“Shy,” thought he: “odd for a widow! but that’s the way those husband-buriers take us in!”
Plain as was the general furniture of the apartment, the natural ostentation of Mr. Templeton broke out in the massive value of the plate, and the number of the attendants. He was a rich man, and he was proud of his riches: he knew it was respectable to be rich, and he thought it was moral to be respectable. As for the dinner, Lumley knew enough of his uncle’s tastes to be prepared for viands and wines that even he (fastidious gourmand as he was) did not despise.
Between the intervals of eating, Mr. Ferrers endeavoured to draw his aunt into conversation, but he found all his ingenuity fail him. There was, in the features of Mrs. Templeton, an expression of deep but calm melancholy, that would have saddened most persons to look upon, especially in one so young and lovely. It was evidently something beyond shyness or reserve that made her so silent and subdued, and even in her silence there was so much natural sweetness, that Ferrers could not ascribe her manner to haughtiness or the desire to repel. He was rather puzzled; “for though,” thought he, sensibly enough, “my uncle is not a youth, he is a very rich fellow; and how any widow, who is married again to a rich old fellow, can be melancholy, passes my understanding!”
Templeton, as if to draw attention from his wife’s taciturnity, talked more than usual. He entered largely into politics, and regretted that in times so critical he was not in parliament.
“Did I possess your youth and your health, Lumley, I would not neglect my country—Popery is abroad.”
“I myself should like very much to be in parliament,” said Lumley, boldly.
“I dare say you would,” returned the uncle, drily. “Parliament is very expensive—only fit for those who have a large stake in the country. Champagne to Mr. Ferrers.”
Lumley bit his lip, and spoke little during the rest of the dinner. Mr. Templeton, however, waxed gracious by the time the dessert was on the table; and began cutting up a pineapple, with many assurances to Lumley that gardens were nothing without pineries. “Whenever you settle in the country, nephew, be sure you have a pinery.”
“Oh, yes,” said Lumley, almost bitterly, “and a pack of hounds, and a French cook; they will all suit my fortune very well.”
“You are more thoughtful on pecuniary matters than you used to be,” said the uncle.