“You are a very extraordinary little girl, Sophy Martin,” said, he at length, “a very extraordinary little girl, indeed. To think now, of your having found out what sort of a body my old Barnes is, and that as completely and exactly as if you had known her all your life. I’ll bet fifty pounds there is not another person here who has bestowed a thought upon her, good or bad; nay, very likely they have not even found out her existence. I wish to Heaven I had found out yours, my poor girl, long and long ago; and I should, if I had only done my duty when your poor mother died. Faults are often punished in this life, Sophy, depend upon that, and good deeds often rewarded too.... Another cup, my dear child, and then I’ll see if we can’t get some whist. I used to be very fond of a rubber, but it is years since I last played.... Here,” pussy, pussy, pussy, come and have your cream, old friend.”
At this summons, the voluminous pet of Sir Charles Temple, and the receiver of all the caresses bestowed by -Mr. Thorpe for years, crept from under the old gentleman’s chair, and, rubbing herself lovingly against his legs, answered the invitation with a plaintive “mew.”
“What a cat! What a beautiful creature!” exclaimed Sophia, with an equal mixture of wonder and delight. “Why, uncle, she beats my own dear cat at home, to nothing! I never did see so splendid a creature in my life!”
“You love cats then, Sophy?”
“I believe, uncle, it is almost the only whim I have got,” replied Miss Martin; adding, with something like a sigh— “poor orphans like me, uncle, must not have pets, you know, but I have got a cat. She is the best mouser in the world, to be sure, and therefore, poor thing, she certainly pays for her keep.”
Mr. Thorpe’s heart sharply reproached him for his neglect of the kind-hearted orphan; and as he watched her carefully draining the last drop of cream into a saucer for his favourite, he endeavoured to still the self-reproach, by making a silent vow that, let what would happen about more important matters, poor Sophy Martin should have wherewithal to feed a pet cat, or a pet dog tether, if she liked it, without having recourse to rats or mice for their support. The thought pleased him, and he gave her by far the fondest smile he had yet bestowed upon any of his nepotine kindred. “Now then!” he said, rising gaily from his chair, “let us see about a card table.”
As he turned to commence his canvass for players, he encountered Algernon Heathcote, who, with a book in his hand, was reclining in a huge arm-chair placed against the wall at no great distance from Miss Martin’s little tea-table.
“Ah! reading my boy? Why you have got one of Mrs. Barnes’ household Bibles, as she calls them. You will find one in every room in the house. — That is one of her rules, dear good woman, and an excellent one it is. What have you been reading, my dear?”
“The story of Jacob and Esau, uncle,” replied Algernon, demurely.
Mr. Thorpe scarcely heard the answer, for he was applying himself to the bell in order to make requisition for cards — but Miss Martin heard him perfectly.
“Who can play a rubber?” demanded the master of the house, as soon as the card-table and all its well-prepared appurtenances were set in order.
“The Major plays a capital rubber, sir,” responded Mrs. Heathcote, eagerly, and delighted to find that her beloved was likely to obtain what he dearly loved.
“That’s well,” said Mr. Thorpe; “and you, Spencer?”
“With great pleasure, sir,” replied the graceful official, drawing near, and arranging the diamond on his little finger, previous to extending his hand.
“And who will make our fourth? Mr. Wilkyns seems inclined for a nap. Sir Charles belongs, of right divine, to the young ladies — What say you, Mrs. Heathcote?”
“I am afraid you would not like my play, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “The Major says I don’t know trumps after the first three deals.... but rather than spoil the table....”
“Oh! my dear aunt! I should so like to play!” said the gentle voice of Sophia Martin, who, somehow or other, found herself at this moment standing between her aunt Heathcote and her uncle Thorpe.
“Well, my dear, I see no objection, if your uncle Thorpe will accept of you. She plays a great deal better than I do, does she not, Major?” said Mrs. Heathcote.
“Oh dear! yes, Poppsy, that she certainly does — and the reason’s clear. She likes it, and you don’t, my dear. Shall we admit the young recruit, sir?.... Only we must take care not to ruin her. Perhaps she and I had better play against each other, and then we can settle it.”
