His complexion was the beau ideal of youth and health, but it was neither very florid nor greatly the reverse, nor was he very dark nor very fair; and to sum up my description in one intelligible phrase, he was superbly handsome.
It took but a very short time after he was fairly introduced to the fireside to make him look as if he felt himself very comfortably and happily at home; and how was it possible to look at that bright young face and not sympathise with his obvious enjoyment of being there!
Mr. King and Mr. Mathews were both of them remarkable for their gentle kindly tempers; and there was a joyous smile upon the face of each as they contemplated the undisguised contentment of their unexpected guest, which very cordially declared him to be welcome, notwithstanding the strange abruptness of his entrée.
In the character of Mrs. Mathews there were so many qualities and peculiarities, more remarkable than mere easiness of temper, that nobody, not even her own father, though he had never seen any approach to ill-humour in her since the hour she was born, would have thought of using the phrase “good-tempered” as a suitable description of his daughter; but even her more thoughtful countenance now relaxed as theirs did, into a smile, as the young stranger gave a glance of his bright eyes to each of them in succession, which seemed to say, “Don’t I look very comfortable?”
CHAPTER XII.
AND now the hissing tea-urn was brought in, and Mrs. Mathews set herself to the performance of her duties at the tea-table; but Mr. King, perceiving that the young traveller took advantage of her withdrawing her chair from the chimney corner in order to draw his own nearer to the fire, laid his own hand kindly upon that of the stranger, and finding the touch of it exceedingly like that of a piece of ice, he exclaimed, “My dear Mary, this young gentleman is a perfect icicle! I dare say that your tea-pot will suffice to make us stay-at-homes very comfortable; but upon my word, my dear, I think if we don’t give him something rather more restorative, we shall never be able to thaw him.”
“How very, very kind you are, my dear Mr King!” exclaimed the grateful grandfather, in an accent which showed plainly enough that the long-delayed claim upon his paternity was not listened to with indifference now that it was made. “I certainly do think,” he added, following the example of his hospitable father-in-law, and laying his own comfortably warm hand upon that of the young man, “I certainly do think that a tumbler of warm negus, or even of brandy-and-water would be very well bestowed. May I ring?”
“Pray do, Mr. Mathews,” said his wife, to whom the question was addressed; and she, too, spoke very kindly; and the bell was lustily rung, and the cordially-given order for all that was needful very promptly obeyed, and the handsome young man in as fair a way of being made comfortable as his heart could wish.
And how did he testify his feelings for the genial welcome thus bestowed upon him by three utter strangers?
Such a pair of eyes as his are not only ornamental but very useful too; for it would have been difficult for any words he could have uttered to have expressed one half as much gratitude, tenderness, and pleasure as beamed forth in their soft but lustrous glances.
His first glance was directed to Mrs. Mathews, and it was exactly such a one as a grateful and loving son might have bestowed on a watchful and loving mother. Mrs. Mathews was much struck by it.
The full bright eye was next turned upon old Mr. King, and whether the somewhat dim-eyed old man was conscious of the eloquent expression of that look or not, assuredly his daughter was, for she was instantly aware that no eyes she had ever seen before could so successfully have expressed both reverence and gratitude.
And then the young man looked towards his newly-found grandfather, and it would have required a much harder heart than that possessed by good Mr. Mathews not to have been touched to the very quick by the feeling at once tender and reverential which beamed upon him from that look.
But all this, powerful as the effect was which it produced, passed in a few seconds; but a few more were given to silent emotion, for there was not one of the party who did not appear struck, and in some sort affected by the strongly-evinced sensibility of the young stranger.
“And now, my dear boy,” said Mr. Mathews, as soon as he thought he could speak without betraying more emotion than he wished to display, “now tell me what I must call you. To the best of my knowledge and belief I have never yet heard your name.”
“I am called Stephen Cornington, Sir,” replied the youth, in a tone wherein a delicate ear might have detected a painful consciousness that he had no good right to any name at all.
