“It is proper,” he wrote to Mrs. Torquil’s attorney, “that all these points should be clearly ascertained as promptly as may be, as I am satisfied that on Miss Mildmay’s coming of age, which will be in eleven weeks from this time, she will receive more than one eligible proposal of marriage.”
“Now,” said he to Mrs. Jenner, holding one of the rather cunning letters of Mrs. Torquil’s attorney by the comer, as he stood at the window where he had been reading it, “I see the Jesuit in all these letters. That poor woman no more inspires them than I do. She has got herself into their hands, and they want her money for a college or a mission; and do you recollect the smooth-faced man with the spectacles, and the oddly-made coat, and the collar, you know, who came down here by way of looking at the scenery? I pointed him out to you. That gentleman came down, depend upon it, to make enquiries, and ascertain exactly what we were all about. Well were it for our church if we had one-half their activity.”
All things contrary, one against the other. There was a counterpoise here; for the ecclesiastical invasion alluded to was more than compensated for by a visit promised in a letter from his admirable friend the Dean of Crutchley Abbey.
“I have made acquaintance with a charming person, a Mr. Burton, an enthusiastic church extensionist. He is about visiting the northern counties, and goes furnished with introductions. If you have any movement of that kind on foot just now, I think you will find him able and willing to give you a lift. I showed him the ground plan and elevations of our little building at Crutchley Abbey, and he instantly subscribed. He would have put himself down for fifty pounds if we had not limited our subscription, as I told you. As he is going northward, and loves the picturesque, I recommended him to visit your beautiful town, which he very likely will in a few days; and I ventured to give him a line of introduction to you, as one who could tell him where to find all that is curious and beautiful about Golden Friars.”
The vicar had his secret misgivings, and his wife her private hopes that the visitor might prove a new suitor to Laura. Upon this point suspense was soon ended.
CHAPTER XVII.
MR. BURTON.
MR. BURTON arrived at night at the George, where he put up. He saw his landlord, and intimated his particular likings and dislikings. Also it came out that he meant to stay a few days — possibly weeks-under his comfortable roof. He inquired about the vicar, to whom he had a letter, and heard that he was well, but that Mrs. Jenner had sprained her ankle the other day in a foolish scramble among the mountains.
Mr. Burton had no servant with him, but the nature and magnificence of his correspondence more than made up for this. He had sat up writing till past eleven, and the letters which he sent down in the morning for the little postoffice struck honest Mr. Turnbull with very great respect. There was one to a Sir Somebody Something, Bart.; there were two to noble lords — peers of the realm; and there was one, big enough to require two stamps, to his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury.
At the same time, no person could be more modest in his demeanour, and in all respects less a troublesome inmate than Mr. Burton.
He was affable, even chatty, with his host, who could not fail to perceive in a little time that Mr. Burton was a man in whose mind religion, though never obtruded, was always present.
He felt a very great respect, under all the circumstances, for Mr. Burton.
Shortly after breakfast, the stranger made an early call at the vicar’s, being anxious to find him at home. It was a beautiful summer morning, and he stood on the vicar’s steps, smiling at the noble mountains on the other side of the lake, as if they had been beloved and long-lost friends.
Mr. Burton was announced. It was a venerable man who entered the vicar’s study, rather tall-not infirm-bald, but not very bald, and with the finest silken white hair, rather long, and a ruddy complexion and a smiling countenance, and a manner very gracious and urbane.
The vicar received him as a hospitable man of God should. They chatted very agreeably on all manner of subjects. The stranger seemed much interested about the state of religion in the region with which the vicar was best acquainted, and asked leave to make a note or two of some facts which he told him.
They then went out, and saw the town and the church, about which Mr. Burton, to the great delight of the vicar, became quite enthusiastic.
“It is quite a gem, a treasure, this little church. To think that we should not have known a word about it in London! You are quite right, though; your predecessors have obscured, and even injured, some parts of the building. Do you know Lord Complines?”
