The first people at Screwstown were indisputably the Pompleys. Colonel Pompley was grand, but Mrs. Pompley was grander. The colonel was stately in right of his military rank and his services in India; Mrs. Pompley was majestic in right of her connections. Indeed, Colonel Pompley himself would have been crushed under the weight of the dignities which his lady heaped upon him, if he had not been enabled to prop his position with a “connection” of his own. He would never have held his own, nor been permitted to have an independent opinion on matters aristocratic, but for the well-sounding name of his relations, “the Digbies.” Perhaps on the principle that obscurity increases the natural size of objects and is an element of the sublime, the colonel did not too accurately define his relations “the Digbies:” he let it be casually understood that they were the Digbies to be found in Debrett. But if some indiscreet Vulgarian (a favourite word with both the Pompleys) asked point-blank if he meant “my Lord Digby,” the colonel, with a lofty air, answered, “The elder branch, sir.” No one at Screwstown had ever seen these Digbies: they lay amidst the Far, the Recondite,—even to the wife of Colonel Pompley’s bosom. Now and then, when the colonel referred to the lapse of years, and the uncertainty of human affections, he would say, “When young Digby and I were boys together,” and then add with a sigh, “but we shall never meet again in this world. His family interests secured him a valuable appointment in a distant part of the British dominions.” Mrs. Pompley was always rather cowed by the Digbies. She could not be sceptical as to this connection, for the colonel’s mother was certainly a Digby, and the colonel impaled the Digby arms. En revanche, as the French say, for these marital connections, Mrs. Pompley had her own favourite affinity, which she specially selected from all others when she most desired to produce effect; nay, even upon ordinary occasions the name rose spontaneously to her lips,—the name of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Was the fashion of a gown or cap admired, her cousin, Mrs. M’Catchley, had just sent to her the pattern from Paris. Was it a question whether the Ministry would stand, Mrs. M’Catchley was in the secret, but Mrs. Pompley had been requested not to say. Did it freeze, “My cousin, Mrs. M’Catchley, had written word that the icebergs at the Pole were supposed to be coming this way.” Did the sun glow with more than usual fervour, Mrs. M’Catchley had informed her “that it was Sir Henry Halford’s decided opinion that it was on account of the cholera.” The good people knew all that was doing at London, at court, in this world—nay, almost in the other—through the medium of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Mrs. M’Catchley was, moreover, the most elegant of women, the wittiest creature, the dearest. King George the Fourth had presumed to admire Mrs. M’Catehley; but Mrs. M’Catchley, though no prude, let him see that she was proof against the corruptions of a throne. So long had the ears of Mrs. Pompley’s friends been filled with the renown of Mrs. M’Catchley, that at last Mrs. M’Catchley was secretly supposed to be a myth, a creature of the elements, a poetic fiction of Mrs. Pompley’s. Richard Avenel, however, though by no means a credulous man, was an implicit believer in Mrs. M’Catchley. He had learned that she was a widow, and honourable by birth, and honourable by marriage, living on her handsome jointure, and refusing offers every day that she so lived. Somehow or other, whenever Richard Avenel thought of a wife, he thought of the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. Perhaps that romantic attachment to the fair invisible preserved him heart-whole amongst the temptations of Screwstown. Suddenly, to the astonishment of the Abbey Gardens, Mrs. M’Catchley proved her identity, and arrived at Colonel Pompley’s in a handsome travelling-carriage, attended by her maid and footman. She had come to stay some weeks; a tea-party was given in her honour. Mr. Avenel and his nephew were invited. Colonel Pompley, who kept his head clear in the midst of the greatest excitement, had a desire to get from the Corporation a lease of a piece of ground adjoining his garden, and he no sooner saw Richard Avenel enter than he caught him by the button, and drew him into a quiet corner, in order to secure his interest. Leonard, meanwhile, was borne on by the stream, till his progress was arrested by a sofa-table at which sat Mrs. M’Catchley herself, with Mrs. Pompley by her side. For on this great occasion the hostess had abandoned her proper post at the entrance, and, whether to show her respect to Mrs. M’Catchley, or to show Mrs. M’Catchley her well-bred contempt for the people of Screwstown, remained in state by her friend, honouring only the elite of the town with introductions to the illustrious visitor.
Mrs. M’Catchley was a very fine woman,—a woman who justified Mrs. Pompley’s pride in her. Her cheek-bones were rather high, it is true but that proved the purity of her Caledonian descent; for the rest, she had a brilliant complexion, heightened by a soupcon of rouge, good eyes and teeth, a showy figure, and all the ladies of Screwstown pronounced her dress to be perfect. She might have arrived at that age at which one intends to stop for the next ten years, but even a Frenchman would not have called her passee,—that is, for a widow. For a spinster it would have been different.
