The chaise now passed through a pretty shrubbery, and the house came into gradual view,—a house with a portico, all the offices carefully thrust out of sight.
The postboy dismounted and rang the bell.
“I almost think they are going to keep me waiting,” said Mr. Richard, well-nigh in the very words of Louis XIV. But the fear was not realized,—the door opened; a well-fed servant out of livery presented himself. There was no hearty welcoming smile on his face, but he opened the chaise-door with demure and taciturn respect.
“Where’s George? Why does he not come to the door?” asked Richard; descending from the chaise slowly, and leaning on the servant’s outstretched arm with as much precaution as if he had had the gout.
Fortunately, George here came into sight, settling himself hastily into his livery coat.
“See to the things, both of you,” said Richard, as he paid the postboy.
Leonard stood on the gravel sweep, gazing at the square white house.
“Handsome elevation—classical, I take it, eh?” said Richard, joining him. “But you should see the offices.” He then, with familiar kindness, took Leonard by the arm, and drew him within. He showed him the hall, with a carved mahogany stand for hats; he showed him the drawing-room, and pointed out all its beauties; though it was summer, the drawing-room looked cold, as will look rooms newly furnished, with walls newly papered, in houses newly built. The furniture was handsome, and suited to the rank of a rich trader. There was no pretence about it, and therefore no vulgarity, which is more than can be said for the houses of many an Honourable Mrs. Somebody in Mayfair, with rooms twelve feet square, ebokeful of buhl, that would have had its proper place in the Tuileries. Then Richard showed him the library, with mahogany book-cases, and plate glass, and the fashionable authors handsomely bound. Your new men are much better friends to living authors than your old families who live in the country, and at most subscribe to a book-club. Then Richard took him up-stairs, and led him through the bedrooms,—all very clean and comfortable, and with every modern convenience; and pausing in a very pretty single gentleman’s chamber, said, “This is your den. And now, can you guess who I am?”
“No one but my uncle Richard could be so kind,” answered Leonard.
But the compliment did not flatter Richard. He was extremely disconcerted and disappointed. He had hoped that he should be taken for a lord at least, forgetful of all that he had said in disparagement of lords.