Isaac. “Good lack, with what eyes a father sees! As I have life she is the very reverse of all this.”

The Duenna.

Monday morning came; a still and hazy morning, portentous of noontide heat. I had not written to uncle Richard to tell him the train I meant to leave by, for two reasons: I didn’t want to give him or his daughter the trouble of meeting me, and as there were several trains during the day, I could not say at what hour I might take it into my head to start.

However, as it was not possible for me to see Conny, and as the time promised to hang tediously upon my hands, I sent the landlady for a fly, packed a carpetbag, and started to catch a train that left at half-past twelve.

On my way to the station, I stopped at the bank to bid my uncle a final farewell, but found him out.

“I hope you’ll enjoy yourself,” said Mr. Curling, with a grave face.

“I hope I may.”

“Will you be long absent?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps a week; perhaps a fortnight. Good-bye.” And out I went.

Great heaven! as I recall the nod I gave him, I am amazed to think how full of the unexpected the future is. You shake a man by the hand and leave him, and by the time you meet him again, everything the least likely to occur has happened. Though you held him the most honest of living beings, he is committed for forgery; or though you thought him doomed to be a struggling man all his life, he has made a fortune on the Stock Exchange, and is surrounded by architects with plans for a mansion; or though you considered him a very ordinary-minded person, he has just acknowledged himself the author of a book the world has gone into ecstacies over. So shifting is this life, it is scarcely possible to turn your back upon the most familiar object, without finding it changed on looking at it again. It is a pantomime, but not a droll one. Harlequin Time does indeed frisk it merrily; but there is too much of the scythe about his rod, too much tragedy about the metamorphoses he works, to make us think him diverting.

It was a little after half-past twelve when I got into the train, and it was very nearly half-past two when I got out. Thistlewood Station was a little platform, backed by a diminutive shed, with a great hill running up behind it. I asked a porter the way to Mr. Hargrave’s house, and he directed me to a high road.

This high road was terribly dusty and dazzling to the eyes. There was not an inch of shade to right or left of it to protect me from the overpowering rays of the sun. Worst of all, for half a mile at least, it was a steep hill. I felt my face gradually turning to the colour of a boiled lobster as I toiled along, and deplored my want of foresight in not providing against this sweltering exertion, by asking my uncle to send his carriage to meet me.

On either side was a boundless extent of corn-fields, with never a sigh of air to disturb their yellowing heads. On reaching the summit of the hill, however, I was cheered by a very extensive view, not indeed comparable in beauty to that which was to be obtained from any of the hills about Updown, but exceedingly pretty, nevertheless. Far away down on the level plains were little white villages, shining amid groups of trees. A long line of railroad ruled the landscape, along which rolled a white cloud, that no doubt represented the train I had just quitted. The slate-coloured hills of the far-off horizon stood sharp and well-defined against the pale blue sky.I trudged forward, gasping for air, and stopping frequently to press a handkerchief to my forehead, until I espied, at the extreme end of the road, a long wall bounding a perfect forest of trees. In a few minutes I had gained a gate surmounted by stone effigies. Close at hand was a lodge. I pulled the bell, and on a man presenting himself, inquired if this were Mr. Hargrave’s house? It was. The gate was opened, and I passed out of the broiling road into a deliciously cool avenue, with deep glades and sunny openings among the trees, under which I observed some young deer browsing. The whole place was alive with the pipings of birds. Such a babel of airy voices I never before heard.

I was stepping pretty briskly along the avenue, wondering what sort of reception I should get, and whether my uncle was as cheery and hearty a man in his own house as he was out of it, when I suddenly heard the word “Halt!” uttered in a loud, clear, imperious female voice.

I looked about me, being uncertain from which side of the avenue the voice had proceeded, and seeing nobody, was in the act of advancing again, when bang! went the report of a pistol, so close and so loud, that, for the moment, I actually believed myself shot, and pulled off my hat, feeling pretty sure that I should find a bullet hole in it.

“Good God!” I thought. “What is the meaning of this?”

A thin cloud of blue smoke curled up from a tree on the right, and, as I gazed with a stupefied air in that direction, the tall commanding figure of a woman stepped forward, and approached me.