Looking round her with a glass, which Mrs. Pompley was in the habit of declaring that “Mrs. M’Catchley used like an angel,” this lady suddenly perceived Leonard Fairfield; and his quiet, simple, thoughtful air and look so contrasted with the stiff beaux to whom she had been presented, that, experienced in fashion as so fine a personage must be supposed to be, she was nevertheless deceived into whispering to Mrs. Pompley,
“That young man has really an air distingue; who is he?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Pompley, in unaffected surprise, “that is the nephew of the rich Vulgarian I was telling you of this morning.”
“Ah! and you say that he is Mr. Arundel’s heir?”
“Avenel—not Arundel—my sweet friend.”
“Avenel is not a bad name,” said Mrs. M’Catchley. “But is the uncle really so rich?”
“The colonel was trying this very day to guess what he is worth; but he says it is impossible to guess it.”
“And the young man is his heir?”
“It is thought so; and reading for College, I hear. They say he is clever.”
“Present him, my love; I like clever people,” said Mrs. M’Catchley, falling back languidly.
About ten minutes afterwards, Richard Avenel having effected his escape from the colonel, and his gaze being attracted towards the sofa-table by the buzz of the admiring crowd, beheld his nephew in animated conversation with the long cherished idol of his dreams. A fierce pang of jealousy shot through his breast. His nephew had never looked so handsome and so intelligent; in fact, poor Leonard had never before been drawn out by a woman of the world, who had learned how to make the most of what little she knew. And as jealousy operates like a pair of bellows on incipient flames, so, at first sight of the smile which the fair widow bestowed upon Leonard, the heart of Mr. Avenel felt in a blaze.
He approached with a step less assured than usual, and, overhearing Leonard’s talk, marvelled much at the boy’s audacity. Mrs. M’Catchley had been speaking of Scotland and the Waverley Novels, about which Leonard knew nothing. But he knew Burns, and on Burns he grew artlessly eloquent. Burns the poet and peasant—Leonard might well be eloquent on him. Mrs. M’Catchley was amused and pleased with his freshness and naivete, so unlike anything she had ever heard or seen, and she drew him on and on till Leonard fell to quoting. And Richard heard, with less respect for the sentiment than might be supposed, that
“Rank is but the guinea’s stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that.”
“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Avenel. “Pretty piece of politeness to tell that to a lady like the Honourable Mrs. M’Catch ley! You’ll excuse him, ma’am.”
“Sir!” said Mrs. M’Catchley, startled, and lifting her glass. Leonard, rather confused, rose and offered his chair to Richard, who dropped into it. The lady, without waiting for formal introduction, guessed that she saw the rich uncle. “Such a sweet poet-Burns!” said she, dropping her glass. “And it is so refreshing to find so much youthful enthusiasm,” she added, pointing her fan towards Leonard, who was receding fast among the crowd.
“Well, he is youthful, my nephew,—rather green!”
“Don’t say green!” said Mrs. M’Catchley. Richard blushed scarlet. He was afraid he had committed himself to some expression low and shocking. The lady resumed, “Say unsophisticated.”
“A tarnation long word,” thought Richard; but he prudently bowed and held his tongue.
“Young men nowadays,” continued Mrs. M’Catchley, resettling herself on the sofa, “affect to be so old. They don’t dance, and they don’t read, and they don’t talk much! and a great many of them wear toupets before they are two-and-twenty!”
Richard mechanically passed his hand through his thick curls. But he was still mute; he was still ruefully chewing the cud of the epithet “green.” What occult horrid meaning did the word convey to ears polite? Why should he not say “green”?
“A very fine young man your nephew, sir,” resumed Mrs. M’ Catchley.
Richard grunted.
“And seems full of talent. Not yet at the University? Will he go to Oxford or Cambridge?”
“I have not made up my mind yet if I shall send him to the University at all.”
“A young man of his expectations!” exclaimed Mrs. M’Catchley, artfully.
“Expectations!” repeated Richard, firing up. “Has he been talking to you of his expectations?”
“No, indeed, sir. But the nephew of the rich Mr. Avenel! Ah, one hears a great deal, you know, of rich people; it is the penalty of wealth, Mr. Avenel!”
Richard was very much flattered. His crest rose.
“And they say,” continued Mrs. M’Catchley, dropping out her words very slowly, as she adjusted her blonde scarf, “that Mr. Avenel has resolved not to marry.”
“The devil they do, ma’am!” bolted out Richard, gruffly; and then, ashamed of his lapsus linguae, screwed up his lips firmly, and glared on the company with an eye of indignant fire.
Mrs. M’Catchley observed him over her fan. Richard turned abruptly, and she withdrew her eyes modestly, and raised the fan.
“She’s a real beauty,” said Richard, between his teeth. The fan fluttered.
Five minutes afterwards, the widow and the bachelor seemed so much at their ease that Mrs. Pompley, who had been forced to leave her friend, in order to receive the dean’s lady, could scarcely believe her eyes when she returned to the sofa.
Now, it was from that evening that Mr. Richard Avenel exhibited the change of mood which I have described; and from that evening he abstained from taking Leonard with him to any of the parties in the Abbey Gardens.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg