esteemed themselves so fortunate or felt so happy. This was having a friend at court, indeed.
‘It’s nothing to what it will be at night,’ said Thomas. ‘You will have “Hail, star of Bellamont!” and “God save the Queen!” a crown, three stars,’ four flags, and two coronets, all in coloured lamps, letters six feet high, on the castle. There will be one hundred beacons lit over the space of fifty miles the moment a rocket is shot off from the Round Tower; and as for fireworks, Bob, you’ll see them at last. Bengal lights, and the largest wheels will be as common as squibs and crackers; and I have heard say, though it is not to be mentioned——’ And he paused.
‘We’ll not open our mouths,’ said his father, earnestly.
‘You had better not tell us,’ said his mother, in a nervous paroxysm; ‘for I am in such a fluster, I am sure I cannot answer for myself, and then Thomas may lose his place for breach of conference.’
‘Nonsense, mother,’ said his sisters, who snubbed their mother almost as readily as is the gracious habit of their betters. ‘Pray tell us, Tom.’
‘Ay, ay, Tom,’ said his younger brother.
‘Well,’ said Tom, in a confidential whisper, ‘won’t there be a transparency! I have heard say the Queen never had anything like it. You won’t be able to see it for the first quarter of an hour, there will be such a blaze of fire and rockets; but when it does come, they say it’s like heaven opening; the young markiss on a cloud, with his hand on his heart, in his new uniform.’
‘Dear me!’ said the mother. ‘I knew him before he was weaned. The duchess suckled him herself, which shows her heart is very true; for they may say what they like, but if another’s milk is in your child’s veins, he seems, in a sort of way, as much her bairn as your own.’
‘Mother’s milk makes a true born Englishman,’ said the father; ‘and I make no doubt our young markiss will prove the same.’
‘How I long to see him!’ exclaimed one of the daughters.
‘And so do I!’ said her sister; ‘and in his uniform! How beautiful it must be!’
‘Well, I don’t know,’ said the mother; ‘and perhaps you will laugh at me for saying so, but after seeing my Thomas in his state livery, I don’t care much for seeing anything else.’
‘Mother, how can you say such things? I am afraid the crowd will be very great at the fireworks. We must try to get a good place.’
‘I have arranged all that,’ said Thomas, with a triumphant look. ‘There will be an inner circle for the steward’s friends, and you will be let in.’
‘Oh!’ exclaimed his sisters.
‘Well, I hope I shall get through the day,’ said his mother; ‘but it’s rather a trial, after our quiet life.’
‘And when will they come on the terrace, Thomas?’
‘You see, they are waiting for the corporation, that’s the mayor and town council of Montacute; they are coming up with an address. There! Do you hear that? That’s the signal gun. They are leaving the town-hall at this same moment. Now, in three-quarters of an hour’s time or so, the duke and duchess, and the young markiss, and all of them, will come on the terrace. So you be alive, and draw near, and get a good place. I must look after these people.’
About the same time that the cannon announced that the corporation had quitted the town-hall, some one tapped at the chamber-door of Lord Eskdale, who was sealing a letter in his private room.
‘Well, Harris?’ said Lord Eskdale, looking up, and recognising his valet.
‘His Grace has been inquiring for your lordship several times,’ replied Mr. Harris, with a perplexed air.
‘I shall be with him in good time,’ replied his lordship, again looking down.
‘If you could manage to come down at once, my lord,’ said Mr. Harris.
‘Why?’
‘Mr. Leander wishes to see your lordship very much.’
‘Ah! Leander!’ said Lord Eskdale, in a more interested tone. ‘What does he want?’
‘I have not seen him,’ said Mr. Harris; ‘but Mr. Prevost tells me that his feelings are hurt.’
‘I hope he has not struck,’ said Lord Eskdale, with a comical glance.
‘Something of that sort,’ said Mr. Harris, very seriously.
Lord Eskdale had a great sympathy with artists; he was well acquainted with that irritability which is said to be the characteristic of the creative power; genius always found in him an indulgent arbiter. He was convinced that if the feelings of a rare spirit like Leander were hurt, they were not to be trifled with. He felt responsible for the presence of one so eminent in a country where, perhaps, he was not properly appreciated; and Lord Eskdale descended to the steward’s room with the consciousness of an important, probably a difficult, mission.
The kitchen of Montacute Castle was of the old style, fitted for baronial feasts. It covered a great space, and was very lofty. Now they build them in great houses on a different system; even more distinguished by height, but far more condensed in area, as it is thought that a dish often suffers from the distances which the cook has to move over in collecting its various component parts. The new principle seems sound; the old practice, however, was more picturesque. The kitchen at Montacute was like the preparation for the famous wedding feast of Prince Riquet with the Tuft, when the kind earth opened, and revealed that genial spectacle of white-capped cooks, and endless stoves and stewpans. The steady blaze of two colossal fires was shrouded by vast screens. Everywhere, rich materials and silent artists; business without bustle, and the all-pervading magic of method. Philippon was preparing a sauce; Dumoreau, in another quarter of the spacious chamber, was arranging some truffles; the Englishman, Smit, was fashioning a cutlet. Between these three generals of division aides-de-camp perpetually passed, in the form of active and observant marmitons, more than one of whom, as he looked on the great masters around him, and with the prophetic faculty of genius surveyed the future, exclaimed to himself, like Cor-reggio, ‘And I also will be a cook.’
In this animated and interesting scene was only one unoccupied individual, or rather occupied only with his own sad thoughts. This was Papa Prevost, leaning against rather than sitting on a dresser, with his arms folded, his idle knife stuck in his girdle, and the tassel of his cap awry with vexation. His gloomy brow, however, lit up as Mr. Harris, for whom he was waiting with anxious expectation, entered, and summoned him to the presence of Lord Eskdale, who, with a shrewd yet lounging air, which concealed his own foreboding perplexity, said, ‘Well, Prevost, what is the matter? The people here been impertinent?’
Prevost shook his head. ‘We never were in a house, my lord, where they were more obliging. It is something much worse.’
‘Nothing wrong about your fish, I hope? Well, what is it?’
‘Leander, my lord, has been dressing dinners for a week: dinners, I will be bound to say, which were never equalled in the Imperial kitchen, and the duke has never made a single observation, or sent him a single message. Yesterday, determined to outdo even himself, he sent up some escalopes de laitances de carpes à la Bellamont. In my time
