"So great a difficulty, apparently," I answered, suddenly rising from the table, for I felt indignant with the want of spirit of my two gentlemen, "that methinks I shall in future leave them to their familiar Welsh, and order my meals in my parlour, where you two gentlemen may, if you choose, have them with me." Eustace turned crimson, bit his lip; Uncle Hubert went very green; and I own I myself was astonished at my decision of tone and attitude: it was like an unknown me speaking with my voice.
Contrary to my expectation, neither Eustace nor Hubert manifested any vexation with me. We went upstairs and sat down to cards as if nothing had happened. But the next day Hubert brought me a long message of apology, which I confess sounded very much of his making up, from Uncle David. But added that he quite agreed that it was better that Eustace and I should have our meals above, "and leave the hogs to their wash." "Only," he said, with that politeness which I like so little (though Heaven knows politeness ought to be a welcome drug in this place), "I trust my dear young niece will not cast me out of the paradise I have, after so many years, tasted of; and allow her old rough Uncle Hubert occasionally to breathe the air of refinement she has brought to this castle."
Yet I notice he has but rarely eaten with Eustace and me; coming up, however, to drink wine (or pretend, for he never empties his glass and complains he has but a weak head), or play cards, or hear me sing to the harpsichord, a performance of which he seems inordinately fond.
I cannot help wondering what Eustace and he discuss, besides literature, over their wine. For Eustace must surely intend, sooner or later, to resume his position of master of St. Salvat's, and dispose, some way, of the crew of Caliban uncles.
October 18, 1772.
I ought to say something to my dear mother (though I am getting doubtful of distressing her with my small and temporary troubles) about the domestic economy of St. Salvat's. This is odd enough, to my thinking. The greater part of the castle is unoccupied, and from what I have seen, quite out of repair; nor should I have deemed it possible that so many fine dwelling-rooms could ever have been filled and choked up, as is here the case, with lumber, and, indeed, litter, of all kinds. The uncles, all except Hubert, are lodged in the great south wing, and I should guess in a manner more suitable to their looks than to their birth, while Eustace and I occupy his mother's apartments, done up in the late reign, in the north wing looking on the sea. The centre of the castle is taken up by the great hall, going from ground to ceiling, so that the two halves are virtually isolated; certainly isolated so far as I am concerned, since the fear of eavesdropping on my uncles' brawling has already stopped my using the gallery which runs under the ceiling of the hall, and connects my apartments with the main staircase. The dairy, still-room, pantry, and even the kitchen are in outhouses, from which the serving men bring in the food often in pouring rain in an incredibly reckless manner. I say "serving men," because one of the peculiarities of St. Salvat's (for I can scarce believe it to be an universal practice in England or even in Wales) is the predominance of the male sex. But let not your fancy construe this as a sign of grandeur, or conjure up bevies of lacqueys in long coats and silver badges! Like master, like man; the men at St. Salvat's have the same unkempt, sea-wolfish look as the masters, are equally foul in their habits and possess even less English. By some strange freak the cook only is not of these parts, indeed, a mulatto, knowing only Spanish. "All good sea-faring folk, able to man the boats on a stormy night," explained Uncle Gwyn, as if it were quite natural that the castle of St. Salvat's should be a headquarters of pilchard fishing! I have only seen the mulatto at a distance, and at first believed him to be an invention of Uncle Simon's, the wag of the family, who informed me he had him off a notorious pirate ship, where he had learnt to grill d——d French frogs during the late war and serve them up with capers.
The small number of women servants is scarce to be regretted, judging by the few there are. Though whether, indeed, these sluts should be judged at all as serving women I feel inclined to doubt; for no secret is made of the dairymaid and the laundress being the sultanas of Uncles Simon and Gwyn, with whom they often sit to meals; while the little waiting wench at first allotted to me was too obviously courted by the oaf Evan to be kept in my service. Uncle Hubert had indeed thought it needful to explain to me that the gentry of these parts all live worse than heathens, and has attempted (but the subject gave me little satisfaction) to confirm this by the chronique galante of the neighbourhood; 'tis wonderful how quick the man is at taking a hint, and adapting his views to his listeners', at least to mine. To come back to the maids, if such a name can be applied here, I find the only reputable woman in the castle (her age, and something in her manner give her a claim to such an adjective) is Mrs. Davies, the supposed housekeeper, who now attends on my (luckily very simple) wants. She was the foster-mother and nurse of my brother-in-law, the late Baronet; and 'tis plain there was no love lost betwixt Eustace and her. Indeed, I seem to guess she may have helped to make his infancy the sad and solitary one it was. Yet, for all this suspicion, and a confused impression (which I can't account for) that the woman is set over us to spy, I am bound to say that of all people here, not excepting Uncle Hubert here, Mrs. Davies is the one most to my taste. She has been notably beautiful, and despite considerable age, has an uncommon active and erect bearing; and there is about her harsh, dark face, and silent, abrupt manners, something which puts me at ease by its strength and straightforwardness. This seems curious after saying she has been set to spy; but 'tis my impression that in this heathenish country spying, aye, and I can fancy robbing and murdering, might be done with a clean conscience as a duty towards one's masters; and Hubert, and the memory of Sir Thomas, are the real masters, and not Eustace and I.... Will it always be so? Things look like it; and yet, at the bottom of my soul, I find a hope, almost an expectation, that with God's grace I shall clean out this Augean stable, and burn out these wasp's nests....
October 29.
On my asking about prayers, a practice I had noticed in every family since my arrival in England, Uncle Hubert excused himself by explaining that most of the common folk about here had followed Mr. Wesley's sect, and for the rest few of the household understood English. The same reason methought prevented his fulfilling his clergyman's office in public; and when three Sundays had passed, I got to think that the church in the glen was never opened at all. To my surprise last night, being Saturday, the Reverend Hubert invited us very solemnly to Divine Service the following morning; invited, for his manner was very much that of a man requesting one's company at a concert or theatrical entertainment. I am just returned, and I confess my astonishment. Uncle Hubert, though in a style by no means to my taste, and with no kind of real religious spirit, is undoubtedly a preacher of uncommon genius, nor was there any possibility, methought, that his extempore sermon was learned by heart. The flowing rhetorical style, more like that of Romish divines, was of a piece also with his conversation, and he had the look of enjoyment of one conscious of his own powers. I own the interest of the performance (for such I felt it) was so great that it was only on reflection I perceived the utter and almost indecent inappropriateness thereof. Despite the lack of English, the entire household, save the mulatto, were present, mostly asleep in constrained attitudes; and the other uncles, all except David and Gwyn, lay snoring in their pews.
My own impression was oddly disagreeable; but on the service ending, I brought myself to compliment our uncle. "You should have been a bishop," I said, "at your age, Uncle Hubert."