“Why didn’t you halt when I ordered you?” she demanded, fixing a pair of dark, glittering eyes on me.

I looked at her with amazement. She was dressed in a tight-fitting body, with a long skirt, which she held up in one hand, whilst she grasped a small revolver in the other. On her head was a large garden hat which threw so dark a shadow over her face that I could master no more of its details than the keen bright eyes. Could this be my cousin Theresa?

I was so much astonished by the report of the pistol, and her peremptory address, that I quite forgot my manners. I had hastily put my hat on, and there I kept it. “You may bless your stars,” she exclaimed, “that I didn’t take the curl out of your mustache with a pistol ball. I could do it. Do you doubt me? Turn your face round, so that I get your profile.”

And she levelled her pistol full at my head.

“Who are you?” I stammered; “and what do you mean to do? Put that pistol down. Don’t you know that you can’t play with a more dangerous toy?”

“Turn your face round as I order you, sir,” was her answer.

“I shall do no such thing,” I said, picking up my carpet bag, which I had dropped, but furtively watching her movements with indescribable anxiety.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, to my inexpressible relief, turning the muzzle of the pistol aside, “if you are afraid, that is another matter. However, for the future, when I order you to stop, I should advise you to do so.”

And so saying, she wheeled round, and disappeared among the trees.

I hastened forward, not doubting for a moment that, whether she was my cousin or not, she was not in possession of her reason, and congratulating myself on what I could not but consider a very narrow escape of my life. In a few moments I reached the house, a fine old building with a great door and many windows, the upper ones hooded, and a broad carpet of grass all round it, on to which the queerest little doors opened, with large bow-windows on the ground-floor.

The door was opened by a corpulent man in a claret-coloured livery, and a groggy eye, who, on my asking if Mr. Hargrave was within, cocked his head, and reflected a little before he answered,

“He is, sir.”

“Well, show me in, and tell Mr. Hargrave I am here.”

“I will, sir,” answered the man, whose accent intimated his nationality pretty powerfully.

I thought him a bit of a fool, or perhaps new to his place, and entered the hall, remarking, however, that he shrank away from me as I passed him. Burnt up by the sun, and blinded by the glare in the road, and wearied by my walk, and half-choked with dust, and, above all, utterly disgusted with the extraordinary behaviour of the young lady of the avenue, I flung my hat and bag pettishly on the hall table and marched into a long, handsome drawing-room, the fat man-servant meanwhile watching me intently as I entered, and hurriedly banging the door to when I was within.

I threw myself into an arm-chair, thankful for the privilege of resting myself, and glanced languidly around the spacious room. In any other mood I should have found a great deal to admire; but I was so vexed and amazed by my reception in the avenue, and so irritated by the imbecile behaviour of the footman, that I could think of nothing else.

However, I had scarcely been seated a minute when my uncle came in.

“How are you? how are you?” he cried, grasping my hand. “Delighted to see you and to welcome you. Why didn’t you let us know the train you came by? We would have saved you a scorching walk.”“I wish I had,” I answered; “that hill near the station has nearly been the death of me.”

“Ay, that road in summer is awful. But a glass of seltzer and brandy will soon set you right,” and he rang the bell. “How did you leave them at Grove End?” he inquired.

“They are all very well.”

“They’re a happy family, aren’t they? It always does me good to spend a day or two with Tom. He has the very best nature in the world.”

Here my fat friend entered. How the fool stared at me! I thought there must be something extraordinary in my appearance, and under that impression, got up, after he had left the room, and looked at myself in the glass.

“Oh, don’t mind being a little sunburnt,” called out my uncle, who mistook my object. “I like men well tanned.”

“Indeed,” said I, “I was looking to see what there could be in my face to cause your man to stare at me.”

“Did he? Pray don’t mind him. He’s an Irishman and a faithful fellow, though not a smart waiter. I keep him for his wit, which is sometimes first-rate. He came to me with a high character out of Lord Lavender’s family. Every Hibernian must be forgiven something. You know what Burke said: ‘All Irishmen carry a bit of potato in their heads.’”

