Up came Colonel Pompley; Richard took the shawl: “No hurry for that now, Colonel,—Mrs. M’Catchley feels already at home here.”
Ten minutes afterwards, Richard Avenel so contrived that it was known by the whole company that their host was accepted by the Honourable Mrs. M’Catchley. And every one said, “He is a very clever man and a very good fellow,” except the Pompleys—and the Pompleys were frantic. Mr. Richard Avenel had forced his way into the aristocracy of the country; the husband of an Honourable, connected with peers!
“He will stand for our city—Vulgarian!” cried the colonel. “And his wife will walk out before me,” cried the colonel’s lady,—“nasty woman!” And she burst into tears.
The guests were gone; and Richard had now leisure to consider what course to pursue with regard to his sister and her son.
His victory over his guests had in much softened his heart towards his relations; but he still felt bitterly aggrieved at Mrs. Fairfield’s unseasonable intrusion, and his pride was greatly chafed by the boldness of Leonard. He had no idea of any man whom he had served, or meant to serve, having a will of his own, having a single thought in opposition to his pleasure. He began, too, to feel that words had passed between him and Leonard which could not be well forgotten by either, and would render their close connection less pleasant than heretofore. He, the great Richard Avenel, beg pardon of Mrs. Fairfield, the washerwoman! No; she and Leonard must beg his. “That must be the first step,” said Richard Avenel; “and I suppose they have come to their senses.” With that expectation, he unlocked the door of his parlour, and found himself in complete solitude. The moon, lately risen, shone full into the room, and lit up every corner. He stared round bewildered,—the birds had flown. “Did they go through the keyhole?” said Air. Avenel. “Ha! I see! the window is open!” The window reached to the ground. Mr. Avenel, in his excitement, had forgotten that easy mode of egress. “Well,” said he, throwing himself into his easy-chair, “I suppose I shall soon hear from them: they’ll be wanting my money fast enough, I fancy.” His eye caught sight of a letter, unsealed, lying on the table. He opened it, and saw bank-notes to the amount of L50,—the widow’s forty-five country notes, and a new note, Bank of England, that he had lately given to Leonard. With the money were these lines, written in Leonard’s bold, clear writing, though a word or two here and there showed that the hand had trembled,—
I thank you for all you have done to one whom you regarded as the
object of charity. My mother and I forgive what has passed. I
depart with her. You bade me make my choice, and I have made it.
LEONARD FAIRFIELD.
The paper dropped from Richard’s hand, and he remained mute and remorseful for a moment. He soon felt, however, that he had no help for it but working himself up into a rage. “Of all people in the world,” cried Richard, stamping his foot on the floor, “there are none so disagreeable, insolent, and ungrateful as poor relations. I wash my hands of them!”