No, the vicar had not that honour.
“Oh! Then I must write to him myself. He’s one of us. We are a little society of some fifteen people, and in the way of restoration and that sort of thing we have been doing, you’d say, a good deal. I’ll write to him tonight, and tell him all about it; and when I get back to town, if you entirely approve, we’ll get an architect to run down and look at it; and I can answer for it, if you’ll give us leave, and aid us with advice and direction, it shall be one of the very earliest things we undertake.”
The vicar was charmed with his new friend, and soon Miss Mildmay was equally pleased. This old man was so accomplished, and was, in a very pleasant way, able to interest and instruct her so very much, by new lights and curious facts and anecdotes, on the subjects she liked best, that if he had been only some thirty years younger, I think Charles Shirley and Sir John Mardykes would have suspended their mutual jealousies, and turned their united animosities upon the fortunate Mr. Burton.
The old gentleman did not care very much for dining out, but very often he dropped in to tea. Here Charles Shirley, who lived hardly two miles away from the town, very often made one of the party.
Bitter was the chagrin with which this, among other advantages attendant on the young man’s proximity to Golden Friars, inspired the sensitive baronet, who lived in Mardyke Hall, four miles away, and could not, without exciting undue observation, be at all as perpetually as he liked in the purlieus of Golden Friars.
It was rather hard that Mr. Burton, the quietest of mortals, here in the seclusion of his “Happy Valley,” should be involved indirectly, but very uncomfortably, in a sort of quarrel.
Mr. Burton was in church on Sunday, a pattern of attention, solemnity, and benignity, to all good church-goers.
From the Mardykes’ pew, the clear and solemn accents of this venerable man, whom Sir John politely harbours, with himself, in that sanctuary, as it were dominates the responses which the clerk leads. The solemn and silvery tones were distinguishable in every nook of the church; and, indeed, from most parts of it was visible the reverend white head of that tall worshipper.
In the town, so far as he was known, he was highly esteemed. He had already made out two or three cases of poverty and suffering, which, after due inquiry, he unostentatiously relieved. It was his principle that a wayfarer, like himself, should become a citizen, in all points, during the time of his sojourn; he thus took care, that while enjoying his holiday, he did not divest himself of the charitable offices of a Christian, nor wrong the place of his temporary abode of the advantage of an inhabitant. In all matters of duty he was a little severe with himself.
He took Mr. Turnbull, of the “George and Dragon,” into council, and talked over many things with him that concerned the town, and made notes of the information he obtained.
“I like the town, I like the people,” he would say; “and before I take my leave, I should like to do it and you a service. You are not to talk about what I say — it is between you and me; but you want a little money down here. For instance — it’s a trifle, but still, to the ‘George’ it is something-the little jetty and the three boats that, I am told, were at the service of the inn in old times, have disappeared, the boats altogether, and the jetty nothing but the piles left. Well, that’s a pity. The town paid two-thirds of the cost, while it was a borough, and the ‘George and Dragon’ one-third, in old times. But that arran
gement is over and gone, and your inn has neither boats nor jetty. Now, six or seven hundred pounds would restore all that, and I’ll see that the money is forthcoming. Before I leave this, I’ll have people down here to look after it, and we’ll make the boats the property of the inn; do you understand, for the use of the innkeeper for the time being. I’m so placed with relation to some people of influence, and with so handsome a fund to act with, that I can undertake for that and a great deal more. I’m charmed with your town. I haven’t seen so pretty a thing in England, and I have only to make the proper representations to have things undertaken here, and an outlay of some six thousand pounds in improving the beauty and convenience of the place. We have been doing wonders elsewhere, and I like this better than any place I have visited. You need not mind telling the people here, you know, that anything of the kind is intended.”
But in spite of all his cautions, honest Mr. Turnbull could not keep all this quite to himself, and Mr. Burton began to be looked at across the street, and even in church, with more reverence than was awarded to common mortals.
