“What! sir,” said I, pleased with the discovery, and with no fear that he was about to come Chattermohun over me; “did you then know my uncle, Colonel Gernon?”
“Know him!” said the general, with energy and warmth—“I did, and right well too; we were in Goddard’s march together and the Rohilla campaign, and in many places besides. Yes,” he continued, warming as he went on, “poor Pat Gernon and I have broiled under the same tint and fought under the same banner, ay, by G——, and mounted the same brache together; yes,” added he, clutching his fiddlestick, and looking as fierce as if he was bursting through the fire and carnage of an assault, “I think I now hear the shouts of the inimy, and see your brave uncle lading on his gallant Sapoys through fire and smoke, his beaver in one hand and his sword in the other. Ah,” he went on, touched and overcome, whilst his eye moistened, “them were the days: the thought of them—it is now long, long back—and of all my old companions gone, comes over me sometimes like a faint air or a summer’s drame. Know your uncle! Ay did I, and a braver soldier or a better man (though he had his faults, and who the divil has not?) never broke the bread of life.”
I felt a sensation of choking, whilst all the ancient blood of the Gernons mantled in my cheeks, as I listened to the veteran’s animated laudation of my deceased relative.
“Well, sur,” continued the general, suddenly changing the subject, and as if a little ashamed of the weakness and enthusiasm into which he had been betrayed, “and how did you lave my old friend, Sir Toby? Is he as fond of his bottle and his rubber as he used to be? I think he played the best hand at whist of any man I ever knew.”
“I believe, sir,” said I, “that Sir Toby’s habits are unchanged in those respects; though I am unable to speak much of him from personal knowledge, having obtained the letter of introduction which I have had the honour to deliver to you through the kindness of a mutual friend.”
“Well, never mind how ye got it, so that ye did get it. I am extramely happy that it has been the manes of introducing to my acquaintance the nephew of my old companion in arms, to whom, by the way, you bear a strong resemblance: so now,” he continued, “talk to my daughter, or amuse yourself in any way ye plase till tiffin, and I’ll do the same; this is liberty hall, where every man does as he plases. Cordalia, my love, where is your mother?”
“I have not seen Mrs. Capsicum, sir, this morning since breakfast,” replied Mrs. Delaval; “but I believe she has gone out to pay some visits.”
“Has she?” said the general dryly; “well, now, I thought I noticed a remarkable stillness over the house.”
This was said in a manner, I thought, which smacked of what may be termed a bitter mirth.
This conversation had scarcely terminated, when we heard a loud and angry voice on the stairs or landing; and next moment, in sailed Mrs. Capsicum Secunda, with a face that would have made a fine study for a Hecate, a Gorgon, a Fury, or any other of those celebrated characters, in whose countenances the ancients were wont to depict all the wildest play of the passions. Mrs. Delaval turned pale, the old general looked dismayed, and I, for my part, groped for my hat, thinking I might doubtless be de trop and better out of the way before the family breeze sprung up, and of which there were such alarming indications.