Introduces Miss Slingsby to the Reader.
The reader may remember that we left a lady and her daughter, whom Ned
Hayward afterwards discovered to be a Mrs. and Miss Clifford, standing
at the door of Sir John Slingsby's house, in the heart of what was
called Tarningham Park. All that Ned Hayward (or the reader either)
knew of their history at the moment that he quitted them, after having
assisted them to alight from their carriage, was as follows: that the
elder lady had been sent for to see her elder brother in his last
moments, he having been accused of having gout in the stomach, and
that she and her daughter had been stopped on the king's highway by
three personages, two of whom, at least, had pistols with them, that
they had been rescued by Captain Hayward himself, and another
gentleman, that on arriving at Tarningham House it did not look at all
like the dwelling of a dying man, and that the answer of the butler to
Mrs. Clifford's inquiries regarding her brother's health was, "Quite
well, thank you Ma'am," delivered in the most commonplace tone in the
world.
At the precise point of time when this reply was made, Ned Hayward
took his leave, remounted his horse, and rode back to Tarningham, and
after he was gone Mrs. Clifford remained for at least thirty seconds
somewhat bewildered with what seemed to her a very strange
announcement. When she had done being bewildered, and seemed to have
got a slight glimpse of the real state of the case, she turned an
anxious glance to her daughter, to which Miss Clifford, who fully
understood what it meant, replied at once, without requiring to have
it put into words, "You had better go in, dear mamma," she said, "it
will grieve poor Isabella if you do not, and besides, it might be
risking a great deal to go back at night with nobody to protect us."
Mrs. Clifford still hesitated a little, but in the meantime some
by-play had been going on which decided the question. The butler had
called a footman, the footman had taken a portmanteau and some smaller
packages from the boot of the carriage. The name of Mrs. Clifford had
been mentioned once or twice, a lady's-maid crossing the hall had seen
the two ladies' faces by the light of a great lamp, and in a moment
after, from a door on the opposite side of the vestibule, came forth a
fair and graceful figure, looking like Hebe dressed for dinner.
"Oh, my dear aunt!" she exclaimed, running across to Mrs. Clifford and
kissing her, "and you, too, my dear Mary! This is indeed an unexpected
pleasure; but come in, come into the drawing-room; they will bring in
all the things--there is no one there," she continued, seeing her aunt
hesitated a little, "I am quite alone, and shall be for the next two
hours, I dare say."
Mrs. Clifford suffered herself to be led on into a fine large
old-fashioned drawing-room, and then began the explanations.
"And so, Isabella, you did not expect me to-night," said the elder
lady, addressing Hebe. "Either for jest or for mischief some one has
played us a trick. Have you got the letter, Mary?"
It was in Miss Clifford's writing-desk, however, as letters always are
in some place where they cannot be found when they are wanted; but the
fact was soon explained that Mrs. Clifford that very day about four
o'clock had received a letter purporting to come from the housekeeper
at Turningham House, informing her that her brother, Sir John
Slingsby, had been suddenly seized with gout in the stomach, and was
not expected to live from hour to hour, that Miss Slingsby was too
much agitated to write, but that Sir John expressed an eager desire to
see his sister before he died.
"Good gracious!" exclaimed the fair Isabella, "who could have done
such a thing as that?" and then she laughed quietly, adding, "Well, at
all events I am very much obliged to them; but it was a shameful
trick, notwithstanding."
"You haven't heard the whole yet, Isabella," replied Mrs. Clifford,
"for we have been stopped between this and Tarningham, and should have
been robbed--perhaps murdered--if two gentlemen had not come up to our
rescue--good Heaven, it makes me feel quite faint to think of it." And
she sat down in one of the large arm-chairs, and put her hand to her
head, while her check turned somewhat pale.
"Take a little wine, my dear aunt," cried Isabella, and before Mrs.
Clifford could stop her she had darted out of the room.
As soon as she was alone with her daughter, the widow lady gazed round
the chamber in which she sat with a thoughtful and melancholy look.