Mrs. Mathews felt this, and she looked at him earnestly for a moment.
But a look from the small grey eyes of Mrs. Mathews was a very different thing from the eye-beams which flashed from the lustrous orbs off Stephen Cornington; for it was easy enough for her to look at anybody without the anybody being at all aware of it; whereas young Stephen Cornington must have taken some pains to look in the face of any human being without its being very clearly evident that he did so.
The announcement of his name was followed by a short silence, and then Mr. Mathews repeated it.
“Cornington?” said he, interrogatively, “that was the maiden name of your grandmother,” he added, almost in a whisper.
“Yes, Sir, it was,” replied the young man in the same subdued tone.
“Then she called her son by her own name, and not by that of her husband?” said Mr. Mathews, very decidedly in a whisper.
“Yes, Sir,” was again the reply, and this too was said somewhat in a whispering tone; nevertheless, the words, and the low, deep sigh which accompanied them, were heard by Mrs. Mathews.
And then the business of the moment went on, the negus was mixed, and handed to the thankful traveller, as hot as a liberal infusion of sherry would permit it to be; and the kind-hearted preparers of it had the pleasure of seeing it imbibed with every token of satisfaction by the almost frost-bitten guest.
No sooner was the tea-table dismissed, however, than Mrs. Mathews remembered that she had other hospitable duties to perform, more important still than the stirring sugar into the steaming negus; she therefore left her comfortable arm-chair, in the front of the bright, blazing fire, and prepared, with the courage of a martyr, to leave the room also for the very different atmosphere she was likely to find out of it.
But before she did this she paused for a moment behind the chair of her father, and, bending down, whispered in his ear, “The blue room, I suppose, Sir?”
“No, Mary, no; let it be the red room, my dear.” But this reply was not spoken in a whisper, for good Mr. King was too much in earnest on the subject to stand upon ceremony.
Mrs. Mathews lost no time, or, at least, very little, in performing the errand for which she left the room. Most assuredly she was on hospitable thoughts intent, but there were nevertheless a few other thoughts that mixed with them. In the first place, she thought it would be a great deal better for her to summon her prime minister, Sally Spicer, to receive her orders in the den, where she knew, with a very comfortable feeling of certainty, that she should find a good fire. Nor was she disappointed; the fire was burning brightly, and before it was placed the one only arm-chair which adorned the premises, in the most tempting position imaginable.
It was irresistible, and accordingly Mrs. Mathews seated herself, before ringing the bell, for the purpose of holding a short consultation with herself: and thus it was she began:
“Most certainly it is the handsomest face I ever looked at — most certainly it is! Who would have ever guessed that my honoured husband could possess such a grandson? It is not impossible that if all the thoughts of my heart were exposed to mortal eyes at this moment I might be accused of jealousy — jealousy of this handsome young fellow’s grandmother. It may be so. It has been so very often said in tale and history that we do not know ourselves, that I must be as obstinate as a Turk, or an unbelieving Jew, if I doubted the fact; — wherefore I will make myself ready to allow that I may
be jealous, and the more willingly, because, if it be so, that may explain the reason of what is, without some recondite explanation, perfectly unintelligible. For why do I not like him? — so surpassingly handsome as he is; so cordial, so amiable as he is in his manner to every one of us. Why do I not like him? Assuredly it is a clear case. I am — I must be — jealous of his grandmother!”
And’ having seemingly come to this conclusion, much to her own satisfaction, for a very merry sort of smile lighted up her features as she muttered the confession, she sat for some time as if too completely lost in reverie to be capable of any more solitary mutterings for the present.
