They were expected, for the baronet and his lady were awaiting their arrival, and hastened, as they appeared, to give them hearty welcome. It wanted about a couple of hours to dinner time, which interim Sir George wished to fill up by introducing them to his fox-hounds and pigs, while his lady urged the superior attractions of the lawn and flower-garden, to the terror of the sporting baronet, who seemed to consider her taste not only questionable, but absolutely depraved. Sir George shook his comical head in a comical manner, inferring a protest against their choice, when the young men decided on seeing the garden first, and the kennel and pig-stye after; a preference that seemed to involve an absolute inversion of the order of things, apparently, to his thinking.
What a contrast there was between the lady of Ystrad Feen and her lord and master! Twm’s attention was almost entirely taken up with the sweet and unaffected grace of the lady; but we must be impartial and take some notice of her husband. Sir George was a spare and somewhat tall figure, the erectness of which was frequently disturbed by what at first appeared some constitutional fidgetiness—a habit of perpetually drawing up, and letting down, his right shoulder; while he conversed in jerking short sentences, never standing still an instant when speaking. These peculiarities, at first sight, gave him the appearance of a man afflicted with St. Vitus’s dance; and affected the observer with the repulsive sensations endured by those who, from delicacy towards the afflicted, aim to conceal their notice of a personal blemish or deformity.
But this strange habit had its source in a fox-hunting accident that occurred in a chase wherein Sir George, in the heat and ardour of the pursuit, leapt down a terrific precipice in which the fox had sought cover. His noble hunter, named Dare-devil, was killed by the achievement of this feat, his own neck nearly broken, and his shoulder so dislocated and otherwise injured, that no surgical skill could cure him of the nervous affection which caused the continual restlessness alluded to.
Sir George, however, gloried in his dearly-bought triumph, and boasted like a veteran detailing the particulars of a famous battle in which he had figured; winding up his narrative with—“glorious and remarkable hunt—the world never saw the like—and I was solus in at the death—in a hell-hole that none but myself dared approach.”
His face was no less curious than his figure. He was rather small featured, with very light blue eyes; indeed so exceedingly light that they were often described as literally white; and when he gazed, with the wildness of imperfect consciousness, caused by indulgence in the potent cup, might give no inapt idea of Pygmalion’s marble statue, on its first wild stare when imbued with inward light and life; although his merry neighbour, Squire Prothero, summed their description up, less classically, as the nearest approach to a boiled salmon’s eyes, or the lack-lustre dullness of a couple of baked gooseberries. His face was fair, and much freckled in the upper part; while a shock head of closely-curling red hair, and white, or rather sandy eyebrows, concludes the description of this strange piece of eccentric manhood.
The walk through the garden was by no means to his taste. He did not understand flowers, and could not restrain his expression of impatience, protesting that there was nothing worth seeing there. “Besides,” added he, with the gravity of a philosopher who aimed to eradicate a vulgar error, and instil a superior principle, “flowers are bad—a great evil—showy nuisance—bank of violets often a snare to the hounds—like beauty to the boy, to lure him from the paths of duty;—but come and see my kennel—finest dogs in the world—no false charms there—they say truth’s hid in a well—all a mistake—she’s hid in the snouts of my fox-hounds;—strong as bulls, and swift as hell—a cannon ball’s a fool to them—deadly as the doctor wherever they rush—but what’s your name, my young Cæsar of the Welsh mountains, hey?”
Twm was too busy with the lady of Ystrad Feen to listen to the rattling tongue of Sir George, and Mr. Rhys hastened to give the story of Twm’s parentage, dwelling with much emphasis on the cruel neglect of his father, Sir John Wynn of Gwydir; and, in conclusion, he said his friend’s name, derived from his humble mother as well as from his stately father, was Thomas ap John a Catty, familiarized into Twm Shon Catty; but that which he intended to adopt, and desired to be known by, was Thomas Jones.
The promenade had, in the fox-hunter’s opinion, been unreasonably prolonged, and he hailed with delight their approach to his sanctum sanctorum, the dog-kennel, where he anticipated the delight of his visitors, when—how shall we express the intensity of his disappointment!—a voice struck on his ear, like the croak of the bird of ill-omen with the intelligence of “dinner waits!”
Fain would he have horse-whipped the intruding messenger, and expatiated with his friends on the absurdity of eating dinners, when the sublimer pastime of entering a kennel of fox-hounds was offered to them. But before he found words to his purpose he had the mortification to see his auditors accompany his lady wife into the house, where, musing on their questionable taste, he followed them.
We need not dwell on the delicacy of the viands, the rarity of the wines, the jocularity of Squire Prothero, the laughing magistrate, who dropped in and joined them after dinner; the beauty and fascination of Miss Meredith, the lady’s companion, who almost made a conquest of the heart of poor Rhys—and, above all, the captivating sweetness of our heroine, the young hostess! and other interesting details. But we must find space to say that a short hunt was got up, contrary to usual custom, in the evening, to save the baronet from dying of chagrin for his failure of exhibiting his animal treasures to his guests before dinner.