Dr. Lincote especially admired him. He had paid that physician a visit about the projected dispensary, asked many questions, and finally put down his name for two hundred pounds, which he would be happy to pay when the right time came. A letter would always reach him under cover to his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury, wherever he might be, which would not be very distant, and he might reckon upon his cheque within a week after.
“He’s in correspondence with the Archbishop, I know that from old Turnbull,” swore Doctor Lincote, “and with half the swells in England; I tell you it was not the worst thing that ever happened for Golden Friars, Mr. Burton’s coming down here; and I think you’ll find he won’t stop at the Dispensary!”
On this particular Sunday Mr. Burton was as devout as usual in Sir John Mardyke’s pew. Devout enough for both, the worthy baronet seemed to think, for his eyes and thoughts were engaged very agreeably by a graceful figure in the vicar’s pew across the aisle.
After church he walked up to the vicar’s with Sir John Mardykes and beautiful Miss Laura Mildmay. On the other side walked Charles Shirley. Two rivals for supporters. The baronet looked very sulky. Did not pretty Miss Laura incline more to the younger man? Heaven send there be not a bloody hand, in earnest, in the matter!
After luncheon, Miss Mildmay went up to sit with good Mrs. Jenner. Mr. Burton and the vicar fell into talk; and the baronet and Charles Shirley, having nothing to say to one another, said goodbye to their host and departed.
When Mr. Burton, a little after, had taken his leave of the vicar, a gloom came over him, and he walked silently by the shore, not of the far-resounding deep, but of the stirless lake, in which were reflected the sky and mountains.
I can understand the strange sense of relief with which an old traveller, into whose pleasant book I lately happened to look, exclaims, on losing sight of the Alps, “Thank heaven, I have at length quite escaped from these terrible mountains!”
Very distant mountains convey no idea of the sombre fascination and awe of mountain scenery. You are barred and ribbed in by huge purple ramparts, furrowed by ravines, swelling into rocky curves, or sinking into deep murky shadow. The steep and solitary ascent mounts upward and upward still, until fainter as it soars, its summits plae into shadows, or show their white pinnacles sheeted in snow faintly against the sky.
Here, at Golden Friars, on a more contracted scale, the same influence is felt. This pretty village of many gables and steep roofs, clumped round with noble trees, among which rises eminent the grey church tower, standing at the margin of the lake, and overtopped nearly on every side by mountains near and high, has an air of solitude that is overpowering.
Those impressions, of course, lose something of their force by habit. But I have never stayed there long enough to impair them; and although the people are not wanting in cheerfulness, there is, it always seemed to me, a spirit of quietude and solemnity over the people themselves.
For me, this place has always had the glory of a paradise, but with a sense of imprisonment also. I have looked round with the thrill and elevation that brings tears to the eyes, and yet with a heart oppressed with a strange gloom. The forms and habitations of man seem to dwindle to nothing in such an amphitheatre, and looking up its huge and solitary sides, the imagination stills and quails.
Was it the effect of the scenery, or was it the shadow of a coming annoyance? Mr. Burton sat down in what seemed unusual gloom upon the trunk of a fallen tree, and leaning his chin upon his hand, looked across the lake with a darkened countenance, not like that ever cheerful benevolence which charmed the little circle of Golden Friars.
CHAPTER XVIII.
MR. BURTON IN DESHABILLE.
IT was some hours later, and a fine moonlight night. The afternoon service was long over, and what cause on earth could have induced Sir John Mardykes to mount his taxcart, and drive at the best pace of his famous trotter, Flying Dutchman, who won the wager on the Brighton road, back again at this hour all the way from Mardykes Hall to Golden Friars?
Sir John was glowering and sniffing, and purpling in the moonlight; such was his resentment as he flew along the beautiful road that winds by the margin of the lake.
A letter had reached him late that evening. It had come with others, and his servant had brought it from the neighbouring postoffice.
