And down they went, and arrived late on the day after this conversation at an old-fashioned manor-house, where Miss Dorothy Hunter had passed some sixty-odd years of her life. Though to Tom she seemed to bear a great resemblance to old Miss Barrington, there was really little likeness between them, beyond an inordinate pride of birth, and an intense estimation for the claims of family. Miss Hunter's essential characteristic was a passion for celebrities; a taste somewhat difficult to cultivate in a very remote and little visited locality. The result was that she consoled herself by portraits, or private letters, or autographs of her heroes, who ranged over every imaginable career in life, and of whom, by mere dint of iteration, she had grown to believe herself the intimate friend or correspondent.
No sooner had she learned that her nephew was to be accompanied by the gallant young soldier whose name was in every newspaper than she made what she deemed the most suitable preparations for his reception. Her bedroom was hung round with portraits of naval heroes, or pictures of sea-fights. Grim old admirals, telescope in hand, or with streaming hair, shouting out orders to board the enemy, were on every side; while, in the place of honor, over the fireplace, hung a vacant frame, destined one day to contain the hero of the hour, Tom Dill himself.
Never was a poor fellow in this world less suited to adulation of this sort. He was either overwhelmed with the flattery, or oppressed by a terror of what some sensible spectator—if such there were—would think of the absurd position in which he was forced to stand. And when he found himself obliged to inscribe his name in a long column of illustrious autographs, the sight of his own scarce legible characters filled up the measure of his shame.
“He writes like the great Turenne,” said Miss Dorothy; “he always wrote from above downwards, so that no other name than his own could figure on the page.”
“I got many a thrashing for it at school, ma'am,” said Tom, apologizing, “and so I gave up writing altogether.”
“Ah, yes! the men of action soon learn to despise the pen; they prefer to make history rather than record it.”
It was not easy for Hunter to steer his bashful friend through all the shoals and quicksands of such flattery; but, on the plea of his broken health and strength, he hurried him early to his bed, and returned to the fireside, where his aunt awaited him.
“He's charming, if he were only not so diffident. Why will he not be more confiding, more at his ease with me,—like Mungo Park, or Sir Sidney Smith?”
“After a while, so he will, aunt. You 'll see what a change there will be in him at our next visit All these flatteries he meets with are too much for him; but when we come down again, you 'll see him without these distracting influences. Then bear in mind his anxieties,—he has not yet seen his family; he is eager to be at home again. I carried him off here positively in spite of himself, and on the strict pledge of only for one day.”
“One day! And do you mean that you are to go tomorrow?”