dozen other fellows with blackish faces, long guns, and a
great deal of white cotton about them, two of whom were taking aim at
the only one of the travellers left alive--in other words, Mr.
Winkworth, who for his part was trying to cover his angles--which are
many, by-the-way--with his horse. He had got a long pistol in his
hand; but that was nothing against guns, you know, my dear aunt; and,
besides, twelve to one is not fair play. So I spurred on, and my
fellows being obliged to spur after, though a little unwillingly, did
very well when it came to fighting; and we drove the banditti up into
the hills, shooting one or two of them. We then came back, and found
my poor countryman mourning over his dead. He was wounded himself, so
I was obliged to stay and nurse him, and we have travelled together
ever since."
"But who is he?--what is he?" demanded Lady Fleetwood, after she had
exclaimed upon her nephew's peril, and praised heaven for his escape.
"Well, my dear aunt, as to who he is, I never thought of inquiring,"
answered Charles; "and as to what he is, I can but answer, he is
certainly a gentleman--a very well-informed, amiable, clever person--a
little testy, very eccentric and old bachelorish, but kind-hearted,
generous, and benevolent, and moreover evidently very rich, though he
has his own particular ways, out of which he does not choose to be
put."
"Well, if he is rich, that does not signify," said Lady Fleetwood.
"Now, would not any one who heard that think you the most mercenary
old creature in the world?" exclaimed Charles--"you, who would give
away your last nightcap to a beggar!"
"But, my dear, you know there are so many impostors," said his aunt,
with a very sagacious air.
"Every one of whom would take you in in a moment," replied her nephew.
"However, to set your mind at rest, Mr. Winkworth would not consent
even to take a place in my carriage till he had stipulated that he was
to pay one-half of all the expenses."
This satisfied Lady Fleetwood's first doubts--doubts which she
entertained merely upon abstract theory; for she was, or chose to be
supposed, the most suspicious person in the world at a distance, but
at close quarters she was soon overcome.
Charles Marston's carriage had by this time returned, and an hour was
spent in unpacking an imperial; the nephew assuring his aunt that in
ten minutes her drawing-room would be full of statues, and she, poor
lady, begging pitifully, but in vain, to be excused from receiving the
three Graces and the nine Muses. Merciless Charles Marston would not
relieve her mind in the least, till at length twelve beautiful small
alabaster figures, none of them a foot high, were brought in, and
found easy accommodation upon consoles and cheffoniers, much to the
delight of the good lady, who declared that they were the most
exquisite things ever seen, and thanked him over and over again for
the gift.
When all this was done, Lady Fleetwood pressed her nephew to go at
once and see his uncle; but Charles had a fit of restiveness upon him.
"No, my dear aunt, I won't," he said: "my uncle has something
disagreeable to tell me, or he would not have sent such a way; and I
am resolved to stay one day at peace in the midst of the great
capital. So here I remain, unless you absolutely want to get rid of
me."
"Not at all, Charles, of course," replied Lady Fleetwood; "but only I
think it would be a great pity for you to offend your uncle. You know
that he has no other male relation, and he must be enormously rich."
"I really do not care whether he is rich or poor," answered Charles.
"I am as rich as--or indeed richer than--he is; for, thanks to my
father's generosity, I have as much as I want; and I am quite sure my
uncle Scriven could not say that."
So there he sat, discussing many things with his aunt, telling her
strange stories of his adventures in foreign lands--all true, indeed,
but tinged in the telling with a gleam of the marvellous, for the
purpose of exciting Lady Fleetwood's astonishment. In that endeavour
he was very successful, for the organ of wonder was quite sufficiently
developed in her head; and the day passed over very pleasantly, till
it was time for Charles to seek a lodging for the night, which he
easily found at the hotel opposite, where his friend Mr. Winkworth had
already taken up his quarters.
Before he bade his aunt farewell, however, he gave directions to her
footman, if Mr. Middleton called, to inquire particularly where he was
to be found in London, and to let him know that his two friends, Mr.
Winkworth and Mr. Marston, were at the hotel; and then came inquiries
from Lady Fleetwood as to who this other crony of her nephew's could
be.
"I will not stop to tell you all, my dear aunt," replied Charles, who
by this time had his hat in his hand: "suffice it that he is the most
charming man you ever saw--take care you do not find him too charming.
He is quite a Don Alonzo-ish sort of man--pale, dark, wonderfully
handsome, more than six feet high, with a sabre-cut across his face,
sufficient to win the hearts of all the women in London. He is a
colonel in the Spanish service, and has all sorts of orders and
chains, though he is not above seven or eight-and-twenty. I believe
his mother was a Spanish lady--I think, indeed, somebody told me so;
but at all events he is quite the person to fall in love with, if you
are inclined, my dear aunt."
"My dear Charles, how can you be so absurd?" exclaimed his aunt; "but
now you have not told me how you met with him."
"I'll keep that for a _bonne bouche_," replied Charles, and walked
away to his hotel.