“Oh! excellent young man! How do I honour thee!” exclaimed Mr. Thorpe, lifting up his hands and eyes in admiration. “You have not studied Cinderella for nothing, Sir Charles Temple; and there is, I believe, still in the coach-house a sort of a pumpkin, which, once upon a time, was a handsome coach, and which it is very likely may turn into one again, if you set your genius to work upon it. I am quite sure there is nothing you can’t do.”
“We may see about that to-morrow, I suppose?” said the baronet, beseechingly.
“Yes.... I am almost tired now, as well as yourself, Charles.... So go, my dear boy, and come back by five o’clock to dinner. There are the letters to write, Sir Charles!.... we must not forget that.... they shall be circular, however.... that will save trouble, and look impartial into the bargain.”
“Very well.... I will be here,” replied the kind-hearted baronet; and taking up his hat and his gun, he gave his old friend a nod, and departed.
CHAPTER II.
It was impossible that movements and consultations of so novel and remarkable a nature could be carried on in the parlour, without exciting something of the same kind in the kitchen and housekeeper’s room. The cook, the dairymaid, and the boy, were laying their heads together, after their hard day’s work in the first-named official residence, while Mrs. Barnes, and her niece, who acted as one of the provisional housemaids, were doing the same over a refreshing cup of tea in the second.
As few people knew so much of the matter as the worthy Mrs. Barnes herself, her explanation of it, for the benefit of her niece, may be deserving attention.
“Now, do be patient, Nancy,” said the old lady, “for one minute, till the tea is made and all’s comfortable, and then I’ll keep my promise and tell you every particular about it: and I can’t say but you deserve it, girl, for you have worked like a slave to-day. There.... now take up the toast, and fill up the pot, and sit down.... You wasn’t much more than five or six years old, Nancy, when poor missis died, and I don’t suppose you remember anything about her? You don’t recollect what she was like, do you?”
“No, aunt, not a bit,” replied the young woman.
“So much the better for you, for as you did not know her you could not grieve for her.... but everybody else did, Nancy, — I mean those that did know her, — for she was the best and kindest lady that ever lived. As long as she was spared, everything went well. The only son, as you must have heard tell of scores of times, went on well enough as long as she lived, or, at least, nobody at home ever heard anything to the contrary; but very soon after she died, and while poor master was still almost brokenhearted, he was found out in more than one most good-for-nothing business.... the woman at the shop was the worst, for the hussy was married. Master was like one distracted when it came out, and blew up Mr. Cornilius sky high, there’s no doubt of it; but though it wasn’t a bit more than he deserved, nor so much neither, he wouldn’t bear it, and took himself off, nobody knew where, for months. Then came letters to his poor father, who, from being one of the most visiting gentlemen in the whole country, had shut himself up and saw nobody. This letter, as the dear good gentleman told me himself, had little comfort in it. He was ashamed to come back, he said, and to be sure, for that matter, well he might be; so he asked for money to travel over the whole world, I believe, and money he had, and for years he went on roaming about, writing home once in six months or so, the poor old gentleman growing sadder and sadder every year, till at last no more letters came at all; and for six or seven years past, though it was pretty plain he was dead from his sending for no more money, master has gone on hoping and hoping that he should have him back again; till about a year ago he heard in some roundabout way or other, I don’t well know what, that he was certainly dead somewhere at t’other end of the world; and the poor old soul, he certainly did the best thing he could do, and that was, to send off letters to all the parishes, I suppose to the parsons and churchwardens and those sort of people, for certificates of his death and burial, if dead and buried he was. And, sure enough, it all came, signed and sealed, quite regular, giving an account of his death at most satisfactory full length.... So there was an end of all hopes and fancies upon his account, you see.”
“Then that I suppose was just before I came here last cleaning bout,” said the niece, “for I mind his being low and poorly for some days; and don’t you mind he wanted to take to his bed, only you would not let him?”
“No, to be sure I wouldn’t, dear old gentleman! for what good could that do. ’Twas just like lying down to die on purpose. But after all, Nancy, though he keeps about, and has certainly no business whatever to keep his bed, I think he’s right in the main, about not being as he used to be. If you mind now, he never walks out, let the sun shine as bright as ever it will; and though he keeps on poking over his old books as usual, he never now busies himself with writing down the curiousest things he finds in ’em as he used to do.... so that altogether he is an altered man, Nancy, in more ways than sending after his cousins; and we shall see a change, and sleep under another roof than this, before Christmas comes round again, or I am very much mistaken.”
