Before the servant who announced Mrs. Mathews retired, he was ordered to let Sir Charles know that Mr. Mathews was there, and having given this order she seemed to think herself at liberty to give her whole attention to the ladies of the party, although she certainly was aware that Mr. Mathews had not concluded the interesting little romance he had been relating concerning his grandson.
But Lady Otterborne in her quiet way was rather apt to look unconscious as to when Mr. Mathews was talking and when he was not, and it was probably because he was used to this that he now appeared to endure it with such great indifference; for no sooner had she withdrawn her attention from him and devoted it wholly to his wife, than he rose from his chair with an air of the most perfect good humour and contentment, and taking his grandson by the arm led him to the windows, whence he dilated on the beauty of the park they overlooked, with as much apparent interest as if the premises had been his own.
Mrs. Mathews meanwhile did not deem it necessary to enter into any very detailed explanations respecting her young companion. She introduced her as “Miss Anderson, the daughter of an old friend who had formerly been well known in the neighbourhood.”
Lady Otterborne looked at her for a moment with her large dark eyes, the tranquil expression of which often left the observer doubtful whether the look betokened a meditative sort of interest in what she looked at, or an absent mind occupied in something that had no connection with it.
On the present occasion, Mrs. Mathews could not help flattering herself that the former interpretation would be the right one; for her ladyship smiled, offered the young laxly a hand, and placed her in a chair that accidentally stood almost in front of the sofa on which she had herself been sitting, and on which she now placed Mrs. Mathews beside her.
It certainly was a fact, and no delusion of Mrs. Mathews’ partiality, that Janet Anderson was a very lovely girl, and her beauty had that sort of interest in it which leads people — women as much as men perhaps — to find amusement in looking at it, and in watching the expression of the features. And it was doubtless for this reason that Lady Otterborne repeatedly fixed her gentle eyes upon her, and repeatedly spoke to her, too, and that with a greater appearance of interest than she generally displayed. And in this there was certainly nothing extraordinary, and if Mrs. Mathews had been in all respects a wise woman, she would scarcely have been so very much delighted by it, for assuredly there are few things better worth looking at than a beautiful young girl, perfectly unaffected in aspect and demeanour, and equally removed in manner both from shyness and presumption — and such was Janet Anderson.
“Mathews! my good fellow! How are you?” cried the very loud voice of a very stout, tall man, for whom a servant threw widely open the door of the room in which Lady Otterborne and her guests were sitting, “Egad, it is an age since I set eyes upon you!”
“That was because you were in the metropolis, Sir Charles,” replied Mr. Mathews, almost tottering under the touch of the heavy hand which welcomed him. “You may be very sure that I have paid my duty here repeatedly; but London, London, London! — that is our rival, Sir Charles. And who can wonder? Where men are formed to shine in a higher sphere, they seldom feel contented in a lower one.”
“I don’t know about that, Mathews; I am passionately fond of the country, — I am, upon my soul; you know I am. But who is this handsome spark that you have brought to see me? Any relation, Mathews?”
“Does the likeness strike you, my dear Sir Charles?” replied Mr. Mathews, with a smile of ineffable delight. “I thought it would! Upon my word I did! You have such uncommon quickness!”
“You are a capital good fellow, Mathews, always. But you have not told me who this young gentleman is,” returned the puzzled baronet.
“He is my grandson, Sir Charles. His name is Stephen Cornington. He is my grandson, and I cannot help saying, that I think he is very like me. Very like what I was, you know, Sir Charles. Everybody says so, I hear. And he is not an ill-looking young fellow, is he, Sir Charles?”
“Ill-looking! No, upon my soul he beats my black-browed boy hollow, in looks. Your grandson, is he? Well, I wish you joy of him; you must make him one of the ‘Hunt,’ Mathews. We want some young fellows amongst us. Have you got a good seat, Coddrington? We ride like devils, I can tell you.”
