“Ah, really! how is the Colonel?”
“He looks remarkably well, I assure you, and will be very glad to see you.”
“When you see the Colonel, pray present my most sincere compliments.”
“So I will.”
“I’m off, but hope to see you this evening; good-bye, in case I do not.” The days being short, and my business more complicated than I had anticipated, prevented my visiting my favourite summer spot, the Paradis Champêtre of England.[3]
I slept that evening at the “Wheatsheaf;” I had given orders to be called the next morning at daybreak, and was crossing the avenue of lime-trees leading to the lake, in anticipation of witnessing, as I was wont of a summer’s morning, its interminable sheet of silvery waters and green moss velvet banks, sprinkled with myriads of daisies—or stars of the fields—intermixed with golden cups, covered with pearly dew, bordered also by mountainous trees forming a formidable forest; the glittering Chinese fishing temple, Corinthian ruin, the flag floating on the castle tower, “Royal George” frigate and barks, the swans, and the music of thousands of birds with their notes of freedom so wild and full of nature. Alas! all my illusions were dispelled, as I could scarcely see a yard before me; a thick veil, caused by a severe white frost, seemed to monopolise and wrap in its virgin folds the beauty of this lovely spot. Though greatly disappointed, I was returning to the humble country inn with my soul filled by sublime reminiscences of that charming spot, worthy of the enchanted gardens of Armida, when a deformed and awkward-looking lout of a stableman, peeping from a clump of evergreens, thus accosted me:—“Will you take a red herring for breakfast, sir?”
I leave my readers to imagine the effect produced upon my then exalted imagination. Pushing him violently from me, “Away with you! unsociable and ill-timed Quasimodo!” I said. Having thus unceremoniously repulsed my evil genius, and being by that electric shock entirely deprived of my appetite, I ordered a post-chaise in lieu of breakfast, and in a short time was at the turnpike-gate adjoining the inn, waiting for change to pay the toll. It was then about ten minutes to eight o’clock.
In three-quarters of an hour the post-chaise took me to the railway station, and an hour after I was ascending my homely staircase, when the servant apprised me that many persons had called; some had left their cards, and a mounted groom had brought a letter, saying he would call at noon for an answer. Amongst the various letters I found upon my desk, I recognised one in the hand-writing of the Duchess of Sutherland. It was as follows:—
The Duchess of Sutherland will be much pleased to see Monsieur Soyer at Stafford House at two o’clock this day; or ten to-morrow morning, if more convenient to Monsieur Soyer.
7th February, 1856.