She was in the house where her early days of girlhood had passed--she
was in the very room where she had gone in all the agitation of happy
love as a bride to the altar. She peopled the place with forms that
could no longer be seen, she called up the loved and the dead, the
parents who had cherished and instructed her, the fair sister who had
bloomed and withered by her side. How many happy, how many a painful
scene rose to the eye of memory on that stage where they had been
enacted. All the material objects were the same, the pictures, the
furniture, the old oak paneling with its carved wreaths; but where
were they who moved so lately beside her in that chamber--where was
all that had there been done? The grave and the past--man's tomb, and
the tomb of man's actions had received them, and in the short space of
twenty years all had gone, fading away and dissolving into air like a
smoke rising up unto heaven, and spreading out thinner and thinner,
till naught remains. Herself and a brother, from whom many
circumstances had detached her, were all that were left of the crowd
of happy faces that remembrance called back as she sat there and gazed
around. Some tears rose to her eyes, and Mary who had been standing by
gazing at her face, and reading in it with the quick appreciation of
affection all the emotions which brought such shadows over the loved
mother's brow, knelt down beside her, and taking her hand in hers said
earnestly, "Mamma, dear mamma, I know this is painful, but pray for my
sake and Isabella's let the shameful deceit that has been played upon
us produce a good and happy result. You are here in my uncle's house;
be reconciled to him fully, I beseech you. You know that he is
good-humoured notwithstanding all his faults, and I cannot but think
that if those who might have led him to better things had not
withdrawn from him so completely, he might now have been a different
man."
Mrs. Clifford shook her head mournfully.
"My dear child," she said, "you know that it is not resentment; it was
your good father who did not feel it consistent with his character and
station to countenance all that takes place here."
"But for Isabella's sake," said Miss Clifford, earnestly, and before
her mother could answer, the young lady of whom she spoke re-entered
the room with a servant carrying some refreshments.
"Oh dear aunt," she said, while the wine and water and biscuits were
placed upon a small table at Mrs. Clifford's elbow, "it makes me so
glad to see you, and I have ordered the blue room at the south side to
be got ready for you directly, and then there is the corner one for
Mary, because it has a window both ways, and when she is in a gay mood
she can look out over the meadows and the stream, and when she is in
her high pensiveness she can gaze over the deep woods and hills. Then
she is next to me too, so that she may have merry nonsense on one
side, and grave sense on the other; for I am sure you will stay a long
while with us now you are here, and papa will be so glad."
"I fear it cannot be very long, my love," replied Mrs. Clifford. "In
the first place I have come it seems uninvited, and in the next place
you know, Isabella, that I am sometimes out of spirits, and perhaps
fastidious, so that all guests do not at all times please me. Who have
you here now? There seemed a large party in the dining-room."
"Oh, there are several very foolish men," answered Sir John Slingsby's
daughter, laughing, "and one wise one. There is Mr. Dabbleworth, who
was trying to prove to me all dinner-time that I am an electrical
machine; and in the end I told him that I could easily believe he was
one, for he certainly gave me a shock, and Sir James Vestage who
joined in and insisted that instead of electrical machines men were
merely improved monkeys. I told him that I perfectly agreed with him,
and that I saw fresh proofs of it every day. Then up by papa was
sitting old Mr. Harrington, the fox-hunter; what he was saying I do
not know, for I never listen to any thing he says, as it is sure
either to be stupid or offensive. Then there was Charles Harrington,
who lisped a good deal, and thought himself exceedingly pretty, and
Mr. Wharton, the lawyer, who thought deeply and drank deeply, and said
nothing but once."
"But who was your wise man, dear Isabella?" asked Mary, very willing
to encourage her fair cousin in her light cheerfulness, hoping that it
might win Mrs. Clifford gently from sadder thoughts.
"Oh, who but good Dr. Miles," answered Miss Slingsby, "who grumbled
sadly at every body, and even papa did not escape, I can assure you.
But all these people will be gone in an hour or two, and in the
meantime I shall have you all alone."
