“‘What do you wish me to say?’ I asked, taking up a pamphlet that lay on the table and glancing at the title-page. ‘Sir,’ said the premier, very lofty and impressive. ‘Sir, my time is valuable. If your business with me is not of so important a nature as to require immediate attention we will defer it for the present.’ Endeavouring to suppress a yawn, and slightly stretching my limbs — not inelegant, are they Townshend? — I replied: ‘Business, sir? Your honour, I hardly know what I called upon you for. It was merely, I think, to pass away an idle hour. Can you tell me what the newest fashions are? I’m quite out just now in dress, for really one sees little in that line at Cuttal-Curafee.’ ‘Sir,’ replied Warner, ‘I wish you a very good morning. Mr Jones will show you the door.’ ‘Good morning, sir,’ said I, and I left the Treasury as good as kicked out.”
“Well, and where did you go next?”
“I went to a perfumers, and bought a few trifles in the way of gloves and combs. On returning, whom do you think I met?”
“Can’t guess.”
“Why, none other than the President to the Board of Trade.”
“What! Edward Percy?”
“Yes; he stopt in the street and began: ‘William! I say, William, who sent for you back? I know it for a fact, sir, that you sent up a puling memorial soliciting a recall. You did, sir, don’t begin to deny it.’
“‘Not,’ I answered. ‘Good morning, Edward! Charming seasonable weather! Take care of your lungs, lad — always pthisically inclined. I would recommend balsam of horehound — excellent remedy for pulmonary complaints! Good morning, lad!’ And gracefully waving my hand, I passed on.”
Here a waiter came in with wax-lights and a supper-tray. Sir William invited me to partake of his roast chicken and oyster-sauce, but I declined, as I had ordered supper on my own account in a room below. We separated therefore for the night, after shaking hands in the Colonel’s peculiar way — that is, a cool presentation of each individual’s fore-finger.
CHAPTER 6
Charles Townshend and Sir William Percy engage in a flirtation
The next morning rose as lovely and calm a day as ever ushered in the steps of summer. Wakened by the sunshine — I saw it streaming in through the stately windows of my chamber between the interstices of the carefully drawn curtains - my heart was rejoiced at the sight, and still more so when, on rising and withdrawing that veil, I beheld, in the lofty and dappled arch of a few marbled clouds, in the serenity and freshness of the air, a soft promise of settled summer. The storms, the fitful showers and chilly gusts, to which for the last month we had been subject were all gone. They had swept the sky and left it placid behind them.
It took me a full half hour to dress, and another half hour to view myself over from head to foot in the splendid full-length mirror with which my chamber was furnished. Really, when I saw the neat figure therein reflected, genteelly attired in a fashionable morning suit, with light soft hair parted on one side and brushed into glossy curls, I thought, “there are worse men in the world than Charles Townshend.” Having descended from my chamber, I made my way once again into the bustling, dirty inn-passage before described. It was bustling still, but not so dirty as it had been the night before, for a scullion wench was on her knees with a huge pail, scouring away for the bare life. A gentleman’s carriage was at the door. Two or three servants were lifting into it some luggage, and a family party stood waiting to enter — a lady, a gentleman, and some children. The children, indeed, were already mounted behind, and a stout rosy Angrian brood they looked. Their mother was receiving the parting civilities of a fine, tall, showy woman, most superbly dressed, who had come sailing out of a side room to see them off. It was Mrs Stancliffe, the hostess of this great house. I went up to her when the carriage had at length driven away, and paid my respects, for I had some little significance with her. She received and answered my attentions much in the tone and with the air of the Countess of Northangerland, only more civilly. Let not the Countess hear me, but it is a fact that she and the landlady bear a strong resemblance to each other, being nearly equal in point of longitude, latitude and circumference. Big women both! awful women! In temper, too, they are somewhat like, as the following anecdote will shew.
