CHAPTER XXIX.
I think that people's value, or want of value, is seldom their own: itbelongs rather to the circumstances that surround them--to attributesforeign to themselves--outside of them. Had Robinson Crusoe, whilewalking down Bond Street in flowing wig and lace ruffles, firstmet his man Friday, he might have tossed him sixpence to avoidhis importunities; but would hardly have taken him into intimatefriendship--would hardly even have admitted him as a man and abrother. Among the blind the one-eyed is king, and among a crowd oftotal strangers an acquaintance rises into a friend.
Lonely Esther is half-inclined to effect this metamorphosis in thecase of Miss Blessington. The mere fact of having eaten, drank, andslept for a considerable period under the same roof with her--the barefact of having lived with and disliked her during a whole month andmore--was enough recommendation in a house not one of whose inmates hadshe ever beheld before. Almost as a friend has she greeted her thismorning. With admiration most unfeigned, though made a little bitterby mental comparison with her own dimmed, grief-blighted beauty, hasshe regarded the stately woman, the splendid animal, sleek and white asa sacred Egyptian cow; the brilliancy of whose pale, bright hair, andthe perfect smoothness of her great satin throat, are heightened by thesober richness of her creaseless black velvet dress. Voluptuous, yetcold, the passions that her splendid physique provoke are chilled todeath by the passionless stupor of her soul. I am not at all sure thatimpassioned ugliness--supposing the ugliness to be moderate, and thepassion immoderate--has not more attraction for the generality of menthan iced beauty.
Esther's warmth is thrown away; she might as well expect that the"Venus de Medici" would return the pressure of warm clinging fingerswith her freezing, sculptured hand.
"I was so glad to find you here last night: it was so pleasant to seea face one knew," Miss Craven says, with the rash credulity of youthunexpectant of snubs.
Miss Blessington looks slightly surprised. "Tha--anks; it is very goodof you to say so, I am sure," she answers, rather drawlingly, andwith a small, cold smile that would repress demonstrations much moreviolent than any that Esther had meditated. It is difficult _always_to remember that one is a "companion."
The Blessington dining-room is, like the other reception-rooms, hugeand very nobly proportioned. Did we not know that our seventeenth andeighteenth century ancestors were not giants, we should be prone toimagine that it must have been a race of Anakims that required suchgreat wide spaces to sup, and sip chocolate, and play at ombre in.The furniture is in its dotage; it has, figuratively speaking, likeits owners, lost hair and teeth, and all unnecessary etceteras; it isreduced to the bare elements of existence. Three tall windows look outupon a flat lawn, and in the middle of this lawn, exactly oppositeEsther's eyes, as she sits at breakfast, is an unique and chaste pieceof statuary, entitled "The Rape of the Sabines." The space afforded bythe stone pediment is necessarily limited, and consequently Roman andSabines, gentlemen and lady, are all piled one a-top of another in suchinextricable confusion as to demand a good quarter of an hour's closeobservation to determine which of the muscular writhing legs belongto the Roman ravisher and which to the injured Sabine husband. As thesculptor has given none of his _protegees_ any clothing, the snow hasbeen kind enough to throw a modest white mantle over them all.
"Mr. and Mrs. Blessington do not come down to breakfast?" says Esther,interrogatively, as the two girls seat themselves at table.
"No; they breakfast in their own rooms."
"I suppose," says Esther, with some embarrassment, "that they willsend for me if they want me for anything, won't they? Perhaps" (withdiffidence)--"perhaps you will kindly tell me the sort of things theywill want me to do?"
"My uncle will be down presently," answered Miss Blessington, "and hewill then expect you to read to him until luncheon."
"To read what? The Bible?" inquired Esther, who has a vague idea thatthe Bible is the only form in which literature should employ theattention of the aged.
"The Bible? Oh, dear, no!" (with a little laugh). "The papers: the_Times_, _Saturday_, and _Justice of the Peace_, are his favourites;he takes a great, a _remarkable_ interest, considering his age, inpolitics."
"I like reading aloud," says Esther, resolute to look on the brightside.
"Reading aloud to my uncle is very fatiguing," replies Constance,cheeringly: "one has to sustain one's voice at a pitch several octaveshigher than the natural one. I attempted reading to him once or twice,but it affected my throat so much that I had to leave off," she ends,with a little lackadaisical cough.