The conversation then sank into whispered hopes and expectations, in no degree inconsistent with the faithful and well-tried attachment of the worthy housekeeper, but in strict, natural, and inevitable conformity to the feelings of all housekeepers, past, present, and to come, when the probable termination of thirty years of meritorious service is under discussion.
The old woman was quite right in most of her observations and conjectures; and in none more so than in that which pronounced her master an altered man. For years he had cheered his existence by fostering a vague and unsubstantial hope; and, having lost it, he was preparing to die as methodically as he had lived. Notwithstanding the change that had passed over him, however, the same indulgence of whim that had ever marked his character, still appeared in the manner in which he did this. Nothing could be much more dissimilar than the circumstances and station in life of the relatives it was his purpose to summon; but the letter addressed to each was precisely the same, varying only in the address.
Sir Charles Temple kept his word, and as the clock struck five returned with the promised rabbits and larks, and an appetite exceedingly capable of doing honour to whatever Mrs. Barnes and her assistants might place before him.
The dinner, though utterly out of all ordinary rule, appearing by one small dish at a time, was, as usual, excellent; and, for a while, woodcocks were discussed instead of wills, and excellent claret made the theme of unknown, unloved, and almost dreaded cousins, a gay one.
But both woodcocks and claret were at length dismissed, and the business of the meeting brought forward by Sir Charles Temple’s saying as he sipped a cup of Mrs. Barnes’s excellent coffee —
“Now then, Mr. Thorpe, let me hear something more at large, something illustrative and descriptive of the correspondents I am about to address.”
“Your curiosity must feed on itself, Charles, till they arrive,” was the reply, “for I know very little more about them than their names, and not even so much as that very perfectly; for if I have ever been told how the younger branches were baptismally distinguished, I have forgotten it. ‘However, I am willing to tell you all I know. I think I have mentioned before that there is not a Thorpe amongst them; I never had a brother, and my four sisters have long been dead.”
“Then the company will be made up of their children, I presume” said Sir Charles.
“Not altogether; for I have still three brothers-in-law, Who must of course be invited, though I have certainly no intention of making either of these gentlemen my heir. The person who married my eldest sister is a Mr. Wilkyns, a Welshman, with a snug landed property in Glamorganshire, of about fifteen hundred a year, which he farms himself. He has, if I remember rightly, three daughters, and I have certainly no intention of leaving my estate to either of his coheiresses... However, they must come.”
“Then of the young party you expect
three are already placed hors de combat This will simplify the business a little. But are there no lad bairns among them?” inquired Sir Charles.
“Yes, my sister Margaret left two sons; she was the third, and married the last of all. I don’t think the boys are grown up yet. Their father is a Mr. Spencer, who holds a good situation in the Treasury, and of course lives in London.... His wife died very soon after the last boy was born, and I have never seen him since. Mary, my second sister, married an officer, and went to India with, and died there. She left a houseful of children, but most of them are dead I believe; and Major Heathcote married again almost immediately, and has got a hundred more children, I fancy, for I hear they are very poor. Jane, my youngest sister, made a miserable match with a young curate called Martin, who being the cadet of a cadet of a house, which, even in its elder branch, is neither very respectable nor very rich, literally began house-keeping with about two hundred a year. As Miss Jane married in open defiance of both her husband’s family and her own, she had no settlement, and having spent a considerable part of her small fortune, she very prudently died last year. Her husband was gathered to his illustrious ancestors some time before, and all that remains of their silly marriage is one child.... whether boy or girl I really forget, but whichever it is, the child has been adopted, I hear, by Major Heathcote... And now, Temple, you know all I can tell you about these people, all of whom, I am ready to confess, I have neglected more than I ought to have done.... But I have not been happy, Charles; and though God knows I wish that all the young people may have turned out better than my poor boy, I feel no inclination to see it.”
“You are going to atone handsomely to one of them, at any rate,’ replied Sir Charles; “and perhaps you have done more good than harm in not letting them all live for years in a state of doubt and expectation, which would probably have been the case, had you brought them round you when you had first reason to fear that you had lost your son. And now for the letters, then# We most not prejudge this really important question, Thorpe; but I confess, provided there be a boy amongst them, that I feel some partial yearnings towards Major Heathcote’s race. He must be a kind-hearted fellow, must he not, to have encumbered himself with another child, when, by your account, he had rather more than enough before?”