“Cornington, Sir Charles, if you please, not Coddrington. My young grandson has no right to the name of Coddrington.”
“Well, it’s all one, you know.” replied the baronet, moving his heavy bulk onward towards Mrs. Mathews, and caring much too little about her husband to express or to feel the least surprise at the sudden appearance of this grandson.
“Good morning, Sir Charles,” said Mrs. Mathews, accepting his offered hand, because she could not avoid it, for most cordially did she dislike him.
The baronet, however, punished her as usual for her dissimulation, by making her arm ache from the wrist to the shoulder by his salutation.
“And who have you brought to us, my good madam,” said he, fixing his pale but very impertinent eyes upon Janet, “Is this fair creature your granddaughter?”
“No, Sir Charles,” replied Mrs. Mathews, very quietly, “this young lady is Miss Anderson.”
“Miss Anderson! Is she indeed? I beg your pardon, Miss Anderson, I really did not know you, you are so much grown since we met last, you know, that you must excuse me. I hope I see you perfectly well.”
And as he spoke he took her hand, which he held with disagreeable tightness, though he did not shake it so vehemently as he had done that of her friend. But Janet looked and felt embarrassed, not only from the unpleasant pressure of her poor little hand, but because she thought that she was called upon to confess that she had never enjoyed the honour of seeing him before.
She looked at Mrs. Mathews, but the countenance of that lady did not enlighten her upon the manner of conduct she ought to pursue. In truth, Mrs. Mathews was so familiar with the fact that Sir Charles Otterborne, while affecting the most affectionate intimacy with his neighbours, often in reality scarcely knew some of them by sight, that she was in no degree surprised at his pretending to have seen Janet before, neither did she think it worth her while to suggest any answer which might enlighten him as to the blunder which he had made.
But Lady Otterborne, upon perceiving that her pretty new acquaintance looked really uncomfortable under the eye and in the grasp of Sir Charles, kindly made an effort to release her from both, by saying, —
“Do you know where Herbert is, Sir Charles? He is always vexed if Mrs. Mathews calls without his seeing her. Will you be kind enough to ring the bell?”
This was one of those feminine requests which, as a matter of course, must always be obeyed as an implicit command, and Sir Charles Otterborne accordingly released the hand of Janet Anderson and rang the bell.
“Is Mr. Otterborne at home?” demanded her ladyship of the servant who answered it.
“Yes, my lady, Mr Herbert is in the greenhouse,” was the reply, “Then tell him that I wish him to come here,” said Lady Otterborne.
Yes, that is quite right, my dear,” said Sir Charles, as the servant disappeared. “It is quite right that he should come and pay his compliments to our good friends. And now, Mrs. Mathews, I think we may venture to say that my son and heir may look even at that beautiful young lady with impunity; for I am happy to announce that all the preliminaries for his marriage with our lovely neighbour — the matchless Emily Steyton — are concluded; and I shall not only have the richest heiress in the county for my daughter-in-law, but the most beautiful girl also; for even in the presence of this charming young lady I may say so, because she is hardly old enough yet, I should think, to enter the lists for the apple.”
“I thank you a thousand times, Sir Charles, for being yourself the proclaimer of this delightful intelligence,” said Mr. Mathews, rubbing his hands with an air of infinite glee. “I will not deny,” he continued, “that I had heard some rumour of the kind before, but now I shall f
eel at liberty to proclaim it without any fear of contradiction.”
“That you certainly may, my dear Mathews,” returned Sir Charles. “And won’t I,” he continued, flourishing his right hand over his head in most triumphant fashion—” won’t I make the country ring from end to end! Eighty thousand! — eighty thousand clear, Mr. Mathews! — not a cent, less, take my word for it; and you may well guess that I have thought it worth my while to inquire a little about it. Eighty thousand, Sir! and decidedly the handsomest woman in the county. It is an immense match! an immense match, Mr. Mathews. But it is suitable in every way; for though I think Herbert is hardly worthy to be his father’s son in point of looks — for to say the honest truth he is almost as black as a Spaniard, yet I am told that there are lots of people who are ready to swear that he is superbly handsome. And, as to fortune, every one knows what the Otterborne rent-roll is, as well as the thousands which have come to add to it from her ladyship’s side. Nor are we very badly off, I believe, in the article of pedigree. However that signifies but little when everything else is right.”