"I daresay it won't affect mine," rejoins the other rather drily.
There is a pause. Talking is a vice to which Miss Blessington is nowiseaddicted--more especially objectless talking to a little person of thefeminine gender who is not one of _nous autres_.
"I hope," says Esther, presently, trusting to the obtuseness of hercompanion's perceptions not to discover the flagrant hypocrisy of thequestion--"I hope that Sir Thomas was quite well when you left Felton?"
"Quite--thanks."
"And Lady Gerard?"
"Yes--thanks."
"And--and" (bending down her head in the vain endeavour to screen thered blush that the frosty sun, flaming in through the window opposite,makes obtrusively evident)--"and Mr. Gerard?"
"He is _very_ well--thanks," replies Miss Blessington, with theconscious smile that had formerly exasperated Esther, and with anemphasis not common with her.
Miss Blessington does not usually employ emphasis: it is _mezzoceto_,as is enthusiasm of which it is the exponent.
Half an hour later Esther is sitting beside the old squire, as close aspossible to his best ear, brandishing the _Times'_ giant squares in herunaccustomed hand. The old squire is a superb wreck. Spiteful Time isfond of removing the landmarks that youth sets upon our faces; is fondof changing great, clear, almond eyes into little damp jellies--sweetmoist pursemouths into dry bags of wrinkles; but it is a task beyondeven _his_ power to destroy the shape of that grand old bent head--todeface the outlines of that thin-nostriled, patrician nose.
"What shall I read first?" asks the young girl, timidly, butenunciating each syllable with painstaking slowness and clearness.
"The State of the Funds," replies the old gentleman, promptly,thrusting his hand into his breast, and closing his eyes, in hisfavourite attitude.
Esther has not the most distant idea where the "State of the Funds"lives: she turns the huge sheets topsy-turvy--inside out, outsidein--in the vain search for their habitat, making, meanwhile, themost unjustifiable aggressive rustling and crackling, which shepresumptuously trusts to his deafness not to hear.
"Don't make such an infernal crackling, my dear!" he says presently,with some pettishness.
"I thought you could not hear," she unwisely answers, trembling.
"God bless my soul, child! The dead would have heard the noise you weremaking," he rejoins, snappishly.
Having at length mastered the fact that the "State of the Funds" comesunder the head of "Money Market and City Intelligence," Esther givesthe desired information. Then follows a leader:
"The position of American politics is at this moment peculiarlyperplexing and anomalous; so perplexing that even those Englishobservers who, like ourselves, have given a careful and constantattention to the course of the Transatlantic movement since the firstappearance of Secession, can hardly pretend clearly to understand----"
"Pretend clearly to _what?_ For God's sake don't gabble so!"
"Can--hardly--pretend--clearly--to--understand--the--full--meaning--of--the--situation,--and--must--feel--that--it--would--be----"
"Is there no medium, may I ask, between gabbling and drawling?"
"And must feel that it would be rash to express a confident opinionthereupon."
Esther now proceeds for a considerable period unchecked--graduallyand unconsciously relapsing into the brisk gallop so dear to youthwhen engaged upon a subject that does not interest it. Suddenly a deepslumberous breath, drawn
close to her ear, makes her aware that herhearer has lapsed into sleep.
"I have read him to sleep," she says to herself, with a sort oftriumphant feeling at her own prowess, taking furtive glances at thewrinkled profile, sunk, in perfect imbecility of slumber, on his breast.
Not feeling any particular personal interest in the effect of Secessionupon American politics, she stops, and gazes vacantly out of window atthe "Rape of the Sabines." But the cessation of the sweet monotony thatlulled him, arouses the old man.
"Go on--go on!" he cries, fussily, lifting his head and opening hisdim eyes. "What are you stopping for? Read that paragraph over again;you read it so fast that I could not quite follow the meaning of it."
She complies, and so, with dozing and waking, waking and dozing, onone side, reading and stopping, stopping and reading on the other, thelittle drama plays itself out till nearly luncheon-time.
"We are going to drive into Shelford this afternoon; do you feelinclined to come with us, Constance, my dear?" asks the old lady, asthey quit the luncheon-table--Esther dutifully bringing up the rear,with air-cushion, footstool, and _couvre-pied_.