“No, no, no; we will cut for partners, if you please. But has everybody done tea?.... Take another cup of tea, Major.... I shall be back in a minute.” And so saying, Mr. Thorpe took up one of the candles from the card-table, and with a brisk step left the room.
Sophia withdrew from the table and placed herself near the fire, her downward eye furtively cast towards the door, which was opened the moment after by Mr. Grimstone, who, respectfully approaching her, whispered a request from her uncle that she would be pleased to step out for a moment.
The young lady obeyed, and found Mr. Thorpe in the hall, standing at the door of his usual sitting-room. He beckoned her to enter, and then closing the door, put into her hands an old-fashioned but very elegantly embroidered purse, with ten sovereigns on one side and twenty shillings on the other.
“Here, my dear child,” said he, “here is a little card-money for you. When this is gone, Sophy, you shall have some more. It is very pretty of you, my dear, to wish to make up the table for us. There now.... run back again, and I will follow in a minute.”
Sophia Martin gave him one look, made up of gratitude, humility, and astonishment, but lost no time in obeying him. She did not run, however; she very rarely did that; but her white frock was visible again amongst the chairs and tables almost before its absence had been perceived.
Mr. Thorpe returned the minute after, and, saying to the Misses Wilkyns as he passed them, “I hope, my dears, you mean to sing to us, as we play.... make Temple help you,” — made his way to the card-table, replaced the candle, spread widen pack of cards to be drawn from, and all with an air of gaiety and good-humour well calculated to convey to every one who looked at him the agreeable fact, that he was exceedingly well pleased with himself and everybody about him.
Major Heathcote and Mr. Spencer were still lingering near the purposed field of action; and at a look from her uncle, Sophia, who was once more whispering to Elfreda her longings to hear her sing, joined them, and the party sat down, the young lady falling to the lot of Mr. Spencer. Miss Martin really played tolerably well for so young a person, very tolerably well, and the courteous Mr. Spencer paid her many compliments.
“I believe,” said Mr. Thorpe, looking at her kindly, “that this little lady can do everything well.”
“It is only by giving a little attention, uncle,” she replied. “I know very little about the game, as uncle Heathcote can tell you; but, of course, if three uncles condescend to play with me, the least I can do is to be attentive.”
But, notwithstanding Sophia’s humble opinion of her own play, the rubber was a very good rubber, and enjoyed accordingly.
Meanwhile that dear resource of young ladies, whether they can play or not play, whether they can sing or not sing, — that pretty occasion of display for faces and graces, — that concealer of yawns, — that relaxer of aching limbs. — in one word, the piano-forte, formed a centre about which the three Misses Wilkyns, Sir Charles Temple, Mr. Bentinck and Mr. Montagu Spencer continued to walk and talk, for a considerable time; till at length, after a great deal of coaxing and pressing, refusing and coquetting, Miss Eldruda Wilkyns sat down to play, and the Misses Elfreda and Winifred stood up to sing. The air and its accompaniment were performed much in the style that might have been expected from young ladies who had been made “rather particular” by having a master once a week from Swansea. Sir Charles Temple, however, stood it out, and, without doubt, would have thanked the young ladies for their exertions in his favour, had
he not, at the very moment they concluded, heard, or fancied he heard, Mrs. Heathcote speak to him from her very comfortable unchanged position on the sofa, where she still sat, with Florence at her side.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Heathcote!” he said, striding rapidly across the room, — what was it you said?”
“Nothing, sir. I did not speak at all.”
“Indeed! I fancied that I heard you call me. Your young son has escaped, I perceive. I presume that he felt rather overfatigued by the journey of this morning.”
“I don’t know about fatigued, sir. To be sure, Algernon, poor fellow! is not so strong yet as I hope he will be. But as to Florence, here, it seems a joke to talk of her being fatigued by travelling fifty miles or so, in a post-chaise, when she can walk a dozen without being a bit the worse for it: and yet, the fact is, that she is more than half asleep, — are you not, my dear?”
“Then I suppose, Miss Heathcote is not fond of music?” said Sir Charles.
