The breakfast at the Villa Caprini always seemed to recall more of
English daily life and habit than any other event of the day. It was not
only in the luxuriously spread table, and the sideboard arrayed with
that picturesque profusion so redolent of home, but there was that gay
and hearty familiarity so eminently the temper of the hour, and that
pleasant interchange of news and gossip, as each tore the envelope of
his letter, or caught some amusing paragraph in his paper.
Mrs. Penthony Morris had a very wide correspondence, and usually
contributed little scraps of intelligence from various parts of the
Continent. They were generally the doings and sayings of that cognate
world whose names require no introduction, and even those to whom they
are unfamiliar would rather hear in silence than own to the ignorance.
The derelicts of fashion are the staple of small-talk; they are
suggestive of all the little social smartness one hears, and of that
very Brummagem morality which assumes to judge them. In these Mrs.
Morris revelled. No paragraph of the “Morning Post” was too mysteriously
worded for her powers of interpretation; no asterisks could veil a name
from her piercing gaze. Besides, she had fashioned a sort of algebraic
code of life which wonderfully assisted her divination, and being given
an unhappy marriage, she could foretell the separation, or, with the
data of a certain old gentleman's visits to St. John's Wood, could
predict his will with an accuracy that seemed marvellous. As she sat,
surrounded with letters and notes of all sizes, she varied the tone of
her intelligence so artfully as to canvass the suffrage of every
listener. Now it was some piece of court gossip, some “scandal of Queen
Elizabeth,” now a curious political intrigue, and now, again, some
dashing exploit of a young soldier in India. But whether it told of good
or evil fortune, of some deeply interesting event or some passing
triviality, her power of narrating it was considerable, as, with a tact
all her own, she selected some one especial individual as chief
listener. After a number of short notices of London, Rome, and Paris,
she tossed over several letters carelessly, saying,--
“I believe I have given you the cream of my correspondence. Stay, here
is something about your old sloop the 'Mosquito,' Lord Agincourt; would
you like to hear of how she attacked the forts at the mouth of the--oh,
how shall I attack it?--the Bhageebhahoo? This is a midshipman's letter,
written the same evening of the action.”
Though the question was addressed very pointedly, the boy never heard
it, but sat deeply engaged in deciphering a very jagged handwriting in a
letter before him. It was one of those scratchy, unfinished specimens of
penmanship which are amongst the luxuries persons of condition
occasionally indulge in. Seeing his preoccupation, Mrs. Morris did not
repeat her question, but suffered him to pursue his researches
undisturbed. He had just begun his breakfast when the letter arrived,
and now he ceased to eat anything, but seemed entirely engrossed by his
news. At last he arose abruptly, and left the room.
“I hope Agincourt has not got any bad tidings,” said Sir William; “he
seems agitated and uneasy.”
“I saw his guardian's name--Sommerville--on the envelope,” said Mrs.
Morris. “It is, probably, one of those pleasant epistles which wards
receive quarterly to remind them that even minors have miseries.”
The meal did not recover its pleasant tone after this little incident,
and soon after they all scattered through the house and the grounds,
Mrs. Morris setting out for her usual woodland walk, which she took each
morning. A half-glance the boy had given her as he quitted the room at
breakfast-time, induced her to believe that he wanted to consult her
about his letter, and so, as she entered the shrubbery, she was not
surprised to find Lord Agincourt there before her.
“I was just wishing it might be your footstep I heard on the gravel,”
said he, joining her. “May I keep you company?”
“To be sure, provided you don't make love to me, which I never permit in
the forenoon.”
“Oh, I have other thoughts in my head,” said he, sighing drearily; “and
you are the very one to advise me what to do. Not, indeed, that I have
any choice about that, only how to do it, that's the question.”
“When one has the road marked out, it's never very hard to decide on the
mode of the journey,” said she. “Tell me what your troubles are.”
“Troubles you may well call them,” said he, with a deeper sigh. “There,
read that--if you can read it--for the old Earl does not grow more
legible by being older.”
“'Crews Court,'” read she, aloud. “Handsome old abbey it must be,” added
she, remarking on a little tinted sketch at the top of the letter.
“Yes, that's a place of mine. I was born there,” said the boy, half
proudly.