"Not to-day, aunt, I think--thanks," answers Constance, with the utmostsweetness; the "Not to-day" seeming to imply that on some future morrowshe will gladly avail herself of the invitation to join her elderlyrelatives in their _triste_ airing; but Miss Blessington being in hergeneration a wise woman, that morrow never comes.
The old family-coach rolls round the frosty sweep to the door; twolarge horses, sleek and fat with over-many oats and over-little work,draw it.
"The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet."
"Give me your arm, Miss Craven; one is very apt to fall this frostyweather," says the old lady, appearing at the door, transformed, by theaid of numberless cloaks and shawls, and a huge velvet bonnet, dateanno domini, into a large and perfectly shapeless bundle.
Supported on one side by Esther's slender arm, and on the other by theflorid and plethoric butler, she is hoisted up the three steps intothe body of the ancient machine, which is painted invisible green, andhung marvellous high in air. The same course is pursued with the oldgentleman, who, muffled, comfortered, and scarved up to the tip of hisvenerable nose, follows. Lastly, the young prop steps in, and sitsdown humbly with her back to the horses--a process which usually endsin making her sick. The windows are shut tight up; a great hot skin ofsome wild beast is thrown over their knees; in that confined atmosphereit emits a strong furry odour, more powerful than agreeable; strivingemulously with it--sometimes mastering it, sometimes mastered by it--isthe fusty smell of the cloth lining. The old people do not seem toperceive either; old noses have less keen scent, old lungs require lessair to feed on, than young ones.
"Trit-trot, trit-trot, trit-trot," goes the old vehicle along thebeaten snow of the broad turnpike-road. As they are jogging alittle brisklier than usual down a _very_ slight decline, the oldgentleman speaks--his strong, shaky old voice loudly audible above the"rumble--rumble--rumble," which, joined to the want of air, is fastmaking Esther faint and headachy:
"What the deuce does Ruggles mean going at such a pace down these steephills? Does he think he is to knock my horses' legs all to pieces forhis own amusement?"
"I'm sure I don't know, Mr. Blessington," answers the old lady,nervously laying hold of the side of the carriage; "it is not at allsafe this slippery weather; I'm sure I hope the horses are roughed."
"Miss Craven, tell him to mind what he is about; tell him to goslower--_much_ slower," says the old gentleman, in some excitement.
Miss Craven, having with some difficulty lowered the front window,thrusts her head out of it, and, having taken the opportunity to openmouth and nose and eyes as wide as they will go, to inhale as large aquantity as possible of crisp fresh air, cries: "Ruggles! Ruggles! goslower! _much_ slower!"
Ruggles grins, but complies, and subsides into a solemn walk,which continues until they reach Shelford. There smug bareheadedshop-keepers, violet-nosed, scarlet-fingered, standing out in the coldstreet at the carriage-door, executing with pleased alacrity extensivecommissions of half a yard of elastic for Miss Blessington--threeounces of red wool for Mrs. Blessington's knitting--half a dozen blueenvelopes for Mr. Blessington. Then, "trit-trot, jig-jog," home again.
Dinner at six: a later hour would be fatal to his digestion, theold gentleman thinks, then, a nice long evening--long as one ofthose _Veillees du Chateau_, when Madame la Baronne read aloud someenthralling yet severely moral tale, and Caesar and Caroline andPulcherie all sat entranced, unheeding the flight of time, as tickedaway by the chateau clocks. There is only one small lamp in thewhole of the grand old room, and that, in deference to the old man'sfailing eyes, is hung with so large and deep a green shade, that it isimpossible to see to do anything by its light. There is nothing forit but to gape, from seven till ten, at the great battle-pieces hunground the walls--to endeavour to make out, by the aid of the fitfulfirelight, the singularly clean dead bodies, free apparently fromthe slightest speck of dust, or stain of blood; at the red-nostriledchargers, snorting away their ebbing lives with all four legs inthe air. At ten o'clock, James rung for, to light the candles: thenMrs. Blessington, her air-cushion, work-basket, and Shetland shawl,escorted to her room; two long chapters and several psalms read to her;then a frightened rush along dark passages and draughty galleries tothe great distant bedroom--to the rats' multifarious noises; to theingenious tunes played by the wind upon the rattling window-frames; tothe ginger-curtained bed and many-folded screen; to _possible_ sleep,and _certain_ terrors--terrors none the less awful for being totallyunreasonable.
Red as a Rose is She: A Novel Page 29