He continued to run on, in the same boastful style, for some time longer, Mr. Mathews listening to him as to a being of a very superior order indeed; and Stephen gazing at him, and listening to him also, but with a good deal more of critical speculation.
The young gentleman, in truth, seemed to be studying his character, while the mind of his grandfather appeared to content itself with the simple act of admiration.
“What a fine place this is to be sure!” said Stephen, after earnestly looking out of the window for a minute or two. “And it seems so complete, too,” he added. “Didn’t I see a billiard-table, Sir, in one of the rooms near the entrance?”
“Yes, to be sure you did,” replied Sir Charles. “Who could live without a billiard-table? But what do you know about billiards, my young Sir?”
“Hot very much, Sir,” returned the young man, very modestly; “though I love to push the balls about too.”
“Come along, then, my fine fellow,” cried the baronet. “Let us see what you are made of. Egad unless I play with myself, I never hear the sound of a ball here for months together.” And, hereupon, he took the well-pleased Stephen by the arm, and followed by the equally well-pleased grandfather, led the way to his perfectly well-appointed billiard-room.
CHAPTER XXIV
THE heir of the mansion had not been summoned in vain. It would have been difficult indeed for his mother to have called him at any moment when he would not have been ready to come to her, but the hearing that his friend, Mrs. Mathews, was with her, rendered the summons particularly welcome; for, strange as it may seem, this middle-aged gentlewoman was perhaps the most intimate friend he had in the neighbourhood.
Nevertheless the knowing that she was in the drawing-room retarded his arrival there for several minutes; for as the summons found him in the greenhouse, he could not leave it till he had collected for her a magnificent bouquet of all that was loveliest and sweetest among his treasures. Having achieved this greatly to his own satisfaction, he entered the room with both hands so filled with flowers that he was unable to welcome her with either.
I have already said that the young man was like his mother, and most particularly unlike his father; and certainly the light and graceful figure which now entered the room was as perfect a contrast to the heavy clumsy one which had just left it as could well be imagined. Yet even the form was perhaps less strikingly dissimilar than the face, — for, at any rate, they were both tall men. But in that portion of each that has been well termed le chef, whatever seemed wanting in the one was precisely what was most remarkable in the other. In the father, whatever there might be of intellectual, seemed buried and overpowered, as it were, by what was animal; whereas, in the son, so striking was the development of the very noblest order of intellect, that the eloquent features only seemed given to assist the expression of it.
It was easy to perceive, by the very first words that were exchanged between Herbert Otterborne and Mrs. Mathews, that the acquaintance between them had reached a degree of intimacy which greatly exceeded what appeared to exist between any other members of their respective families. It is true, indeed, that Sir Charles called his neighbour “Mathews,” and that my heroine displayed no similar familiarity, for she did not address the son of Sir Charles either as “Herbert” or as “Otterborne,”
The first words the young man uttered as he approached his friend, and laid his fragrant offering on her lap, were the names of sundry rare twigs, — which to the uninitiated would have appeared the least valuable part of the collection, but which she evidently welcomed with extreme satisfaction, immediately drawing them forth as he named them, from the others, and depositing them sacred and apart upon a table within reach. This done, she accepted some worsted, good-humouredly held ready by Lady Otterborne; and having assured herself of the safety of both her precious and her beautiful bouquets, she at length found herself sufficiently at leisure to offer him a hand, which she did with an air of very cordial affection, saying at the same time in a tone but little above a whisper, “Let me wish you joy, my dear young friend. Your father has announced the news. God bless you! May you be as happy as I am sure you deserve to be!”
