I must have passed from these waking dreams into dreams of a less coherent kind, and have fallen asleep, for I was aroused by the barking of a dog, and noise of considerable bustle in the hall, which was quickly followed by the entrance of Meredith Vyner, his wife, his daughters, and his guests. He apologized for being absent on my arrival, but had accepted the engagement before my note reached him to say I should be down on that day. His welcome was warm enough; but the others seemed to me disagreeably cold and constrained. They were all very tired, and went early to bed, except Vyner, who sat up with me discussing Horace; and Captain Heath, who was reading the paper.
I retired to bed somewhat disgusted, and resolved to receive a letter which should call me up to town on urgent business; I felt so lonely in that great house full of uncongenial people. Sleeping in a strange house is always rather unpleasant to me. I am bothered by unfamiliarity in familiar things. I could sleep in a wigwam comfortably enough; but in a bedroom which is substantially the same as all other bedrooms, and which, nevertheless, wears an air of strangeness, I feel out of my assiette ordinaire. This was peculiarly so on the night I speak of, from my unpleasant impression of the people I was thrown among.
It happened, however, that my impression of the people was similar to my impression of the place—at first repulsive, afterwards attractive. What the well-lighted drawing-room was to the dining-room, that was the next morning's hilarity to the over night's frigidity. Breakfast was charming. Everybody seemed in high spirits—the first freshness of morning—and my opinion was completely changed. You know how intimate one becomes after having spent a night under the same roof: it seems as if you breakfasted only with old friends. I felt myself at home; and kept the table in a roar of laughter. This success operated favourably on my own spirits; and in consequence, I have established myself as a general favourite.
Now for my companions, Vyner himself promises to be more of a bore than I anticipated. His wife is very charming, and seems to agree wonderfully in all my views, which I, of course, regard as a sign of excellent taste and judgment. The daughters I have already spoken of. Captain Heath is handsome, gentlemanly, but confoundedly "sensible," and, though a guardsman, has no idea of "life." I can't say I like him; though why, I don't know; as Martial says,
Non amo te Sabidi: nee possum dicere quare;
Hoc tantum possum dicere: Non amo te.
(I hope you remember enough Latin to understand that, eh, Frank? The truth is, I charmed Vyner yesterday with it, by quoting it as the original of "I do not love thee, Dr. Fell," which he quoted to me. He was so pleased, that I would wager he introduces it into his commentary on Horace, which already amounts to nearly three octavos!)
To return to Heath, I think something of my dislike may be the mere re-action against the immense liking, I almost said veneration, which every one feels for him here. They are always telling some story of his goodness. "Goodness!" and in a guardsman!
Mrs. Langley Turner, who arrived yesterday, Sir Harry Johnstone, and Tom Wincot, I need not describe to you. But there is a young fellow named Lufton who ought to be under your hands; he would be an admirable fellow if "formed." To convey to you his stupendous innocence, he told me yesterday at billiards, when I asked him what was his usual stake, that "he had never played for money." Is not this something fabulous—a myth? Let me add, however, that he had enough savoir vivre, to propose that I should name the stakes, as he was quite willing to do what I did. That re-established him in my opinion. He won a pony from me, which I am not likely to regain, as he plays decidedly better than I do.
I must also not forget George Maxwell, a saturnine, stupid, fanatical individual, in love with Mrs. Vyner, or I am vastly mistaken, savagely jealous of every one she notices, but by no means rewarded by any notice from her. I can't tell whether she observes his passion; but she certainly does not return it. Nobody likes him.
There are, besides, a merry little widow, a Mrs. Broughton, and her niece, an inoffensive girl with a happy simpering visage, radiant with foolishness.