man,” said I, joyfully. “I confess frankly that I was very much afraid of that leap.”
“Ho! Yet you said, what can be done once can be done twice.”
“I did not say it could be done, but ought to be done.”
“Humph! That’s better put.”
Here the man rose; the dog came and smelt my legs, and then, as if satisfied with my respectability, wagged the stump of his tail.
I looked across the waterfall for the old woman, and to my surprise saw her hobbling back as fast as she could. “Ah!” said I, laughing, “the poor old thing is afraid you’ll tell her master,—for you’re the head gardener, I suppose? But I am the only person to blame. Pray say that, if you mention the circumstance at all!” and I drew out half a crown, which I proffered to my new conductor.
He put back the money with a low “Humph! not amiss.” Then, in a louder voice, “No occasion to bribe me, young man; I saw it all.”
“I fear your master is rather hard to the poor Hogtons’ old servants.”
“Is he? Oh! humph! my master. Mr. Trevanion you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I dare say people say so. This is the way.” And he led me down a little glen away from the fall. Everybody must have observed that after he has incurred or escaped a great danger, his spirits rise wonderfully; he is in a state of pleasing excitement. So it was with me. I talked to the gardener a coeur ouvert, as the French say; and I did not observe that his short monosyllables in rejoinder all served to draw out my little history,—my journey, its destination, my schooling under Dr. Herman, and my father’s Great Book. I was only made somewhat suddenly aware of the familiarity that had sprung up between us when, just as, having performed a circuitous meander, we regained the stream and stood before an iron gate set in an arch of rock-work, my companion said simply: “And your name, young gentleman? What’s your name?”
I hesitated a moment; but having heard that such communications were usually made by the visitors of show places, I answered: “Oh! a very venerable one, if your master is what they call a bibliomaniac—Caxton.”
“Caxton!” cried the gardener, with some vivacity; “there is a Cumberland family of that name—”
“That’s mine; and my Uncle Roland is the head of that family.”
“And you are the son of Augustine Caxton?”
“I am. You have heard of my dear father, then?”
“We will not pass by the gate now. Follow me,—this way;” and my guide, turning abruptly round, strode up a narrow path, and the house stood a hundred yards before me ere I recovered my surprise.
“Pardon me,” said I, “but where are we going, my good friend?”
“Good friend, good friend! Well said, sir. You are going amongst good friends. I was at college with your father; I loved him well. I knew a little of your uncle too. My name is Trevanion.”
Blind young fool that I was! The moment my guide told his name, I was struck with amazement at my unaccountable mistake. The small, insignificant figure took instant dignity; the homely dress, of rough dark broadcloth, was the natural and becoming dishabille of a country gentleman in his own demesnes. Even the ugly cur became a Scotch terrier of the rarest breed.
My guide smiled good-naturedly at my stupor; and patting me on the shoulder, said,—
“It is the gardener you must apologize to, not me. He is a very handsome fellow, six feet high.”
I had not found my tongue before we had ascended a broad flight of stairs under the portico, passed a spacious hall adorned with statues and fragrant with large orange-trees, and, entering a small room hung with pictures, in which were arranged all the appliances for breakfast, my companion said to a lady, who rose from behind the tea-urn: “My dear Ellinor, I introduce to you the son of our old friend Augustine Caxton. Make him stay with us as long as he can. Young gentleman, in Lady Ellinor Trevanion think that you see one whom you ought to know well; family friendships should descend.”
My host said these last words in an imposing tone, and then pounced on a letter-bag on the table, drew forth an immense heap of letters and newspapers, threw himself into an armchair, and seemed perfectly forgetful of my existence.
The lady stood a moment in mute surprise, and I saw that she changed color from pale to red, and red to pale, before she came forward with the enchanting grace of unaffected kindness, took me by the hand, drew me to a seat next to her own, and asked so cordially after my father, my uncle, my whole family, that in five minutes I felt myself at home. Lady Ellinor listened with a smile (though with moistened eyes, which she wiped every now and then) to my artless details. At length she said,—
“Have you never heard your father speak of me,—I mean of us; of the Trevanions?”
“Never,” said I, bluntly; “and that would puzzle me, only my dear father, you know, is not a great talker.”
“Indeed! he was very animated when I knew him,” said Lady Ellinor; and she turned her head and sighed.
At this moment there entered a young lady so fresh, so blooming, so lovely that every other thought vanished out of my head at once. She came in singing, as gay as a bird, and seeming to my adoring sight quite as native to the skies.
“Fanny,” said Lady Ellinor, “shake hands with Mr. Caxton, the son of one whom I have not seen since I was little older than you, but whom I remember as if it were but yesterday.”
Miss Fanny blushed and smiled, and held out her hand with an easy frankness which I in vain endeavored to imitate. During breakfast, Mr. Trevanion continued to read his letters and glance over the papers, with an occasional ejaculation of “Pish!” “Stuff!” between the intervals in which he mechanically swallowed his tea, or some small morsels of dry toast. Then rising with a suddenness which characterized his movements, he stood on his hearth for a few moments buried in thought; and now that a large-brimmed hat was removed from his brow, and the abruptness of his first movement, with the sedateness of his after pause, arrested my curious attention, I was more than ever ashamed of my mistake. It was a careworn, eager, and yet musing countenance, hollow-eyed and with deep lines; but it was one of those faces which take dignity and refinement from that mental cultivation which distinguishes the true aristocrat, namely, the highly educated, acutely intelligent man. Very handsome might that face have been in youth, for the features, though small, were exquisitely defined; the brow, partially bald, was noble and massive, and there was almost feminine delicacy in the curve of the lip. The whole expression of the face was commanding, but sad. Often, as my experience of life increased, have I thought to trace upon that expressive visage the history of energetic ambition curbed by a fastidious philosophy and a scrupulous conscience; but then all that I could see was a vague, dissatisfied melancholy, which dejected me I knew not why.
Presently Trevanion returned to the table, collected his letters, moved slowly towards the door, and vanished.
His wife’s eyes followed him tenderly. Those eyes reminded me of my mother’s, as I verily believe did all eyes that expressed affection. I crept nearer to her, and longed to press the white hand that lay so listless