But much as Mrs. Mathews was engrossed by her flowers and her friend, she would not so far have forgotten Janet as to leave her thus long without presenting the young man to her, had not this ceremony been very graciously performed by his lady mother during the few moments that Mrs. Mathews had devoted, by necessity, to the flowers, in order to prevent their falling from her lap upon the ground.
The eyes of Herbert, though very like both in colour and shape to those of his mother, had not as yet the expression of tranquil abstraction which seemed to have settled upon hers.
The first glance at a very pretty girl will suffice most men, whether young or old, to certify the fact; and even as Herbert walked across the room with his flowers, though his eyes were certainly directed to the old friend for whom they were intended, he became aware that the young stranger seated beside her was beautiful.
But when his mother’s introduction justified his looking more directly at her face, the expression of his own caused Lady Otterborne to smile, for it had less of admiration than of surprise. Yet, why should Herbert Otterborne feel surprise at seeing a beautiful girl in his mother’s drawing-room? The spectacle was not a new one to him, — for he was at that moment engaged to be married to one of the loveliest young women in the world.
But so it was; and when his mother asked him, jestingly, afterwards, why it was that he had looked so astonished, he did not deny the fact, but replied with great naivete that he thought there was something very remarkable about her, and that he did not recollect having ever seen anyone like her before.
Such was Herbert Otterborne’s first observation on the subject of Janet Anderson.
Janet Anderson’s first observation on the subject of Herbert Otterborne was, that she did not think he liked to be congratulated on his approaching marriage; for that pale as he was, he turned paler still when it was mentioned.
This remark was made to Mrs. Mathews as they drove home together; but she made no reply to it, only taking that opportunity of asking her young friend what she thought of his appearance.
“He struck you, then, as looking very pale, Janet, did he?” said she.
“Yes, certainly,” replied Janet; “I think he is very pale indeed.”
“Do you mean to say, my dear, that you think Mr. Otterborne looks out of health?” inquired Mrs. Mathews.
“No. There is nothing sickly-looking about him, I think,” replied Janet.
“But from what you say, I suppose you think him too pale to be at all handsome?” observed her companion. Janet was silent for a moment; and then replied, “I do not think that has anything to do with being handsome. Lady Otterborne is very pale, — but everybody must think her handsome, I suppose.”
“Yes, that is very true; I believe everyone do
es think so,” returned Mrs. Mathews, — and at the same moment the two gentlemen who had left the Manor-house a few minutes after the carriage, passed and bowed to them. “That is the style of manly beauty that you most admire, Janet,” said Mrs. Mathews, laughing, as she gave a glance towards Stephen Cornington.
“Dearest Mrs. Mathews!” exclaimed Janet, colouring violently, “what can make you think so?”
“Your having said this morning that you thought him the handsomest person you had ever seen. Do you not remember it?” said Mrs. Mathews, quietly.
After the pause of half a moment, Janet replied, “Yes, I remember it.”
“And I presume, my dear, that you meant what you said, did you not? It did not appear to me that you were joking. You do think Mr. Stephen Cornington the handsomest man you ever saw, do you not?”
“Upon my word, dearest Mrs. Mathews, I can hardly tell you,” replied poor Janet, looking sorely puzzled. But the next moment she added, with recovered ease and very perfect sincerity, “Your question seems a very plain one, and yet I am puzzled how to answer it. I believe I was in earnest when I said so; and yet I scarcely think I could have been either, for it seems to me now that I am not of the same opinion at all.”
“Well, never mind, Janet. It is one of the many subjects upon which young ladies have the happy privilege of changing their opinions as often as they like.”
And then Mrs. Mathews broke off the conversation, in order to devote all her attention to her flowers; and very happy was she to find that Janet was by no means so ignorant as she expected to find her on that subject, but that she had been mistress of a little garden of her own, and that she loved it as dearly as Mrs. Mathews herself could have done.
Collected Works of Frances Trollope Page 396