The next day Lady Ellinor called; but to my great disappointment without
Fanny.
Whether or not some joy at the incident of the previous night had served
to make my uncle more youthful than usual, I know not, but he looked to
me ten years younger when Lady Ellinor entered. How carefully the
buttoned up coat was brushed! how new and glossy was the black stock!
The poor Captain was restored to his pride, and mighty proud he looked!
With a glow on his cheek, and a fire in his eye; his head thrown back,
and his whole air composed, severe, Mavortian and majestic, as if
awaiting the charge of the French cuirassiers at the head of his
detachment.
My father, on the contrary, was as usual (till dinner, when he always
dressed punctiliously, out of respect to his Kitty) in his easy morning
gown and slippers; and nothing but a certain compression in his lips
which had lasted all the morning, evinced his anticipation of the visit,
or the emotion it caused him.
Lady Ellinor behaved beautifully. She could not conceal a certain
nervous trepidation, when she first took the hand my father extended;
and, in touching rebuke of the Captain’s stately bow, she held out to
him the hand left disengaged, with a look which brought Roland at once
to her side. It was a desertion of his colours to which nothing, short
of Ney’s shameful conduct at Napoleon’s return from Elba, affords a
parallel in history. Then, without waiting for introduction, and before
a word indeed was said, Lady Ellinor came to my mother so cordially, so
caressingly—she threw into her smile, voice, manner, such winning
sweetness, that I, intimately learned in my poor mother’s simple loving
heart, wondered how she refrained from throwing her arms round Lady
Ellinor’s neck, and kissing her outright. It must have been a great
conquest over herself not to do it! My turn came next; and talking to
me, and about me, soon set all parties at their ease—at least
apparently.
What was said I cannot remember: I do not think one of us could. But an
hour slipped away, and there was no gap in the conversation.
With curious interest, and a survey I strove to make impartial, I
compared Lady Ellinor with my mother. And I comprehended the fascination
the high-born lady must, in their earlier youth, have exercised over
both brothers, so dissimilar to each other. For _charm_ was the
characteristic of Lady Ellinor—a charm indefinable. It was not the mere
grace of refined breeding, though that went a great way; it was a charm
that seemed to spring from natural sympathy. Whomsoever she addressed,
that person appeared for the moment to engage all her attention, to
interest her whole mind. She had a gift of conversation very peculiar.
She made what she said like a continuation of what was said to her. She
seemed as if she had entered into your thoughts, and talked them aloud.
Her mind was evidently cultivated with great care, but she was perfectly
void of pedantry. A hint, an allusion, sufficed to show how much she
knew, to one well instructed, without mortifying or perplexing the
ignorant. Yes, there probably was the only woman my father had ever met
who could be the companion to his mind, walk through the garden of
knowledge by his side, and trim the flowers while he cleared the vistas.
On the other hand, there was an inborn nobility in Lady Ellinor’s
sentiments that must have struck the most susceptible chord in Roland’s
nature, and the sentiments took eloquence from the look, the mien, the
sweet dignity of the very turn of the head. Yes, she must have been a
fitting Orinda to a young Amadis. It was not hard to see that Lady
Ellinor was ambitious—that she had a love of fame, for fame itself—that
she was proud—that she set value (and that morbidly) on the world’s
opinion. This was perceptible when she spoke of her husband, even of her
daughter. It seemed to me as if she valued the intellect of the one, the
beauty of the other, by the gauge of the social distinction or the
fashionable _éclat_. She took measure of the gift, as I was taught at Dr
Herman’s to take measure of the height of a tower—by the length of the
shadow it cast upon the ground.
My dear father, with such a wife you would never have lived eighteen
years, shivering on the edge of a great book!
My dear uncle, with such a wife you would never have been contented with
a cork leg and a Waterloo medal! And I understand why Mr Trevanion,
“eager and ardent” as ye say he was in youth, with a heart bent on the
practical success of life, won the hand of the heiress. Well, you see Mr
Trevanion has contrived not to be happy! By the side of my listening,
admiring mother, with her blue eyes moist, and her coral lips apart,
Lady Ellinor looks faded. Was she ever as pretty as my mother is now?
Never. But she was much handsomer. What delicacy in the outline, and yet
how decided in spite of the delicacy! The eyebrow so defined—the profile
slightly aquiline, so clearly cut—with the curved nostril, which, if
physiognomists are right, shows sensibility so keen; and the classic lip
that, but for that dimple, would be so haughty. But wear and tear are in
that face. The nervous excitable temper has helped the fret and cark of
ambitious life. My dear uncle, I know not yet your private life. But as
for my father, I am sure that, though he might have done more on earth,
he would have been less fit for heaven, if he had married Lady Ellinor.
At last this visit—dreaded, I am sure, by three of the party, was over,
but not before I had promised to dine at the Trevanions’ that day.
When we were again alone, my father threw off a long breath, and looking
round him cheerfully, said, “Since Pisistratus deserts us, let us
console ourselves for his absence—send for brother Jack, and all four go
down to Richmond to drink tea.”
“Thank you, Austin,” said Roland. “But I don’t want it, I assure you!”
“Upon your honour?” said my father in a half whisper.
“Upon my honour.”
“Nor I either! So Kitty, Roland, and I will take a walk, and be back in
time to see if that young Anachronism looks as handsome as his new
London-made clothes will allow him. Properly speaking, he ought to go
with an apple in his hand, and a dove in his bosom. But now I think of
it, that was luckily not the fashion with the Athenians till the time of
Alcibiades!”