But then, again, the long-acquired habit returned upon her, and though it would have been no easy matter for a bystander to interpret very accurately what she uttered, she certainly did utter something which might, with tolerable accuracy, be rendered thus:
“But suppose, now, that instead of confessing jealousy, I were to bring myself in guilty of envy; might not that do as well as a proof of my humility? May I not feel something like envy at seeing my quiet, easily-pleased husband enjoying the unexpected happiness of cherishing the offspring of one, of course, he was more or less attached to; while I, after having had the hope given me that the whole of my future life might be cheered by embellishing the existence and winning the affection of John Anderson’s orphan child, find myself engaged in the task of ministering to the wants and wishes of Miss Cornington’s grandson, instead? Yea, verily! it is not jealousy, but envy, that makes me fancy I see something in that handsome face that does not altogether please me. Poor youth! he looked most desperately cold, and despite his beautiful smiles, he looked very weary too. But the red room! — why if the queen were to ask for a night’s lodging here, we could only put her to sleep in the red room. And suppose, after all, that Janet should arrive? Nothing is impossible; she might come six months hence, after everybody here, excepting her father’s old friend, had forgotten all about her. And if she did, and if this young Hercules had taken possession of the red room, the same room that her father slept in the only night that this roof ever sheltered him — if this should happen, how should I like it? I will not trust myself; I know I could not bear it decently, and therefore, good father, I must take the liberty of lodging my newly-discovered grandson in the blue room.”
Having come to this decision, Mrs. Mathews rose, and rang the bell; whereupon, with as little delay as the corkscrew staircase would permit, Sally Spicer stood before her.
Now Mrs. Mathews had very few secrets that she kept from Sally Spicer. She never, indeed, had thought it advisable to inform her that she had probably read more books than any woman in Europe; neither had she ever felt called upon to inform her she had once been very near falling in love with a Scotch gentleman, called John Anderson; but in most other respects the union between them was a very confidential one, and Sally Spicer knew perfectly well why it was that her mistress had become Mrs. Mathews, after remaining for fifty years so very contentedly as Mary King Upon Sally’s now entering the den, her mistress pointed first to a chair, and then to the chimney-corner, upon which Sally, who was perfectly familiar with all her lady’s telegraphic signals, wasted no time in ceremony, but immediately seated herself as directed.
“Who do you think this young gentleman is, Sally?” said Mrs. Mathews, looking very demurely in the old woman’s face.
“How should I know, Miss Mary? asking your pardon, Mrs. Mathews,” replied Sally “That is very true, my good Sally; it is quite impossible that you should either know or guess,” replied Mrs. Mathews, “and therefore I will tell you. This young gentleman, Sally, is my grandson.”
“Dear me, ma’am!” replied Sally, laughing, as she knew she must be expected to do, “What can you mean, I wonder, by Saying that?”
“Upon my word I don’t mean any joke,” returned Mrs. Mathews; “when men and women marry, you know, Sally, the relatives of one become the relatives of the other. Mr. Cornington, that is his name, Sally, Mr. Cornington is the grandson of Mr. Mathews.”
“I ask your pardon, ma’am,” said Sally Spicer, with rather more of respectful reserve in her manner than usual, “I ask your pardon, I’m sure, for my blundering, but I thought as Mr. Mathews was a single gentleman up to the time when you married him.”
Mrs. Mathews did not smile, no, not the least in the world, for in spite of all her odd ways she was a very well-behaved gentlewoman; but after the pause of a few seconds, she replied, “You were quite right, Sally. Mr. Mathews was never married before. But when he was a young man he became, as he told my father very honourably before we were married, the father of a son by a woman whom he has never seen since, and the young man who arrived here this evening is his grandson.”
“Yes, ma’am,” returned Sally, casting down her eyes very respectfully, but evidently feeling a good deal shocked.
“How long he will stay here, Sally,” resumed her mistress, “I really do not know. That of course must depend upon circumstances; but my dear, kind father has invited him to stay here for the present, and so you must get the blue room ready for him.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied the good woman, rising with alacrity, and considerably relieved in her mind at hearing that it was the blue room and not the red one, which was to be prepared upon this most unexpected occasion; “Yes, ma’am! we shall be less than no time about it, Hannah and me together. But, in course, the sheets have got to be aired, and so I must not stay talking any longer I think.”
