“I wish that may not be the case of a packet which I expect in a few days—it should have been here already, or, perhaps, it may arrive in the beginning of the week—it is from that formal ass, Trueman the Quaker, who addresses me by my Christian and family name, Francis Tyrrel. He is like enough to mistake the inn, too, and I should be sorry it fell into Monsieur Martigny's hands—I suppose you know he is in that neighbourhood?—Look after its safety, Solmes—quietly, you understand; because people might put odd constructions, as if I were wanting a letter which was not my own.”
“I understand perfectly, my lord,” said Solmes, without exhibiting the slightest change in his sallow countenance, though entirely comprehending the nature of the service required.
“And here is a note will pay for postage,” said the Earl, putting into his valet's hand a bank-bill of considerable value; “and you may keep the balance for occasional expenses.”
This was also fully understood; and Solmes, too politic and cautious even to look intelligence, or acknowledge gratitude, made only a bow of acquiescence, put the note into his pocketbook, and assured his lordship that his commands should be punctually attended to.
“There goes the agent for my money, and for my purpose,” said Lord Etherington, exultingly; “no extorting of confidence, no demanding of explanations, no tearing off the veil with which a delicate manœuvre is gazé—all excuses are received as argent comptant, provided only, that the best excuse of all, the argent comptant itself, come to recommend them.—Yet I will trust no one—I will out, like a skilful general, and reconnoitre in person.”
With this resolution, Lord Etherington put on his surtout and cap, and sallying from his apartments, took the way to the bookseller's shop, which also served as post-office and circulating library; and being in the very centre of the parade, (for so is termed the broad terrace walk which leads from the inn to the Well,) it formed a convenient lounging-place for newsmongers and idlers of every description.
The Earl's appearance created, as usual, a sensation upon the public promenade; but whether it was the suggestion of his own alarmed conscience, or that there was some real cause for the remark, he could not help thinking his reception was of a more doubtful character than usual. His fine figure and easy manners produced their usual effect, and all whom he spoke to received his attention as an honour; but none offered, as usual, to unite themselves to him, or to induce him to join their party. He seemed to be looked on rather as an object of observation and attention, than as making one of the company; and to escape from a distant gaze, which became rather embarrassing, he turned into the little emporium of news and literature.
He entered unobserved, just as Lady Penelope had finished reading some verses, and was commenting upon them with all the alacrity of a femme savante, in possession of something which no one is to hear repeated oftener than once.
“Copy—no indeed!” these were the snatches which reached Lord Etherington's ear, from the group of which her ladyship formed the centre—“honour bright—I must not betray poor Chatterly—besides, his lordship is my friend, and a person of rank, you know—so one would not—You have not got the book, Mr. Pott?—you have not got Statius?—you never have any thing one longs to see.”
“Very sorry, my lady—quite out of copies at present—I expect some in my next monthly parcel.”