"Then there is no one staying in the house, Isabella?" said Mrs.
Clifford. "I heard at Tarningham that your father expected some people
from London."
"Only one, I believe," answered the fair daughter of the house, "but
he has not arrived yet, and perhaps may not. He is a Captain Hayward,
who was ensign in papa's regiment long ago. I never saw him, but
people say 'he's the best fellow in the world.' You know what that
means, Mary: a man that will drink, or hunt, or shoot, or fish with
any body, or every body, and when none of these are to be done, will
go to sleep upon the sofa. Pray, pray do stay, dear aunt, till he is
gone, for I know not what I should do with him in the house by myself.
I positively must get papa to ask somebody else, or get the good
doctor to come up and flirt with him to my heart's content, just as a
diversion from the pleasures of this Captain Hayward's society."
"A very disagreeable person, I dare say," replied Mary Clifford; "it
is very odd how names are perverted, so that 'a good creature' means a
fool in the world's parlance; 'a very respectable man' is sure to be a
very dull one; and 'the best fellow in the world' is invariably--"
But her moralising fit was suddenly brought to an end by the door of
the drawing-room being thrown open, and Sir John Slingsby rushing in.
Stay a moment, reader, and observe him before he advances. Honest Jack
Slingsby! Roystering Sir John! Jolly old Jack! Glorious Johnny! By all
these names was he known, or had been known by persons in different
degrees of acquaintanceship with him. That round and portly form, now
extending the white waistcoat and black-silk breeches, had once been
slim and graceful: that face glowing with the grape in all its
different hues, from the _[oe]il de perdrix_ upon the temples and
forehead to the deep purple of old port in the nose, had once been
smooth and fair. That nose itself, raising itself now into mighty
dominion over the rest of the face, and spreading out, Heaven knows
where, over the map of his countenance, like the kingdom of Russia in
the share of Europe, was once fine and chiselled like Apollo's own.
That thin white hair flaring up into a cockatoo on the top of his head
to cover the well-confirmed baldness, was once a mass of dark curls
that would not have disgraced the brow of Jove. You may see the
remains of former dandyism in the smart shoe, the tight silk-stocking,
the well cut blue-coat; and you may imagine how much activity those
limbs once possessed by the quick and buoyant step with which the
capacious stomach is carried into the room. There is a jauntiness,
too, in the step which would seem to imply that the portion of
youthful vigour and activity, which is undoubtedly gone, has been
parted from with regret, and that he would fain persuade himself and
others that he still retains it in his full elasticity; but yet there
is nothing affected about it either, and perhaps after all it is
merely an effort of the mind to overcome the approach of corporeal
infirmity, and to carry on the war as well as may be. Look at the
good-humoured smile, too, the buoyant, boisterous, overflowing
satisfaction that is radiating from every point of that rosy
countenance. Who on earth could be angry with him? One might be
provoked, but angry one couldn't be. It is evidently the face
of one who takes the world lightly--who esteems nothing as very
heavy--retains no impressions very long--enjoys the hour and its
pleasures to the very utmost, and has no great consciousness of sin or
shame in any thing that he does. He is, in fact, a fat butterfly, who,
though he may have some difficulty in fluttering from flower to
flower, does his best to sip the sweets of all he finds, and not very
unsuccessfully.
With that same jaunty light step, with that same good-humoured,
well-satisfied smile, Sir John Slingsby advanced straight to his
sister, took her in his arms, gave her a hearty kiss, and shook both
her hands, exclaiming in around, full, juicy voice, almost as fat as
himself,
"Well, my dear Harriet, I'm very happy to see you; this _is_ kind,
this is very kind indeed; I could hardly believe my ears when the
servants told me you were here, but I left the fellows immediately to
fuddle their noses at leisure, and came to assure myself that it was a
fact. And my dear Mary, too, my little saint, how are you, my dear
girl?"
"We were brought here, John," replied Mrs. Clifford, "by a very
shameful trick." And she proceeded to explain to him the trick which
had been practised upon her.
