Mishaps.
Lunch at Tolcarne that day was not one of the most pleasant of meals. Sir Hampton had come in, looking purple instead of red with his walk, to pause at the hall door and dismiss Sanders, the gardener, who stood mopping his face.
“Er-rum! Look here, Sanders!” he exclaimed.
“Yes, sir,” said Sanders.
“Yes, Sir Hampton, man!”
“Yes, Sir Hampton,” said Sanders, slowly and impressively, as if he were trying to fix the formula in his mind.
“I’ll see you in the morning about a new bed on the lawn, and—er-rum—don’t let this affair be talked about.”
“No, sir—Hampton,” said Sanders.
He went heavily down the new path, while his master stood apparently loading himself—that is to say, he thrust what seemed to be a white gun-wad into his mouth, before turning into the hall, and letting off a tremendous “Er-rum,” which echoed through the house. The wad, however, was only a digestive tablet, an antidote to the heartburn, from which Sir Hampton suffered; and he strode into the dining-room, where the family was already assembled for luncheon.
“Oh, dad—papa,” cried Fin, “such news for you.”
“Don’t worry your papa, my dear,” said Miss Matilda, smoothing her handkerchief, which, from being sat upon, resembled a cambric cake; “wait till he has had some refreshment. He is tired. Hampton, will you take a cutlet?”
“Don’t, pa. Have some chicken pie.”
“Shall I send you a poached egg, dear?” said Lady Rea, who was in difficulties with the mustard-pot, the protruding spoon of which had entangled itself with her open lace sleeve, and the yellow condiment was flowing over the table.
“No,” said Sir Hampton, gruffly.
“Tut, tut, tut,” said Lady Rea, making matters worse by trying to scrape up the mustard with a spoon.
“Hadn’t you better let Edward do that, dear?” said Miss Matilda, with a pained expression of countenance, as she played pat-a-cake once more with her handkerchief.
“They do make the mustard so horribly thin,” said Lady Rea. “Finetta, give papa some of the pie.”
Fin looked mischievously across at her sister, and then cut a large portion of the patty, enough to have called forth an angry remonstrance at another time; but though Miss Matilda looked perfectly horrified, Sir Hampton was too angry and absorbed to notice it; he only went on eating.
“Well, Finetta, dear,” said Lady Rea, “what’s the grand news?”
“Seen the sailor, ma, dear; been introduced to him. Such a nice fellow.”
“Seen whom?” said Lady Rea, making a last scrape at the mustardy cloth.
“Mr Trevor, ma; met him at old Mrs Trelyan’s. Such fun.”
“My dear Finetta,” began Miss Matilda; but a shot fired by Sir Hampton stopped her in dismay.
“Er-rum—what’s that?” he asked. “Have you met that person?”
“What person, papa?” said Finetta. “That—that Penreife man—that Trevor, or whatever his name is?”
“Yes, pa, we met him this morning; and he’s the same—”
“Er-rum, I know!” exclaimed Sir Hampton, upsetting a carafe in his excitement, and making Miss Matilda start back to save her silk. “I ought to have bought Penreife—it’s one of those persons we saw—I know; I met him this morning—trespass—an insulting—ugh! ugh! ugh!”
“Oh, pa!” cried Finetta, “you shouldn’t get in a passion with your mouth full; and so much pepper as there is in that pie.”
For Sir Hampton had begun to cough furiously, his face growing deeper in tint, and his eyes protruding, so alarming Lady Rea that she bustled round the table and began to hammer his back, while Miss Matilda offered a glass of water.
“Ugh! ugh! ugh! Sit down—sit down!” gasped Sir Hampton. “I—er-rum—I forbid all fixture communication with that—that fellow. If he calls here, I’ll have the door shut in his face. Insulted me grossly this morning, on my own grounds, and a dirty little jackanapes with him talked to me in such a way as I was never spoken to before.”
“Oh, Tiny, it’s the horrid little man,” whispered Fin.
“Why, my dear Hampy, whatever is it all about?” said Lady Rea. “There, do drink some water, and get cool.”
Sir Hampton glanced at his wife and sister, and poured himself out half a tumbler of sherry, which he drained, and then began to cough once more.
“Eat a bit of bread, dear,” said Lady Rea. “Quick, you won’t mind mine—I haven’t touched it.”
Saying which she held a piece out to him on a fork.