Just then the man returned. He fixed his little black eyes on me as he handed me the foaming draught, and for the life of me I couldn’t help bursting into a laugh when, on quitting the room, he stared at me intently, whilst he slowly closed the door.

“That has refreshed you, hasn’t it?” said my uncle.

“Yes, thank you. By the way, I must ask you not to be surprised or shocked if you catch me drinking more brandy than may seem good for me whilst I am with you. I don’t possess my father’s iron nerves, and have a foreboding that I shall stand in need of strong stimulants to sustain me.”

“What now, Charlie?”

“Did you hear a shot fired about ten minutes ago?”

“A what?”

“A shot.”

“No.”

“My life has been attempted,” said I.“Where? When? By whom?” cried my uncle, staring at me.

“In your avenue, and by a tall lady in a tight-fitting dress, whom I have strong reasons for suspecting to be your daughter.”

His face relaxed, and he burst out into one of his stunning roars of laughter.

“Tell me what the minx did?” he shouted.

I told him. Again the room resounded to his roar. As there was really nothing in the incident to occasion so much violent hilarity, I assumed that his sense of the ridiculous was aggravated by the pertinacious gravity of my face.

“Excuse me! excuse me!” he cried. “It was wrong—it was rude—but oh! what an idea! what an idea! Did you think you were shot?”“Really, I had no time to think. I was too much surprised by the lady’s very novel reception of her father’s guest, to reflect upon my danger.”

“Nay, don’t be annoyed by the child’s nonsense,” he exclaimed, recovering his composure. “She is very much to blame for alarming you, and I shall rate her soundly for her conduct.”

“Oh, pray say no more about it, uncle. I confess she surprised me, but I should be very sorry for her to think that I am offended. One thing I must hasten to do when we meet: I must vindicate my character from the charge of cowardice. She looked so very fierce, and levelled her loaded pistol in so very threatening a manner, that the stoutest hero might well have been allowed to feel a little timid.”“I wish,” answered my uncle, looking now thoroughly annoyed, “that she would give up this foolish practice of firing pistols. I like to think my girl plucky; but every day I expect to hear of some accident. Ever since her mother’s death, she has had her own way in everything—though, for all that, I don’t think her nature has been spoilt by my indulgence.” He said this with a shake of the head, that plainly said, “I am sure it hasn’t.”

“You have a charming house,” said I, anxious to change the subject, now that I saw he was annoyed.

“Not such a snuggery as Tom’s,” he answered, and took me to a window at the back of the drawing-room, which commanded a fair view of the grounds, and told me of some titled poet, I forget what lord, who had resided here in seventeen hundred and something four, and of the several famous people, such as Wilkes and Foote, and Selwyn, whom his lordship had entertained. These memories appeared to constitute its great charm in his eyes, and it was with no small pride that he told me there was a room upstairs, in which Soame Jenyns had written his “Art of Dancing.” (I quote from memory, and won’t be sure that I give the right names.) Had he only guessed how tired I was, he would have reserved his gossip.

He presently asked me if I would like to go to my bed-room, and on my answering yes, laid hold of my carpet bag—which by the way he laughed at, desiring me to tell him what time I meant to spend at his house—and conducted me to a room furnished so luxuriously, and commanding so fine a view, that I couldn’t have been more impressed, had I been shown into a state bed-chamber at Windsor Castle.

“There,” said he, looking round him with a glowing face, “in this room, my boy, I have been told, on the very best authority, Smollett corrected the last pages of his ‘Adventures of an Atom.’ What do you say to that?”

“I have read ‘Roderick Random,’” I answered, “and think it in parts as funny as ‘Pickwick.’”

