It is not often that the physical corresponds so well with the moral, as in Cecil Chamberlayne; but in him the accordance was perfect. You could not look at his white hand without at once divining, from its conical fingers, and the absence of strongly marked knuckles, that it belonged to one in whom the emotions predominated, and in whom the intellect tended naturally to art; it was, in truth, an artistic hand, the largeness of which showed a love of details, as the broad palm and small thumb showed an energetic sensuality and a wavering will.
Lively, good-natured, and accomplished, he was a great favourite with most people, and, indeed, the very attractiveness of his manners had been the obstacle to his advancement in life. His time and talents, instead of being devoted to any honourable or useful pursuit, were frittered away in the endless nothings which society demanded, and he had reached the age of seven and twenty, without fortune and without a profession. He flattered himself that he should be made consul somewhere, by one among his powerful friends, or that some sinecure would fall in his way; and on this hope he refrained from applying himself to the study of any profession, and only thought of sustaining his reputation as an amusing fellow. Meanwhile his small patrimony had dwindled down to the interest of four thousand pounds, which was preserved only because he could not touch the capital: a misfortune which he had frequently declaimed against, and to which he now owed the means of keeping a decent coat on his back.
He went to Vyner, listened to his remarks on Horace, sympathized with his hatred of editors, wondered at the beauty and rarity of his editions, expressed strong and lively interest in his commentary, and, in short, so ingratiated himself with the old pedant, that he was invited down to Wytton Hall, whither the family was about to go.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I.
CECIL CHAMBERLAYNE TO FRANK FORRESTER.
MY DEAR FRANK,
I am alone in the house; everybody is gone somewhere, except that prosy, respectable gentleman, Captain Heath, who is in the library, reading Seneca or Hannah More, I dare say; and in consequence of this solitude I obey the call of friendship, and devote my unoccupied time to you.
I have been here three days without a yawn. That is enough to tell you how different the place is from what I expected. On the other hand, I must confide to you my suspicions, that I shall return to town perfectly heart-whole. There are only the two elder girls at home; and, though very pretty, they are not at all my style. Rose, the eldest, is satirical, and far too lively to get up any sentiment with. She makes the place ring with her merry, musical laugh; but I never get on with laughing women. Her sister Blanche is better; but she is shy, and, I suspect, stupid. Violet, the youngest, is expected home in a few days; but both her father and stepmother give fearful accounts of her temper; and, without making any positive charge, Mrs. Vyner has, from time to time, said things which convey a very unfavourable impression of the girl's disposition.
As this is the case, I must look at Wytton Hall from a totally different point of view. It is now only a country house to me, and I must criticize its attractions accordingly.