"Gout!" exclaimed Sir John, "gout in the stomach! It would be a
devilish large gout to take up his abode in my stomach, or else he'd
find the house too big for him;" and he laid his hand upon his large
paunch with an air of pride and satisfaction. "Gout! that does not
look like gout I think," and he stuck out his neat foot, and trim
well-shaped ankle; "never had but one threatening of a fit in my life,
and then I cured it in an afternoon--with three bottles of Champagne
and a glass of brandy," he added, in a sort of loud aside to Mary, as
if she would enter into the joke better than her mother. "And so
really, Harriet, you would not have come if you had not thought me
dying. Come, come now, forget and forgive; let bygones be bygones; I
know I am a d--d fool, and do a great many very silly things; but 'pon
my soul I'm very sorry for it, I am indeed; you can't think how I
abominate myself sometimes, and wonder what the devil possesses me.
I'll repent and reform, upon my life I will, Harriet, if you'll just
stay and help me--it's being left all alone to struggle with
temptation that makes me fail so often, but every ten minutes I'm
saying to myself, 'What an old fool you are, Jack Slingsby!' so now
you'll stay like a dear good girl, as you always were, and help to
make my house a little respectable. Forget and forgive, forget and
forgive."
"My dear John, I have nothing to forgive," answered Mrs. Clifford.
"You know very well that I would do any thing in the world to promote
your welfare, and always wished it, but---"
"Ay, ay, it was your husband," answered Sir John, bringing an instant
cloud over his sister's face. "Well, he was a good man--an excellent
man--ay, and a kind man too, and he was devilish right after all; I
can't help saying it, though I suffer. In his station what could he
do? An archdeacon and then a dean, it was not to be expected that he
should countenance rioting, and roaring, and drinking, and all that,
as we used to do here; but 'pon my life, Harriet, I'll put an end to
it. Now you shall see, I won't drink another glass to-night, and I'll
send all those fellows away within half an hour, by Jove! I'll just go
back and order coffee in the dining-room, and that'll be a broad hint,
you know. Bella will take care of you in the meantime, and I'll be
back in half an hour--high time I should reform indeed--even that
monkey begins to lecture me. I've got a capital fellow coming down to
stay with me--the best fellow in the world--as gay as a lark, and as
active as a squirrel; yet somehow or other he always kept himself
right, and never played at cards, the dog, nor got drunk either that I
ever saw; yet he must have got drunk too, every man must sometimes,
but he kept it devilish snug if he did--by the by, make yourselves
comfortable." And without waiting to hear his sister's further
adventures on the road, Sir John Slingsby tripped out of the room
again, and notwithstanding all his good resolutions, finished
two-thirds of a bottle of claret while the servants were bringing in
the coffee.
"Rather a more favourable account of your expected guest, Isabella,
than might have been supposed," said Mrs. Clifford, as soon as Sir
John Slingsby was gone. "A young man who did not drink or play in your
father's regiment, must have been a rare exception; for I am sorry to
say that it had a bad name in those respects long before he got it,
and I believe that it did him a great deal of harm."
"Papa is so good-humoured," replied Miss Slingsby, "that he lets
people do just what they like with him. I am sure he wishes to do all
that is right."
Mrs. Clifford was silent for a moment or two, and then turned the
conversation; but in the house of her brother she was rather like a
traveller who, riding through a country, finds himself suddenly and
unexpectedly in the midst of what they call in Scotland a shaking
moss; whichever path she took, the ground seemed to be giving way
under her. She spoke of the old park and the fine trees, and to her
dismay, she heard that Sir John had ordered three hundred magnificent
oaks to be cut down and sold. She spoke of a sort of model farm which
had been her father's pride, and after a moment or two of silence,
Isabella thought it better, to prevent her coming upon the same
subject with her father, by telling her that Sir John, not being fond
of farming, had disposed of it some three months before to Mr.
Wharton, the solicitor.