“No, no!” he exclaimed, seating himself near the open window, whilst I, seeing it was not his intention to leave, pulled off my coat, and fell to cooling my face in a basin of water, “nothing equal to Pickwick was ever written. Dickens is a truer humourist than Smollett, and what’s more,” he added, warmly, “there are portions of his writings of which the irony is as good as anything to be found in Swift. Tell me in what particular Dickens isn’t a match for any writer that’s gone before him? His knowledge of human nature is as great as Fielding’s; his pathos is deeper and truer than Sterne’s; he is as tender as Goldsmith, and far funnier than Smollett, who is always farcical when he is comical. I love this great man, and reverence him for the noble use he has made of his noble genius. May the day never break,” he exclaimed, with a solemnity that astonished me, “when Dickens shall cease to be admired; for then surely will all the fine qualities that make up the English character, the love of country, sympathy with the suffering, affection for the past, hatred of cant, and devotion to all that is manly and honest and true, have perished from among us. Whilst these qualities last Dickens will last; his fame rests upon them.”

So saying, he pulled out a cigar-case, asked me if I would smoke, and on my declining, began to puff away like a steam-engine.

“We may do what we like here,” said he, with a grin.

“Nothing to beat liberty,” I replied.

“And yet,” said he, expelling a great cloud of smoke with a sigh, “our happiest days are most often the days of restraint. When my poor wife was alive my liberties were jealously curtailed; and now I would give up every liberty I possess to clasp her dear hand again, to look into her dear eyes.”“Does Theresa resemble you or her mother?”

“There is a mingling of us both in her. But the mother preponderates. She has profound passions, the deepest nature a woman ever had. Such tenderness! such generous impulses! She has not her equal.”

Good gracious! I thought. How affection blinds us! Tender, indeed—confound her! she nearly killed me! And here I thought of Conny, and inwardly groaned, “Always thine, my own! faithful unto the end!”

“Shall we go down-stairs?” asked my uncle.

“I am ready,” I replied; and we left the room. But we didn’t go down-stairs at once. My uncle was very proud of his house, and was evidently determined to lose no time in showing me over it. My amiability was proof against my weariness; but I really shuddered at the prospect of being shown into, perhaps, twenty rooms, and detained on each threshold in order to hear the literary and social history that made up the interest of the floors and walls.

However, our progress was not so tedious as I had feared. On entering one room, indeed, my misgivings returned: for, in this room somebody of importance had, in a fit of intoxication, played a practical joke of a very awful nature, the effect of which was to render a negro imbecile for life; but, after this narrative, we got on pretty briskly.

A very few words will describe the house. It was full of long passages and rooms, into which I was constantly stumbling, owing to the majority of them being sunk a foot or so beneath the level of the corridors. Some of them were empty: those that were furnished were furnished handsomely. One side of the roof was flat, and my uncle led me through a trap-door, whence we emerged into so broiling a sun, and on to a floor so burning, that I darted hastily down the staircase, protesting that if I wasn’t killed by a sunstroke, I should be roasted alive. He told me that, in the cool of the evening, it was a great treat to sit upon this roof, “for from it,” said he, “you may obtain as fine a prospect as any to be found in England.”

I was beginning to grow somewhat curious to meet my cousin, and to examine with calmness and courage a young lady who thought nothing of enforcing her commands with a revolver; but my uncle had not yet done with his house. I was to see the library before I was to be allowed to take mine ease. I hardly cared enough about books in those days to feel an interest in his collection. He was a complete Oldbuck in his devotion to old volumes, broadsides, tracts, and scarce editions. Many of his books, he assured me, as he stood with his back to the door, complacently surveying the large collection that was ranged, row upon row, round the walls, were worth their weight in gold.

“Here,” said he, pulling out a folio, “is a book for which I gave eight guineas, and for which I should consider myself insulted by an offer of twenty. Look at those engravings. You might search a thousand libraries, and not find this gem.”The name of the book I forget: but I wouldn’t own that the engraving he opened the book at, and pointed to with immense triumph, struck me as very rude, and not to be compared with illustrations to be found in modern books, costing only a few shillings. Bibliomania must be humoured, like any other form of madness. I was bitten with it myself not many years ago, and thought more of old bundles of illegible print stitched in parchment, well perforated with moths and worms, than of emeralds and diamonds. He pulled down several other volumes to show me, explaining their value and chattering about their contents in a style which convinced me that he was one of the very few book-buyers who are book-readers. I grew at last so thoroughly tired of having to stand and feign attention and interest, that I proposed that we should return to the drawing-room, where I might hope to meet my cousin.