“Frances!” ejaculated Miss Matilda.
“Ugh! Any one would think I was a bear upon a pole,” coughed Sir Hampton; and he wiped his eyes as he grew better.
“But, Hampy, dear,” said Lady Rea, “it will be so strange. Suppose Mr Trevor calls?”
“Tell the servants to shut the door in his face,” growled Sir Hampton. “An insulting puppy!”
“Oh, pa, dear, don’t be so cross,” said Fin. “Take us out for a drive this afternoon, and let’s see if the box has come from Mudie’s.”
“Disgraceful—and on one’s own land, too,” growled Sir Hampton, not heeding his daughter, but still muttering thunder.
“But you will take us, papa?” said Fin, leaning on his shoulder.
“Such insolence!” muttered Sir Hampton.
“Was he trespassing, Hampton?” said Miss Matilda.
“Yes, and a pack of fellows along with him,” cried Sir Hampton, firing up once more.
“You’ll take us out, pa, dear?” said Fin, getting her cheek against his.
“No, no! well, there, yes,” said Sir Hampton; and then, looking like a half-mollified bull, he submitted to having his cheeks patted, and his stiff cravat untied and retied by the busy fingers of his pet child.
“In half an hour, dad?”
“Yes, yes; only don’t bother. Er-rum!” he ejaculated, as Fin flew to the bell, “tell them to bring round the waggonette.”
Sir Hampton rose and left the room, firing a shot as he crossed the hall. Then the footman came in to receive his orders, and directly after Lady Rea looked admiringly across at her daughter.
“Ah, Fin, my dear, I wish I could manage your papa as you do.”
“Really, Frances,” said Miss Matilda, bridling up, “I don’t think that is a proper way for you to speak respecting a parent to a child.”
Poor downright Lady Rea looked troubled and distressed.
“Really, Matty,” she began.
“Oh, it’s all right,” said Fin, coming to the rescue. “It’s because you don’t understand, Aunt Matty; only married people do. Why don’t you marry Mr Mervyn?”
Miss Matilda rose from her chair, smoothed her skirts, gazed in utter astonishment at her niece, and marched out of the room.
“Oh, Fin!” exclaimed her sister.
“You shouldn’t do it, my dear,” said Lady Rea, in whose gentle eyes the tears were gathering.
“I should!” said Fin, stamping her foot and colouring with passion. “I won’t stand here and hear my dear mother snubbed in that way by any one but papa; and if Aunt Matty only dares to do such a thing again, I’ll—I’ll—I’ll say something horrid.”
The next moment she had flung her impetuous little self into Lady Rea’s arms, and was sobbing passionately; but only to jerk herself free, and wipe her eyes directly in a snatchy fashion.
“It’s so vexatious, too, for papa to turn like that, when Mr Trevor’s one of the nicest, dearest, handsomest fellows you ever saw. Isn’t he, Tiny?”
“I thought him very pleasing and gentlemanly,” said Tiny, flushing slightly.
“She thought ever so much more of him than that, I know, ma,” said Fin, nodding her head. “But isn’t it vexatious, mamma, dear?”
“It’ll all come right, my dear,” said Lady Rea, kissing her child fondly. “There, now, go and get ready, or papa will be cross.”
Fin felt ready to say “I don’t care,” so rebellious was the spirit that invested her that day; but she set her teeth, and ran to the door.
“You’re coming, mamma?”
“No, my dear, Tiny will go with you. I shall stay in this afternoon.”
“And leave Aunt Matty to say disagreeable things to you. Then I shall stay, too.”
“No, no, dear, go—to please me,” said Lady Rea; and the girl ran off.
The waggonette was round, and Sir Hampton was drawing on his gloves, the image of punctuality, when Fin came rushing down, closely followed by her sister, and the party started for the little station town, Saint Kitt’s, passing on the road another handsome new waggonette, with a fine, well-paced pair of horses.
“I wonder whose turn-out that is?” said Sir Hampton. “Strange thing that everybody gets better horses than I do.”
“I know whose it is,” said Fin, demurely.
“Whose?” said Sir Hampton.
“Daren’t say,” replied Fin. “Ask Edward. Edward!” she cried, “whose carriage is that?”
“Think it’s Mr Trevor’s, ma’am,” said the footman, touching his hat.
“Er-rum,” ejaculated Sir Hampton, and Fin nudged her sister and made her colour.