A public dinner being given a few months since by the Corporation of Zamorna to their Lord Lieutenant, the Earl of Stuartville, and to Sir Wilson Thornton, in honour of the eminent services rendered by those officers to their country in the war campaign, the whole conduct of culinary matters was of course consigned to the superintendence of Mrs Stancliffe. It so happened that, by some oversight or other, the individual with whom she had contracted for a supply of game failed in his duty. On the great day of the feast, the tables were spread in the court-house. Stancliffe’s plate, conveyed over the way in iron chests, shone in tasteful arrangement and more than princely splendour on the ample boards. The gentlemen of the province were collected from far and near. The hour of six struck; the soup and fish were on the table.
The Lord Lieutenant walked in amidst deafening cheers, looking as much the fine gentleman as ever, and smiling and bowing his thanks to his townsmen. General Sir William Thornton followed and Edward Percy Esqre, M.P.Last, though not least, the proud, bitter owner of Hartford Hall entered, with a face like an unbleached holland sheet (it was after his wound), supported between Sir John Kirkwall and Wm Moore Esqre, an eminent barrister. A blessing being solemnly pronounced by the Right Reverend Dr Kirkwall, primate of Zamorna, and Amen responded by Dr Cook, vicar of Edwardston, all fell to. Fish and soup being despatched, game ought to have entered. But instead of it, in walked Mrs Stancliffe, grandly dressed, with a turban and a plume and a diamond aigrette like any countess in the gallery. She went to the back of Lord Stuartville’s chair.
“My lord,” said she, with great dignity of manner and in a voice sufficiently audible to be heard by everyone present. “I ought to apologize to your lordship for the delay of the second course, but my servants have failed in their duty and it is not forthcoming. However I have punished the insult thus offered to your lordship and the gentlemen of Zamorna. I have revolutionized my household. Before to-morrow night, not an ostler or a chamber-maid of the present set shall remain in my employment.”
The bland earl, passing his hand over his face to conceal a smile, said something gallant and polite by way of consolation to the indignant lady, and General Thornton assured her that such was the luxurious profusion and exquisite quality of her other provisions, two or three hares and partridges would never be missed. Mrs Stancliffe, however, refused to be comforted. Without at all relaxing the solemn concern of her countenance, she dropped a stately curtsey to the company and sailed away. She did revolutionize her household, and a pretty revolution it was, never such a helter-skelter turn out of waiters, barmaids, ostlers, boots and coachmen seen in this world before. Ever since this imperial move she has been popularly termed the Duchess of Zamorna! So Lord Stuartville delights to call her, even to her face. This is a liberty, however, taken by none but his gallant lordship. If any other man were to venture so far she’d soon spurt out in his face.
I had scarcely finished my breakfast when a waiter brought me a billet to the following effect: “Dear Townshend, will you take a walk with me this morning? yours etc. W.Percy.” I scribbled for answer: “Dear Baronet, with all the xcing. Yours etc. C. Townshend.”
We met each other in the passage; and arm in arm, each with a light cane in his hand, started on our jaunt.
Zamorna was all astir. Half her population seemed poured out into the wide new streets. Not a trace remained of last night’s storm. Summer was reigning with ardour in the perfectly still air and unclouded sunshine. Ladies in white dresses flitted along the streets and crowded the magnificent and busy shops. Before us rose the new minster, lifting its beautiful front and rich fretted pinnacles almost as radiant as marble against a sky of southern purity. Its bells, sweet-toned as Bochea’s harp, rang out the morning chimes high in air, and young Zamorna seemed
wakened to quicker life by the voice of that lofty music. How had the city so soon sprung to perfect vigour and beauty from the iron crush of Simpson’s hoof? Here was no mark of recent tyranny, no trace of grinding exaction, no symptom of a lately repulsed invasion, of a now existing heavy national debt, nothing of squalor or want or suffering. Lovely women, stately mansions, busy mills and gorgeous shops appeared on all sides.
When we first came out the atmosphere was quite clear. As we left the west end and approached the bridge and river, whose banks were piled with enormous manufactories and bristled with mill-chimneys, tall, stately, and steep as slender towers, we breathed a denser air. Columns of smoke as black as soot rose thick and solid from the chimneys of two vast erections - Edward Percy’s, I believe, and Mr Sydenham’s — and, slowly spreading, darkened the sky above all Zamorna.
“That’s Edward’s tobacco pipe,” said Sir William, looking up, as we passed close under his brother’s mill-chimney, whose cylindrical pillar rose three hundred feet into the air. Having crossed the bridge, we turned into the noble road which leads down to Hartford, and now the full splendour of the June morning began to disclose itself round us.
Immediately before us, the valley of the Olympian opened broad and free; the road with gentle descent wound white as milk down among the rich pastures and waving woods of the vale. My heart expanded as I looked at the path we were to tread, edging the feet of the gentle hills whose long sweep subsided to level on the banks of the river — the glorious river! brightly flowing, in broad quiet waves and with a sound of remote seas, through scenery as green as Eden. We were almost at the gates of Hartford Park. The house was visible far away among its sunny grounds, and its beech-woods, extending to the road, lifted high above the causeway a silver shade. This was not a scene of solitude. Carriages smoothly rolled past us every five minutes, and stately cavaliers galloped by on their noble chargers.
We had walked on for a quarter of an hour, almost in silence, when Sir William suddenly exclaimed,
“Townshend, what a pretty girl!”
“Where?” I asked.
He pointed to a figure a little in advance of us: a young lady, mounted on a spirited little pony, and followed by a servant, also mounted. I quickened my pace to get a nearer view. She wore a purple habit, long and sweeping; it disclosed a fine, erect and rounded form, set off to advantage by the grace of her attitude and the ease of all her movements. When I first looked, her face was turned away, and concealed partly by the long curls of her hair and partly by her streaming veil, but she presently changed her position, and then I saw a fine decided profile, a bright eye, and a complexion of exquisite bloom. From the first moment I knew she was not a stranger.
“I’ve seen that face before,” said I to Sir William. Then, as my recollection cleared, I added, “It was last night in the mercer’s shop opposite Stancliffe’s.” For in fact this was the very girl whom I had watched from the window.
“I, too, have seen her before,” returned the baronet. “I know her name. It is Miss Moore, the daughter of the noted barrister.”
“What!” I exclaimed. “Jane — the beautiful Angrian?” Perhaps my readers may recollect a description of this young lady which appeared some time since, in a sort of comparison between Eastern and Western women.
Sir William proceeded. “I saw her last autumn at the musical festival which was held in September in the minster at Zamorna. You remember the anecdote concerning her which was told in the papers at that time?”
“Can’t say I do.”
“Why, people said that she had particularly attracted the attention of His Majesty, who attended the Festival, and that he has bestowed on her the title of the Rose of Zamorna.”
“Was it true?”
“No further than this: she sat full in his sight and he stared at her as everybody else did, for she really was a very imposing figure in her white satin dress and stately plume of snowy ostrich feathers. He asked her name, too, and when somebody told him, he said ‘By God, she’s the Rose of Zamorna! I don’t see another woman to come near her.’ That was all. I daresay he never thought of her afterwards. She’s not one of his sort.”
“Well, but,” continued I, “I should like to see a little more of her. Heigho! I believe I’m in love!”
“So am I,” said Percy, echoing the sigh. “Head over ears! Look now, did you ever see a better horse-woman? What grace and spirit! But there’s that cursed angle in the road, it will hide her. There, she’s turned it. I declare, my sun is eclipsed. Is not yours, Townshend?”
“Yes, totally; but can’t we follow her, Colonel? Where does she live?”
“Not far off. I really think we might manage it, though I never was introduced to her in my life, nor you either, I dare say.”
“To my sorrow, never.”
“Well then, have you any superfluous modesty? Because if you have, put it into your waistcoat pocket and button your coat over it. Now, man, are you eased of the commodity?”
“Perfectly.”
“Come along, then. Her father is a barrister and attending the assizes at Angria. Consequently, he is not at home. What so natural as for two elegant young men like you and I to be wanting him on business, respecting a mortgage — on a friend’s estate, possibly, or probably on our own — or a lawsuit concerning our rich old uncle’s contested will? The servants having answered that Mr Moore is not at home, can’t we inquire for his daughter (she has no mother by the bye), to give her some particular charge which we won’t entrust to menials? Now, man, have you got your cue?”
I put my thumb to the side of my nose, and we mutually strode on.
Mr Moore’s house is a lease-hold on Lord Hartford’s property, and he has the character in Zamorna of being a toady of that nobleman’s. The barrister, though an able man, is certainly, according to report, but lightly burdened with principle, and it is possible that with his large fortune he may have hopes of one day contesting the election of the city with its present representative — in which case Lord Hartford’s influence would be no feather in the scale of success.
“We enter here,” said Percy, pausing at a green gate which opened sweetly beneath an arch of laburnums upon a lawn like velvet. A white-walled villa stood before us, bosomed in a blooming shrubbery, with green walks between the rose-trees and a broad carriage-road winding through all to the door. In that bright hour (it was now nearly noon) nothing could be more soothing than its aspect of shade and retirement. One almost preferred it to the wide demesne and princely mansion which it fronted with such modest dignity. Arrived at the door, Sir William knocked. A footman opened it.
“Is Mr Moore within?”
“No, sir; master left home last week for the assizes.”
Sir William affected disappointment. He turned, and made a show of consulting me in a whisper. Then again, addressing the servant: “Miss Moore is at home, perhaps?” “Yes, sir.”
“Then be kind enough to give in our names to her — Messrs Clarke and Gardiner — and say we wish to see her for an instant on a matter of some importance”
The servant bowed, and politely requesting us to walk forward, threw open the door of a small sitting-room. The apartment was prettily furnished. Its single large window, flung wide open, admitted the faint gale which now and then breathed over the languor of the burning noon. This window looked specially pleasant, for it had a deep recess and a seat pillowed with a white cushion, over which waved the festoons of a muslin curtain. Seating ourselves within this embayment, we leaned over the sill, and scented the jessamine whose tendrils were playing in the breeze around the casement.
“This is Miss Moore’s own parlour,” said Sir William pointing to a little work-table with scissors, thimble and lace upon it, and then, reverting his eye to a cabinet piano with an open music book above its key-board. “I always appropriate when I’m left alone in a lady’s boudoir,” he continued; and getting up softly, he was on the point of prigging something from the work-table, when a voice slightl
y hummed in the passage, and without any other sound, either of footstep or rustling dress, Miss Moore like an apparition dawned upon us. The Colonel turned, and she was there. He looked at her, or rather through her, before he spoke. Really, she seemed to be haloed — there was something so radiant in her whole appearance. Not the large dark eyes of the west, nor the large even arch of the eye-brow; not the enthusiastic and poetic look, nor the braided or waving locks of solemn shade; but just a girl in white, plump and very tall. Her riding-habit was gone, and her beaver; and golden locks (the word golden I use in courtesy, mind, reader) drooped on the whitest neck in Angria. Her complexion seemed to glow: it was so fair, so blooming. She had very rosy lips and a row of small even teeth sparkling like pearls; her nose was prominent and straight and her eyes very spirited. Regularity of feature by no means formed her chief charm: it was the perfection of a lively complexion and handsome figure.
The lady looked very grave; her curtsey was dignified and distant.
“Permit me, madam,” said the Colonel, “to introduce myself and my friend. I am Mr Clarke, this gentleman, Mr Gardiner. We are both clients of your father. You will have heard him mention the lawsuit now pending between Clarke and Gardiner versus Jowett.”
“I daresay,” returned Miss Moore, “though I don’t recollect just now. Will you be seated, gentlemen?”
Delphi Complete Works of the Brontes Page 219