“Quite true, Sally,” returned her mistress, “and I, too, have no business to be sitting here.”
And so saying she rose, not without reluctance, from her favourite chair, quitted her beloved den, and returned to the parlour fully determined that no feeling, whether proceeding from envy, or jealousy, or love for her den, or dislike to anything else, should lead her to do anything, or to leave anything undone, which Mr. Mathews might interpret into unkindness or incivility to the youth whom he had so readily welcomed as a grandson.
CHAPTER XIII.
ON returning to the parlour she found the young stranger and her husband sitting very lovingly side by side, and her dear old father looking with gentle benevolence on them both. It really was a most amiable picture, and Mrs. Mathews, though fresh from her den, whence she sometimes certainly brought rather cynical feelings, was in no way disposed to disturb its harmony.
The blooming, though very decidedly sleepy, Stephen Cornington, turned his handsome head towards her as she entered, and eagerly moved his chair so as to make room for hers, close to the fire, and close beside himself.
“Is it not a very cold night, ma’am?” said he, assisting her as she placed her chair almost on the hearth-rug.
“It is, indeed,” she replied; “and as I suspect that travelling in such weather must make you long for a bed, beyond anything else, I have given orders that you shall have one immediately made ready for you. But I must beg you to tell me whether I am right in fancying that you would rather go to bed than wait till a more substantial supper can be prepared for you than our tea-table has afforded.”
“Indeed, dear lady, you are right!” replied the young man, looking at her very gratefully. “Did you know all the happiness I feel from the more than kind reception I have met with here, you might wonder perhaps that I should not wish to sit up all night in order to think of it. But I was up this morning very early, and I certainly feel now not exactly as if I wanted to sleep, but as if I wanted to lie down and think over all that has happened to me since I lay down last.”
“No wonder! no wonder, my dear boy!” said Mr. Mathews, affectionately tapping him on the knee. “No supper in the world would do you so much good as going to bed.”
“Upon my word I think so too,” said the venerable master of the mansion, accompanying the words with a smile of the most hospitable kindness. And this in its turn was repaid with a grateful bow, and the words, “Thank you, my dear sir! I thank you with all my heart for your great kindness to me.”
/> A few more gentle words, and a few more gentle looks, and a few applications of the poker to the fire, for the purpose of making it burn brighter, though it burned as brightly as possible before, sufficed to occupy the time till Sally Spicer opened the door, and coming close to the chair of her mistress, audibly pronounced the welcome words, “Everything is ready now, ma’am.”
“Well then, I think we must keep you no longer, Mr. Cornington,” said the lady of the mansion. “My maid will show you the way to your room, and I hope you will find it comfortable, and that you will sleep well.”
“Thank you again a thousand times for all your kindness!” replied the young man, seizing her hand, and raising it to his lips with a sort of hasty fervour which made it evident that the feeling which led him to do so was irresistible, “ Thank you a thousand, and a thousand times! Oh! how few are there who, situated as you are, would have acted as you have done!”
“Do you think so?” said Mrs. Mathews, quietly withdrawing her hand, and applying it to the tongs for the purpose of still further improving the fire. “Well, then, good night,” she resumed, having completed the operation, and perceiving when she turned round again, that the grateful young man was keeping her father standing longer than was good for him, while he dwelt upon the unbounded hospitality of which he was the object.
He took the hint with smiling quickness, and having once more wrung the hand of his grandfather, he seized upon the bed-candle which Sally Spicer held ready for him, and with a good-humoured glance of his bright eyes full in her face, exclaimed, “Now then, you kind-looking agent of the very kindest of mistresses, go on and show me the way.”
Sally, too, smiled as she returned his glance with one of almost wondering admiration; and obeying the gay signal with which he pointed towards the door, she preceded him through it, and then turned and closed it after him.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 387