“In honour and truth, I can hear no more till his lordship arrives,” was the reply.
“Well, why doesn’t he come, then,” said Sir John, with the unamiable frown that at times distinguished him; adding, rather superciliously, “is it fitting Mr. Martyn, that the head of the house of Gwydir should be waiting the leisure of this parson lord,—I shall drive out a little, and let him wait for me in his turn.”
Sir John took a quick turn towards the door, but, stopping suddenly, said he would join the young men in the picture gallery, where, accompanied by Mr. Martyn, he went. With the younger Martyn, the Baronet was well enough acquainted; and now his aim was to chat with our hero.
Twm became a little agitated as he found himself in close contact with his father, and a something like an equality in society, since they were both friends in the same family. True, this was really owing to the accident of circumstances, but Twm was there fairly upon his own merits, and not by imposition. Sir John asked him particulars concerning his adventures on the highway, and Twm, throwing all his natural wit into the account, made a favourable impression on his father.
The Martyns, father and son, being summoned down stairs, the stately baronet was left alone with his humble and unknown son. Twm looked towards the walls, with some feelings of awkwardness. The old-fashioned gallery was hung with numerous paintings: portraits by Holbein and Vandyke, with interesting and humorous pieces by foreign masters. Sir John pointed out and warmly expatiated on the merits and peculiarities of the various schools, fixing his eyes more on our hero’s face than on the paintings, to measure the extent of his taste and intellect by the effect they might produce on him; for the Baronet was quite an enthusiast in the fine arts, and would be quick in discovering whether or not he was throwing away his observations on a blockhead. He was not slow in observing the evidence of mind in his auditor, from the deep interest which he took in his details; but he especially remarked that his fancy was principally taken by the drolleries and homeliness of the Dutch and Flemish pictures, in one of which Twm fancied he saw a resemblance to Carmarthen Jack, his aunt Juggy, of hump-backed peculiarity, and even a counterpart to the starveling Moses. Apologizing for the rusticity of his taste, he owned his admiration of the boors and the lowly damsels, as they reminded him of some such, the familiars of his childhood in Wales.
“And where might that be passed?” enquired the Baronet, smilingly.
“In the humble town of Tregaron, in Cardiganshire,” replied Twm.
“Who are the principal gentry in that neighbourhood?” enquired the Baronet. When Twm mentioned Squire Graspacre and his late lady, Sir John looked him hard in the face; then, silently fixing his eyes on the floor, he recollected a certain passage in his life, that prevented him visiting Graspacre-Hall, from the dread he entertained of the censures and lectures of his decorous and straight-laced sister, Mrs. Graspacre.
“Did you know the lady you mentioned, Mrs. Graspacre?” enquired the baronet. “Very well, Sir John,” was Twm’s reply, “I have great reason, for, to that lady’s benevolence I am indebted for the little education I have received.”
Now, Sir John knew very well that his sister was anything but benevolent, so that by this assertion our hero lost a little in his opinion, and he suspected him of a little cant.