"He could not find a tenant easily for it," she continued, "and it
annoyed him to have it unoccupied, so he was persuaded to sell it,
intending to invest the money in land adjoining the rest of the
property."
"I hope Mr. Wharton gave him a fair price for it?" said Mrs. Clifford.
"I really don't know," answered her niece; "I dislike that man very
much."
"And so do I," said Mary Clifford.
"And so do I," added her mother, thoughtfully.
Mr. Wharton had evidently not established himself in the favour of the
ladies, and as ladies are always right, he must have been a very bad
man indeed.
To vary the pleasures of such a conversation, Miss Slingsby soon after
ordered tea, trusting that her father would return before it was over.
Sir John Slingsby's half hour, however, extended itself to an hour and
a half, but then an immense deal of loud laughing and talking, moving
feet, seeking for hats and coats, and ultimately rolling of wheels,
and trotting of horses, was heard in the drawing-room, and the baronet
himself again appeared, as full of fun and good-humour as ever. He
tried, indeed, somewhat to lower the tone of his gaiety, to suit his
sister's more rigid notions; but although he was not in the least
tipsy--and indeed it was a question which might have puzzled Babbage's
calculating machine to resolve what quantity of any given kind of wine
would have affected his brain to the point of inebriety--yet the
potations in which he had indulged had certainly spread a genial
warmth through his bosom, which kept his spirits at a pitch
considerably higher than harmonised very well with Mrs. Clifford's
feelings.
After about half an hour's conversation, then, she complained of
fatigue, and retired to bed, and was followed by her niece and her
daughter, after the former, at her father's desire, had sung him a
song to make him sleep comfortably. Sir John then stretched his legs
upon a chair to meditate for a minute or two over the unexpected event
of his sister's arrival. But the process of meditation was not one
that he was at all accustomed to, and consequently he did not perform
it with great ease and dexterity. After he had tried it for about
thirty seconds, his head nodded, and then looking up, he said, "Ah!"
and then attempted it again. Fifteen seconds were enough this time;
but his head, finding that it had disturbed itself by its rapid
declension on the former occasion, now sank gradually on his shoulder,
and thence found its way slowly round to his breast. Deep breathing
succeeded for about a quarter of an hour, and then an awful snore,
loud enough to rouse the worthy baronet by his own trumpet. Up he
started, and getting unsteadily upon his legs, rubbed his eyes, and
muttered to himself, "Time to go to bed." Such was the conclusion of
his meditation, and the logical result of the process in which he had
been engaged.
The next morning, however, at the hour of half-past nine, found Sir
John in the breakfast-room, as fresh, as rosy, and as gay as ever. If
wine had no effect upon his intellect at night, it had none upon his
health and comfort in the morning; the blushing banner that he bore in
his countenance was the only indication of the deeds that he achieved;
and kissing the ladies all round, he sat down to the breakfast-table,
and spent an hour with them in very agreeable chat. He was by no means
ill-informed, not without natural taste, a very fair theoretical
judgment, which was lamentably seldom brought into practice, and he
could discourse of many things, when he liked it, in as gentlemanlike
and reasonable a manner as any man living; while his cheerful
good-humour shed a sunshine around that, in its sparkling warmth, made
men forget his faults and over-estimate his good qualities. He had a
particular tact, too, of palliating errors that he had committed,
sometimes by acknowledging them frankly, and lamenting the infatuation
that produced them, sometimes by finding out excellent good reasons
for doing things which had a great deal better been left undone. Mary
and Isabella had been walking in the park before breakfast, talking of
all those things which young ladies find to converse about when they
have not met for some time; and Sir John, at once aware that his
niece's eye must have marked the destruction going on among the old
trees, asked her in the most deliberate tone in the world, if she had
seen the improvements he was making.
