The lover was the first to perceive the approach of the elder parties. And a change came over his face as he saw the dry aspect and marked the stealthy stride of his future father-in-law; for then there flashed across him a dreary reminiscence of early childhood; the happy evening when, with his joyous father, that grave and ominous aspect was first beheld; and then the dismal burial, the funereal sables, the carriage at the door, and he himself clinging to the cold uncle to ask him to say a word of comfort to the mother, who now slept far away. “Well, my young friend,” said Mr. Beaufort, patronisingly, “your good uncle and myself are quite agreed—a little time for reflection, that’s all. Oh! I don’t think the worse of you for wishing to abridge it. But papas must be papas.”
There was so little jocular about that sedate man, that this attempt at jovial good humour seemed harsh and grating—the hinges of that wily mouth wanted oil for a hearty smile.
“Come, don’t be faint-hearted, Mr. Charles. ‘Faint heart,’—you know the proverb. You must stay and dine with us. We return to-morrow to town. I should tell you, that I received this morning a letter from my son Arthur, announcing his return from Baden, so we must give him the meeting—a very joyful one you may guess. We have not seen him these three years. Poor fellow! he says he has been very ill and the waters have ceased to do him any good. But a little quiet and country air at Beaufort Court will set him up, I hope.”
Thus running on about his son, then about his shooting—about Beaufort Court and its splendours—about parliament and its fatigues—about the last French Revolution, and the last English election—about Mrs. Beaufort and her good qualities and bad health—about, in short, everything relating to himself, some things relating to the public, and nothing that related to the persons to whom his conversation was directed, Mr. Robert Beaufort wore away half an hour, when the Spencer’s took their leave, promising to return to dinner.
“Charles,” said Mr. Spencer, as the boat, which the young man rowed, bounded over the water towards their quiet home; “Charles, I dislike these Beauforts!”
“Not the daughter?”
“No, she is beautiful, and seems good; not so handsome as your poor mother, but who ever was?”—here Mr. Spencer sighed, and repeated some lines from Shenstone.
“Do you think Mr. Beaufort suspects in the least who I am?”
“Why, that puzzles me; I rather think he does.”
“And that is the cause of the delay? I knew it.”