“It's quite princely.”
“It's a fine old thing, and I 'd give it all this minute not to have had
that disagreeable letter.”
“'My dear Henry,'” began she, in a low, muttering voice, “'I have heard
with--with'--not abomination--oh no, 'astonishment--with astonishment,
not unmixed with'--it can't be straw--is it straw?--no, it is 'shame,--
not unmixed with shame, that you have so far forgiven--forgotten'--oh,
that's it--'what was done to yourself.'”
“No, 'what was due to yourself,'” interrupted he; “that's a favorite
word of his, and so I know it.”
“'To become the--the'--dear me, what can this be with the vigorous G at
the beginning?--'to become'--is it really the Giant?--'to become the
Giant'--”
The boy here burst into a fit of laughing, and, taking the letter from
her, proceeded to read it out.
“I have spelt it all over five times,” said he, “and I know it by heart.
'I have heard with astonishment, not unmixed with shame, that you have
so far forgotten what was due to yourself as to become the Guest of one
who for so many years was the political opponent and even personal enemy
of our house. Your ignorance of family history cannot possibly be such
as that you are unaware of the claims once put forward by this same Sir
William Heathcote to your father's peerage, or of the disgraceful law
proceedings instituted to establish his pretensions.' As if I ever heard
a word of all this before! as if I knew or cared a brass button about
the matter!” burst he in. “'Had your tutor'--here comes in my poor coach
for _his_ turn,” said Agincourt--“'had your tutor but bestowed proper
attention to the instructions written by my own hand for his guidance.--
We never could read them; we have been at them for hours together, and
all we could make out was, 'Let him study hazard, roulette, and all
other such games;' which rather surprised us, till we found out it was
'shun,' and not 'study,' and 'only frequent the fast society of each
city he visits,' which was a mistake for 'first.'”
“Certainly the noble Lord has a most ambiguous calligraphy,” said she,
smiling; “and Mr. Layton is not so culpable as might be imagined.”
“Ah!” cried the boy, laughing, “I wish you had seen Alfred's face on the
day he received our first quarter's remittance, and read out: 'You may
drag on me like a mouse, if you please,' which was intended to be, 'draw
upon me to a like amount, if you please;' and it was three weeks before
we could make that out! But let me go on--where was I? Oh, at
'guidance.' 'Recent information has, however, shown me that nothing
could have been more unfortunate than our choice of this young man, his
father being one of the most dangerous individuals known to the police,
a man familiar with the lowest haunts of crime, a notorious swindler,
and a libeller by profession. In the letter which I send off by this
day's post to your tutor I have enclosed one from his father to myself.
It is not very likely that he will show it to you, as it contains the
most insolent demands for an increase of salary--“as some slight, though
inadequate, compensation for an office unbecoming my son's rank,
insulting to his abilities, and even damaging to his acquirements.” I
give you this in his own choice language, but there is much more in the
same strain. The man, it would appear, has just come out of a lunatic
asylum, to which place his intemperate habits had brought him; and I may
mention that his first act of gratitude to the benevolent individual who
had undertaken the whole cost of his maintenance there was to assault
him in the open street, and give him a most savage beating. Captain Hone
or Holmes--a distinguished officer, as I am told--is still confined to
his room from the consequences.'”
“How very dreadful!” said Mrs. Morris calmly. “Shocking treatment! for a
distinguished officer too!”
“Dreadful fellow he must be,” said the boy. “What a rare fright he must
have given my old guardian! But the end of it all is, I 'm to leave
Alfred, and go back to England at once. I wish I was going to sea again;
I wish I was off thousands of miles away, and not to come home for
years. To part with the kind, good fellow, that was like a brother to
me, this way,--how can I do it? And do you perceive, he has n't one word
to say against Alfred? It's only that he has the misfortune of this
terrible father. And, after all, might not that be any one's lot? You
might have a father you couldn't help being ashamed of.”
“Of course,” said she; “I can fancy such a case easily enough.”
“I know it will nearly kill poor Alfred; he 'll not be able to bear it.
He's as proud as he is clever, and he'll not endure the tone of the
Earl's letter. Who knows what he 'll do? Can _you_ guess?”
“'Not in the least. I imagine that he 'll submit as patiently as he can,
and look out for another situation.”