Mary Clifford replied "No," and looked at her cousin as if for
explanation, and then Sir John exclaimed,
"God bless my soul, did you not see the alley I am cutting? It will
make the most beautiful vista in the world. First you will go round
from the house by the back of the wood, slowly mounting the hill, by
what we call the Broad Walk, and then when you have reached the top,
you will have a clear view down through a sort of glade, with the old
trees on your right and left hand, over the clumps of young firs in
the bottom, catching the stream here and there, and having the
park-wall quite concealed, till the eye passing over the meadows, just
rests upon Tarningham church, and then running on, gets a view of your
own place Steenham, looking like a white speck on the side of the
hill, and the prospect is closed by the high grounds beyond. My dear
Mary, it is the greatest improvement that ever was made--we will go
and see it."
Now the real truth was, that Sir John Slingsby, some four or five
months before, had very much wanted three thousand pounds, and he had
determined to convert a certain number of his trees into bank-notes;
but being a man of very good taste, as I have said, he had arranged
the cutting so as to damage his park scenery as little as possible.
Nevertheless, in all he said to Mary Clifford, strange as the
assertion may seem, he was perfectly sincere; for he was one of those
men who always begin by deceiving themselves, and having done that,
can hardly be said to deceive others. It is a sort of infectious
disease they have, that is all, and they communicate it, after having
got it themselves. Before he had cut a single tree, he had perfectly
persuaded himself that to do so would effect the greatest improvement
in the world, and he was quite proud of having beautified his park,
and at the same time obtained three thousand pounds of ready money.
Doubtless, had the conversation turned that way, he would have found
as good an excuse, as valid a reason, as legitimate a motive, for
selling the model farm; but that not being the case, they went on
talking of different subjects, till suddenly the door opened, the
butler, who was nearly as fat as his master, advanced three steps in a
solemn manner, and announced, "Captain Hayward."
Sir John instantly started up, and the three ladies raised their eyes
simultaneously, partly with that peculiar sort of curiosity which
people feel when they look into the den of some rare wild beast, and
partly with that degree of interest which we all take in the outward
form and configuration of one of our own species, upon whom depends a
certain portion of the pleasure or pain, amusement or dulness, of the
next few hours. The next moment our friend Ned Hayward was in the
room. He was well-dressed and well-looking, as I have already
described him in his riding costume. Gentleman was in every line and
every movement, and his frank, pleasant smile, his clear, open
countenance were very engaging even at the first sight. Sir John shook
him warmly by the hand, and although the baronet's countenance had so
burgeoned and blossomed since he last saw him, that the young
gentleman had some difficulty in recognising him, his former colonel,
yet Ned Hayward returned his grasp with equal cordiality, and then
looked round, as his host led him up towards Miss Slingsby, and
introduced them to each other. Great was the surprise of both the
baronet and his daughter, to see Mrs. Clifford rise, and with a warm
smile extend her hand to their new guest, and even Mary Clifford
follow her mother's example, and welcome, as if he were an old friend,
the very person with whose name they had seemed unacquainted the night
before.
"Ah ha, Ned!" cried Sir John; "how is this, boy? Have you been
poaching upon my preserves without my knowing it? 'Pon my life,
Harriet, you have kept your acquaintance with my little ensign quite
snug and secret."
"It is an acquaintance of a very short date, John," replied Mrs.
Clifford; "but one which has been of inestimable service to me
already."
And she proceeded in a very few words to explain to her brother the
debt of gratitude she owed to Captain Hayward for his interference the
night before, and for the courtesy he had shown in escorting and
protecting her to the doors of that very house.
Sir John immediately seized his guest by the two lapels of the coat,
exclaiming,
"And why the devil didn't you come in, you dog? What, Ned Hayward at
my gates, an expected guest, and not come in! I can tell you we should
have given you a warm reception, fined you a couple of bottles for
being late at dinner, and sent you to bed roaring drunk."
Ned Hayward gave a gay glance round at the ladies, as if inquiring
whether they thought these were great inducements; he answered,
however,
"Strange to say, I did not know it was your house, Sir John."
And now having placed our friend Ned Hayward comfortably between two
excessively pretty girls of very different styles of beauty, and very
different kinds of mind, I shall leave Fate to settle his destiny, and
turn to another scene which had preceded his arrival at Tarningham
House.