“Yes, that seems to speak well for him, certainly. I totally forget what sort of person he was, for, in fact, I never saw him but once, and that was the day he married.... He was very handsome, and that is all I remember of him... Here’s my letter, Charles, and I will get you to copy it three times over.”
Sir Charles took the paper, and smiled as he cast his eye upon it. “Very concise, friend Thorpe,” said he, “and the copying it threefold will not be a work of great labour.”
“Concise!.... Mercy on me, boy!.... Do you think I want to write them an essay on my forlorn condition, and the result of it? Read it aloud, Charles, and I shall be able to judge if it be anywise abrupt.”
Sir Charles obeyed, and read as follows: —
“Mr. Thorpe, of the Combe, Herefordshire, requests the company of * * * * *, to pass a fortnight of the Christmas holidays with him at his paternal mansion, it being his wish to become personally acquainted with all his father’s descendants before he departs this life.
“Mr. Thorpe would prefer that * * * * * should arrive at the Combe in time to dress for a six o’clock dinner on the 23rd of next month.”
“That’s very well, I think, Charles; exactly what I meant to express, and no more,” said the old gentleman. “Now, if you will just get up, and walk to that table, you will find pens, ink, paper, and sealing-wax, all ready.”
The young baronet followed the directions given him, and placing a fair quire of post before him, began his task, which, as he had observed, not being one of great labour, was speedily accomplished.
No sooner were the three letters sealed than Jem was ordered to gallop with them to the post; and this important deed done, Mr. Thorpe quietly returned to his ordinary tone of conversation, which consisted for the most part of rambling, but very graphic sketches of scenes through which he had passed, when filling the station of minister at the court of Madrid; and references, more interesting still to the fancy of his young companion, to an inconceivably extensive mass of antiquarian lore, collected during long years of solitary reading, and embracing an extent so various as to render any specific description of its object impossible; unless, indeed, the acquiring information, which no other individual was likely to possess, may be stated for it.
CHAPTER III.
As a brief introduction of the parties addressed by Mr. Thorpe’s invitations, the three replies shall be given: —
“DEAR SIR,
“Myself and my three daughters will have the pleasure of waiting upon you on the 23rd of next month, at the time mentioned.
“I remain, dear sir,
“Yours,
“CHARLES LLOYD WILKYNS.
“Llanwellyn Lodge, 30th Nov. 18 — .”
“MY DEAR BROTHER,
“Your invitation is very pleasing to us all, and to say the truth we should all like to accept it. But this, of course, cannot be, as we are twelve in family; that is to say, myself, my second wife, my son and daughter by my excellent first wife, your worthy sister Mary, nine young ones of different ages by my present good wife, and Sophia Martin, the orphan child of your poor sister Jane, whom we have taken to live with us, because, poor thing, there did not seem to be anybody else to take care of her. My wife and I agree in opinion that as it is your wish, as you say, to become acquainted with all your father’s descendants, our nine young ones are out of the question, and therefore, must all be left at home. We therefore propose bringing my eldest girl Florence, who is your own niece; Algernon, her brother, who is likewise your own nephew, but very sickly, poor fellow; and Sophia Martin, who, as I said before, is the child of your sister Jane. Hoping that this arrangement will meet your wishes, “I remain, dear brother,
“Affectionately yours,
“ALGERNON HEATHCOTE.”
“Bamboo Cottage, 30th Nov. 18 — ,”
“MY DEAR SIR,
“I am happy to say that my two sons being about to return from Eton, for the holidays, will be able to accompany me to the Combe, by the 23rd of next month. I shall have much pleasure in presenting them to their maternal uncle, and beg to subscribe myself,
“Dear Sir,
“Yours very faithfully,
“WM. CAVENDISH GORDON SPENCER.”
“Whitehall Place, 30th November, 18 — .”
On the receipt of these letters, Mrs. Barnes was duly informed that she was to prepare for the reception of one dozen guests, all of whom were to be furnished with food, lodging, and attendance befitting the near relations of her master. This was quite enough. Mrs. Barnes, with carte blanche as to expense, carried on her preparations with equal zeal and ability; Sir Charles Temple did exactly what he said he would do, and the subordinates on all sides proved themselves worthy of trust and high pay; so that by the 23rd of December, everything in and about the Combe looked much as it would have done, had its master been possessed of Aladdin’s lamp and ring, instead of only a resolute will and a long purse.