“Ah, there you don't know him!” broke in the boy: “he can't endure this
kind of thing. He only consented to take me because his health was
breaking up from hard reading; he wanted rest and a change of climate.
At first he refused altogether, and only gave way when some of his
college dons over-persuaded him.”
She smiled a half-assent, but said nothing.
“Then there's another point,” said he, suddenly: “I'm sure his Lordship
has not been very measured in the terms of his letter to him. I can just
fancy the tone of it; and I don't know how poor Alfred is to bear that.”
“My dear boy, you'll learn one of these days--and the knowledge will
come not the less soon from your being a Peer--that all the world is
either forbearing or overbearing. You must be wolf or lamb: there's no
help for it.”
“Alfred never told me so,” said he, sternly.
“It's more than likely that he did not know! There are no men know less
of life than these college creatures; and there lies the great mistake
in selecting such men for tutors for our present-day life and its
accidents. Alexandre Dumas would be a safer guide than Herodotus; and
Thackeray teach you much more than Socrates.”
“If I only had in my head one-half of what Alfred knew, I 'd be well
satisfied,” said the boy. “Ay, and what's better still, without his
thinking a bit about it.”
“And so,” said she, musingly, “you are to go back to England?”
“That does not seem quite settled, for he says, in a postscript, that
Sir George Rivers, one of the Cabinet, I believe, has mentioned some
gentleman, a 'member of their party,' now in Italy, and who would
probably consent to take charge of me till some further arrangements
could be come to.”
“Hold your chain till a new bear-leader turned up!” said she, laughing.
“Oh dear! I wonder when that wise generations of guardians will come to
know that the real guide for the creatures like you is a woman. Yes, you
ought to be travelling with your governess,--some one whose ladylike
tone and good manners would insensibly instil quietness, reserve, and
reverence in your breeding, correct your bad French, and teach you to
enter or leave a room without seeming to be a housebreaker!”
“I should like to know who does that?” asked he, indignantly.
“Every one of you young Englishmen, whether you come fresh from
Brasenose or the Mess of the Forty-something, you have all of you the
same air of bashful bull-dogs!”
“Oh, come, this is too bad; is this the style of Charles Heathcote, for
instance?”
“Most essentially it is; the only thing is that, the bulldog element
predominating in his nature, he appears the less awkward in
consequence.”
“I should like to bear what you 'd say of the O'Shea.”
“Oh, Mr. O'Shea is an Irishman, and _their_ ways bear the same relation
to general good breeding that rope-dancing does to waltzing.”
“I 'll take good care not to ask you for any description of myself,”
said he, laughingly.
“You are very wrong then, for you should have heard something
excessively flattering,” was her reply. “Shall I tell you who your new
protector is to be?” cried she, after a moment's pause; “I have just
guessed it: the O'Shea himself!”
“O'Shea! impossible; how could you imagine such a thing?”
“I'm certain I'm right. He is always talking of his friend Sir George
Rivers--he calls him Rivers,--who is Colonial Secretary, and who is to
make him either Bishop of Barbadoes or a Gold Stick at the Gambia; and
you 'll see if I 'm not correct, and that the wardship of a young
scapegrace lordling is to be the retaining fee of this faithful follower
of his party. Of course, there will be no question of tutorship; in
fact, it would have such an unpleasant resemblance to the farce and Mr.
O'Toole, as to be impossible. You will simply be travelling together. It
will be double harness, but only one horse doing the work!”
“I never can make out whether you 're in jest or in earnest,” said he,
pettishly.
“I'm always in earnest when I'm jesting; that's the only clue I can give
you.”
“But all this time we have been wandering away from the only thing I
wanted to think of,--how to part with dear Alfred. You have told me
nothing about that.”
“These are things which, as the French say, always do themselves, and,
consequently, it is better never to plan or provide for; and, remember,
as a maxim, whenever the current is carrying you the way you want to go,
put in your oar as little as possible. And as to old associations, they
are like old boots: they are very pleasant wear, but they won't last
forever. There now, I have given you quite enough matter to think over:
and so, good-bye.”
As Agincourt turned his steps slowly towards the house, he marvelled
with himself what amount of guidance she had given him.