The evening passed on; the lovely, silent twilight insensibly deepened into night; the stars twinkled forth, one by one, in the pure, clear, deepening blue overhead; the road gradually widened; the houses along its sides became more and more frequent, the atmosphere thickened; the horizon ahead grew luminous; lights appeared and rapidly increased in number, soon they were glancing on both sides of us; a dull, heavy roar became audible, and finally, as the church-clocks were striking the hour of midnight, the chaise pulled up before the door of my uncle’s house in Saint James’s Square; and I had arrived in town.
As the post-boy let down the steps and threw open the carriage-door for me to alight, I could see through the fanlight over the door that there was a light in the hall, so I felt pretty certain that my uncle had not yet retired. I ran up the steps and gave the bell-handle a tug which speedily brought old Timothy to the door.
“Has Sir Peregrine retired yet, Tim?” said I.
“He has not, sir,” replied the ancient, “but I much doubt if he will see any one at such a late—Why, I declare, if it ain’t Master Ralph! Come in, sir; come in. Sir Peregrine is in the libr’y. Won’t he be glad to see you, just! He’s always looking through the paper to see if there’s any news of the ‘Juno,’ or if your name is mentioned, sir. This is an unexpected visit, though, Master Ralph; I hope there’s nothing wrong, sir.”
“Oh dear, no! quite the reverse I hope, Tim, my boy. I’ve been sent home with despatches. Now, lead the way to the library, if you please.”
This short confabulation passed in the hall while Tim was relieving me of my cloak and hat. He now preceded me to the library, at the door of which he knocked, and then, flinging open the portal, he announced me.
“Master Ralph, Sir Peregrine.”
I passed into the lofty apartment, its walls lined from floor to ceiling with well-stocked book-shelves, and found the worthy knight seated in his own particular old easy-chair, with one foot—ominously swathed in flannel—reposing upon another; his specs on his nose, and the gazette in his hand.
He looked round with a start as my name was mentioned, shaded his eyes with his hand for an instant, as his eyes fell upon my advancing figure, and then—forgetting all about his gout—started to his feet with both hands outstretched.
“Why, Ralph! My dear boy, where—confound this gout! It always attacks me at exactly the wrong moment—but never mind; what cloud have you dropped from?”