It was written in a vulgar hand and ill-spelled, and the story it told was this: That Charles Shirley had amused Miss Laura Mildmay less than a week before by telling her how he (Sir John) dyed his whiskers, and twisted in curl-papers so much hair as Time had left him; how his insteps were entirely composed of cotton wadding, his feet being “as flat as flounders”; how his shoulders were formed of the same material, nature having denied him any; how he was known to rouge at the race and hunt balls, and practised dancing with old Mrs. Hinchley, his housekeeper, in a deserted garret at Mardykes Hall, with a great deal more that was ridiculous and insulting; and how all this was said in presence of Mr. Burton, who could not deny it.
A two-pint pot, although it may hold many quarts of beer in succession, cannot hold more than one quart at a time. The measure of the capacity of Sir John Mardykes’ head was represented by one idea. That it could hold — but not a second, without displacing the first.
Sir John was too full of his one subject to think of artificial proprieties-to think of anything else, in fact.
Up the stairs of the George he trotted, hot and serious, and, with the ceremony of a knock, but without waiting for an answer, he opened Mr. Burton’s door and walked in, saying —
“How d’ye do, Mr. Burton-how do you do, sir? I — ohl.”
Sir John stopped short in the middle of the room.
It was Mr. Burton’s habit to lock his door when he came up for the evening. He could have sworn he had done so on this occasion. But Homer nods-and Mr. Burton had palpably neglected to turn his key as usual in his door.
He was sitting with his dressing-gown on, in an easy-chair, with a bottle of brandy and some water, and a glass before him; a half-smoked cigar-smouldered between his fingers, and a pair of candles burned on his table. But Sir John was a good deal startled.
Mr. Burton’s teeth were gone, and his left eye was out, and a deep ugly hole was in the place of that organ. He had screwed his mouth into a grim grimace, and his face looked ever so broad, and ever so short.
His whole face was crimson with the fire of brandy, not brandy-and-water, for the aroma was fiercer than even moderate dilution would account for. His lips were pursed and working, as they will over toothless gums. The blank eye puzzled the baronet, and the other pierced him with a gleam of fire.
On the dressing-table close by were two tumblers of water, in one of which were Mr. Burton’s teeth, and in the other his glass eye.
The loss of these unsuspected auxiliaries made a very disconcerting change in Mr. Burton’s appearance — a transformation, indeed, that absolutely astounded Sir Joh
n Mardykes; and perhaps the discovery a little abashed and irritated the stranger, who, still staring hard at the baronet, rose, and both remained for some seconds silent.
“I’m afraid I’ve somehow put my foot in it, sir,” said Sir John bluntly; “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Burton, that I should have interrupted you.”
“You have interrupted nothing, sir. I don’t know what you mean. I intend, if you allow me, to go on with my cigar; and my doctor tells me I must sip a little brandy-and-water. Will you try a cigar? or will you take a little brandy-and-water? or may I tell them to bring a little sherry and a biscuit?”
Was it fancy, or was it the loss of Mr. Burton’s teeth? It seemed to the baronet that that excellent man was speaking ever so little thickly.
“You’re very good, but — no, thank you very much, nothing. I came — I was very anxious — to say a few words; but I’m afraid I’m rather in your way; am I?”
“Dear me, Sir John, not in the least. I hope I should be found always ready to confess any infirmity; but personal infirmities I can’t conceive any one’s being ashamed of. For the sake of articulation I use those things over there, and to prevent my being quite shocking to my friends, I use the glass eye. I lost my eye in a trifling accident in a railway carriage, on my way to our great and interesting meeting about the Jewish mission. Looking out of the window, a particle of iron, hardly so large as the point of a pin, flew into my eye. I neglected it, an ulcer formed, the cornea was perforated, and-and the thing was done. It is a comfort, Sir John, we know that everything is ordered, and all for the best, for those who rest their hopes where alone is safety, and peace, and happiness. Won’t you sit? (he placed a chair for his visitor), and can I be useful in any way?”
Mr. Burton, who had been fidgeting about the room, had by this time got to the door.
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 745