Amidst a good deal of affected indifference as to their proceedings, it was not difficult to perceive that Mr. Thorpe was well pleased by the effective activity of his coadjutors, and that he eyed the renewed splendour of his long-neglected mansion with considerable satisfaction; nevertheless the friendly baronet often caught a sigh, doubtless given to the memory of the lost heir, even when the old man seemed most gaily to approve the renovated aspect of all around him.
The important day at length arrived, and with it the expected guests. The first carriage that rattled over the nicely weeded but long silent drive, was the hack post-chaise which conveyed Major and Mrs. Heathcote, Sophia Martin squeezed in bodkin between them, and their son Algernon and their daughter Florence on two deal boxes before them, which not only served as seats but cont
ained also a very considerable portion of the travelling wardrobe of the family.
Sir Charles Temple’s Frenchman, his mother’s ci-devant coachman, together with the promised Dick, his son, and Jem, lately the boy of all work, all stood in flaming liveries to receive them in the hall; while with an air of dignity which imparted much of its own consequence to the household, the portly Mr. Grimstone, in the very best style of butler costume, was stationed with his hand on the lock of the drawing-room door, ready, to vociferate whatever names should be given him.
These inferior, or at any rate uninterested functionaries, performed the duties consigned to them in a very able manner, and without haring their nerves in the slightest degree affected by the appearance of those upon whom their services were first bestowed. But far different was the state of Mrs. Barnes. At this eventful moment she stood on the first landing-place of the great stairs, the very model in dress and general appearance of What a country gentleman’s housekeeper ought to be, when, in addition to all the importance belonging to the station, she possesses that sort of indescribable dignity which ever attaches, where mistress there is none, to the person who ranks first among the women-kind of an establishment. Her niece Nancy was a stair or two above her, equipped to enact the part of ladies’ maid; while two more exceedingly spruce-looking damsels stood ready in the rear, to carry band-boxes, run for warm water, take possession of cords and travelling cloaks, and, in a word, to perform all the multifarious services which the experienced Mrs. Barnes knew were required when ladies arrived, as she was led to expect would probably be the case on the present occasion, without their abigails. So well arranged were all these matters, that had a few unattended duchesses been unexpectedly added to the company, the self-possessed Mrs. Barnes would have felt in nowise alarmed for the result.... but great was her dismay when from her place of vantage she looked down upon the party who first appeared to partake of the welcome that had been in all points so assiduously prepared. The first person who reached that part of the hall which was within sight of the scrutinizing eye of the housekeeper, was Mrs. Heathcote. Had Mrs. Barnes seen her twenty years before, however {defective she might even then have found her tournure (for Mrs. Barnes was exceedingly aristocratic in her taste), she could not have refused to acknowledge that she was very pretty; Wt sixteen times Within that period Providence had blessed her house with increase, and each successive process of maternity having left her with very considerable additional plumpness, her form had now arrived at a state of rotundity that forcibly suggested the idea of a sphere. Nor was her costume more in accordance with Mrs. Barnes’ taste, than her person; for the cloak that kept her warm was of a coarse fabric.... the wires of her black and yellow satin bonnet had been buffeted amidst the many heads in the post-chaise into a shape by no means favourable to her general air and appearance; while the waddling gait, probably inevitable upon the supervention of so remarkable a degree of — , rendered her altogether as great a contrast as can be well imagined to the graceful ladies she had hoped to see making a part of this family meeting. The three young people followed, straggling and apart; but all that Mrs. Barnes could ascertain concerning them was, that one of the girls was considerably shorter than the other, though neither of them looked childish, and that the youth who was the tallest of the three, was chiefly remarkable for the accumulation of worsted warmth-preservers that enveloped his slender person. Major Heathcote, after seeing that all the luggage was taken out, and paying the post-boy, rejoined his weighty rib as she stood before the drawing-room door, which she had desired might not be opened till he came up; and then bending his tall thin form sideways, so as to enable his lady to reach his arm with her fingers, he gave a military signal to the butler that he might advance, and in another moment they had passed from before the eyes of the housekeeper.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 279