“Oh no! — That isn’t it, neither,” returned Mrs. Heathcote, looking at her and laughing, “for she loves it as well as the birds do, and that is saying a good deal, you know, sir, for they are at their singing from morning to night.”
Here Florence, who was not very fond of hearing herself talked about, rose up, and stole away to the card-table.
“Does the young lady sing, then?” demanded Sir Charles looking at her light graceful figure as she walked off.
“Oh dear, yes!... I may be partial, perhaps; but, to my fancy, hers is the prettiest singing that ever I heard in my life,” replied the step-mother.
“Then, how came you to be so cruel, my dear madam, as not to lay your commands on her to give us the advantage of her voice this evening?’
“Bless me, sir! I should never have thought of such a thing. Poor Florence! — she would have been up the chimney in a minute if I had. I did not mean to say that she was a fine-taught singer, and instrumental player, like those young ladies: there was no chance for her, poor thing! for the Major could never have paid for her teaching, if we had wished it ever so much. And I can’t say I think it would have done her any particular good if we could have afforded it, for she could never be taught to sing sweeter, to our fancies, than she does now; and there’s nobody to hear her at Clevelands besides ourselves.”
“And why should you suppose, Mrs. Heathcote, that nobody’s fancy would accord with your own? Why should not other friends have the pleasure of hearing her voice when it is within their reach?”
“Lord bless you, sir! how should she be expected to have courage to sing in company like this? I don’t suppose she could get through a song in this fine place if you would give her the world,” said Mrs. Heathcote with so much animation that more than one head was turned towards the sofa.
“Mr. Algernon is a beautiful boy, Mrs. Heathcote. It is a pity he is so delicate,” said Sir Charles, abruptly changing the conversation.
“To be sure it is, — a great pity, because it stops his education. But he will do very well yet, sir, I will venture to answer for it. He is not like the same boy that he was a year ago. He is ten times as strong, — ay, twenty times.”
“And he may thank you for it, I fancy, Mrs. Heathcote. You seem to take most watchful care of him.”
“God forbid I should not, sir! He is a boy that well pays for care. I never knew the like of him, for heart and understanding both. I don’t know what a person must be made of not to love him. It is impossible for anybody to help it,” replied the step-dame.
“And is the young lady as happy in disposition?” demanded Sir Charles, lowering his voice.
“God bless her! yes. I don’t think there is a pin to choose between them, as to that. They are very remarkable young people as to temper.”
“Kind and careful training generally, I believe, improves the disposition of those who are so happy as to meet with it,” said Sir Charles. “That young lady also, who is playing whist, is so happy as to be one of your family, Mrs. Heathcote, is she not?”
“Yes, sir, Sophy Martin lives with us,” replied Mrs. Heathcote.
“And there can be no doubt, I am sure, that she repays your attention in the same delightful manner as her cousins?” said the baronet, rather interrogatively.
“Sophy Martin has not lived with us quite a year yet,” replied Mrs. Heathcote.
It would have been far from polite, as Sir Charles Temple thought, to ask any more questions about Miss Martin, and therefore he desisted, spite of the conscientious wish which urged him to obtain all the information possible respecting the characters and dispositions of the young people, from among whom his old friend’s heir was to be selected, and in which selection he had been so earnestly requested to assist.
It is indeed but fair to suppose that the uselessness of making any such attempt in the case of the co-heiresses, was the cause of his rather evident disinclination to cultivate any particular intimacy with them; Mr. Thorpe having distinctly declared that, though invited to the family meeting, he considered them as excluded by their paternal inheritance from being among the candidates for his estate. Not so Mr. Bentinck and Mr. Montagu Spencer, however. And determined to prepare himself for the cross-examination which he expected from Mr. Thorpe, he placed himself in a chair about midway between the card-table and the pianoforte, and ventured to break in upon the languid performances which were going on at the latter, by saying quite aloud, “Well, young gentlemen! What do you mean to do with yourselves to-morrow?”
The two boys wheeled round towards him, as if moved by one and the same mechanism. “To-morrow, sir?” said the elder in a sharp shrill voice.