The box was at the station, and it was put in the waggonette by a tall porter, whom Fin spoke of to her sister as the signal post, and then she proposed that they should wait and see if anything would come by the train due in a few minutes.
Now, Sir Hampton expected something by that train, but he had been so crossed that day, and was in such a contrary mood, that he exclaimed—
“Er-rum, absurd; certainly not. Drive back at once.”
Fin made a grimace at her sister, who replied with a look of remonstrance; Sir Hampton sat back and frowned at the landscape, as if he thought it too green; and away they bowled just as the whistle of the engine was heard in the distance.
Something has been said before about the Cornish lanes, and the way in which the granite bones of Mother Nature peer out and form buttresses to the banks, huge pillars, and mighty corners. The lane they were traversing on their way back was not one of the least rugged, though the road was good; and they had gone at a pretty sharp trot for about a mile, when a cart came rattling along just at a turn of the road where it was narrow; and in making way—click! the box of one wheel caught against a granite buttress pushed forth from the bank, the wheel wriggled about, and fifty Yards farther came off and went trundling down the hill—the coachman fortunately pulling his horses up short, so that the waggonette sidled over against the ferny bank, and no one was hurt.
“Such abominable driving,” exclaimed Sir Hampton.
“Very sorry, sir,” said the coachman.
“Oh, pa, it was those other people’s fault. I saw it all,” said Fin.
The coachman gave her a grateful look, and the footman helped all to alight.
Five minutes’ inspection showed that the wheel was so much injured that it would take time to repair, and there was nothing for it but to send to the little town to get assistance.
“Shall I send Edward with one horse, Sir Hampton, and ride the other home and fetch the barouche.”
“Yes—no—yes,” said Sir Hampton, waking to the fact that they were yet eight miles from home, and he had done quite as much walking as he cared for in one day.
At this moment the sound of wheels was heard, and the waggonette they had before passed came up, evidently from the station, with two gentlemen inside, the coachman pulling up on seeing that there was an accident, while the gentlemen leaped out.
“I trust,” said the elder, raising his hat, “that no one is hurt.”
“Er-rum! none; no one,” said Sir Hampton, stiffly.
“What misfortune!” said the younger, fixing his glass in his eye, and looking in a puzzled way at the ladies. “Under circumstances, Vanleigh?”
“Yes, of course,” said the other, and then raising his hat to the ladies, “as my friend here observes. You will allow me to place the carriage at your disposal?”
Sir Hampton looked at the speaker, then at the carriage, then at his own. That was Trevor’s carriage, but these were strangers, and he was not obliged to know. His legs ached; it was a long while to wait; and he was still pondering when the first speaker said—
“Allow me,” and offered his arm to Tiny, who glanced at her father, and seeing no commands against the act, suffered herself to be led to the whole waggonette, the other stranger offering his arm to Fin, who just touched it, and then leapt in beside her sister.
“Will you follow, Mr—Mr—?”
“Er-rum! Sir Hampton Rea, at your service, gentlemen,” said the knight, stiffly.
“I beg pardon, Sir Hampton—strangers, you see. My friend here is Sir Felix Landells; my name is Vanleigh—Captain Vanleigh.”
“Guards,” said Sir Felix, in the midst of a good deal of formal bowing; and then, all being seated, the waggonette drove off, Sir Hampton, in the conversation which ensued, being most careful to avoid any reference to the destination of his new friends, merely requesting to be set down at the end of the lane leading to Tolcarne, the party separating amidst a profusion of bows.
“What a pair of dandies!” said Fin.
“A most refined gentleman that Captain Vanleigh,” said Sir Hampton.
“What did you think of the other one, dad?” said Fin.
“Aristocrat. Er-rum! aristocrat,” said Sir Hampton. “Blue blood there, for a certainty. I hope they’ll call. By the way, Tiny, I thought you unnecessarily cold and formal.”
“Did you, papa?” said Tiny. “Indeed, I did not mean to be so.”
Here they reached the hall, and the girls went to their room.
“Dad’s hooked,” said Fin, throwing herself into a chair. “Tiny, that dandy would come to grief if I knew him long. I should feel obliged to singe his horrid little sticky mustachios; and as for the other—oh, how I could snub him if he looked and talked at me as he did at you.”
“I sincerely hope,” said Tiny, “that we shall never see them again.”