“Can’t we skate, sir?” said the younger.
“Skate?” returned Sir Charles. “Oh yes, if you are skaters. There is plenty of good ice. Are you proficients?”
“First-rate!” said Bentinck.
“Capital!” said Montagu.
“Then you’ll do very well, provided you have brought your skates. But first-rate skaters, I believe, never stir in winter without them.”
The boys looked blank, and exchanged a glance and a shrug. “That’s a devilish bore then, for I’m sure.... almost.... that we’ve got none. be you think we have, Bentinck?”
“Can’t say.... the servants may have put them up, for anything I know. I say, Montagu.... perhaps the governor thought we should find some here?”
“Do you think the old fellow has got any?” said one, lowering his voice. “Old Thorpe, I mean.”
“It will be a d — d bore if he hasn’t,” said the other.
* * * * *
The whist table now broke up. A tray made its appearance, and the sounds produced by the entrance of it seemed to awaken the Welsh squire, for just as it was placed upon the table he opened his eyes for the first-time since the tea left the room. This gentleman, and the two young Spencers made the most of what they saw placed before them; but the rest of the party were not supper-eaters, and in another half hour the drawing-room was left vacant, and the various bed-rooms and dressing-rooms had received the guests.
CHAPTER VI.
Of all things which fate and fortune had yet given her to enjoy, separately and solely for her own particular use and benefit, Florence Heathcote best loved an early morning walk. In spring and autumn she was wont every morning of her life, when weather permitted, very literally to meet the sun upon the upland lawn; and though in the full summer tide his godship was generally up before her, she had many a time and oft stood all dew-bespangled on the green hill behind her father’s house to watch his rising. But in the winter, these solitary, musing, holy, and most happy hours, were altogether lost for her at home. Not because the hardy little girl trembled at a snow-storm or shrunk before a frost; but because these morning joys must, in order to be perfect, be tasted before breakfast, and the active habits of the Heathcote family caused the morning kettle to be boiling so very early, that Florence must have walked forth in darkness, had she walked forth at all, if attempting to do so be
fore the morning meal.
But just as Mr. Thorpe’s company were separating for the night, the question was discussed as to what hour would be most agreeable for them to meet again for breakfast; and the majority of voices were decidedly for ten instead of nine o’clock. On hearing this, our unrefined young rustic instantly decided, in the secret absolutism of her own autocratic heart, that neither drowsy uncles nor elegant cousins should imprison her in her chamber till that time, — at least if the sun shone, and she could find means of opening a door or a window, by which to pass out and look upon the new world around her.
With this scheme in her head, Florence gazed with considerable interest at the heavy house-door, as she passed with the ladies through the hall to the staircase. But there was a massive sternness in its structure which disagreeably checked her hopes of studying the geography of Thorpe-Combe on the morrow in all the delicious liberty of solitude. She felt in a moment that all such knowledge was
“At that entrance quite shut out,”
and her eyes wandered in vain for some promising side-passage that might give hope of finding a postern exit.
She had not entered her pretty apartment, however; many minutes, before one of the subsidiary waiting-maids, two or three of whom were found in attendance at the top of the stairs to marshal the guests the way they were to go, came to her with offers of disrobing services. Florence was not accustomed to much personal attendance; but having no little sister at hand to stand on tip-toe and unfasten her frock, she accepted the offer; and while the business was going on, asked the neat-handed damsel a few questions which she flattered herself might lead to the discovery of the sally-port she was so anxious to find. Nor was she disappointed. In reply to one of these questions the girl answered —
Oh dear! yes, Miss. The grounds lies all round the house entirely. There is no place in the whole country has got such gardens, excepting just Temple, which is quite a sight, almost, in the way of grounds. But ourn here is beautiful pleasant in the summer time, as you’ll be able to guess, to-morrow, Miss, though the ground be so covered up with frost; ‘cause there’s to be a fire lighted for the ladies in the morning, in the east parlour, and there’s a beautiful large glass-door there, as opens in the very midst of the shrubs and evergreens.”
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 284