Margaret Capel, vol. 3. Ellen Wallace
and that her placidity was as much the effect of resignation as of contentment.
Mr. Singleton looked the hearty fox-hunter. He welcomed Margaret with honest kindness, thanked her repeatedly for taking so long a journey to gratify a wish of Harriet's, and hoped earnestly that dinner would soon be announced, since he was certain she must have been starved on the road. He then crossed over to welcome a strange looking young man who had entered the room, and was standing on the other side of the ample fire-place.
This young man might have been of age, though a short, stumpy face, surmounting a very large person, gave him the appearance of a little boy under a strong magnifier. His arms were too short, and his hands, which were singularly small, seemed to hang the wrong way. He gave a little kick behind, when he attempted to bow, and began almost every sentence with a short barking laugh.
"Look at that animal!" said Harriet leaning across to Margaret. "That is Mr. Humphries—the very rich Mr. Humphries! Is he not exactly like a seal set upright? Look at him trying to reach my aunt with his short fins! Quite in vain, my good friend! Oh, no, Mr. Humphries, I never shake hands, you know."
The youth, who had advanced for the purpose of exchanging this courtesy with Harriet, barked, gave his accustomed scrape, and retired. Harriet continued her caustic remarks to Margaret.
"Observe the very fat Mrs. Pottinger in the brocaded gown and Mrs. Markham with a whole dish of grapes and currants upon her head; and their well-bred daughters whispering together on that ottoman—comparing notes about you, I have no doubt! I tell my uncle he need never expect me to pay any attention to this sort of guests. I hardly know who shall take me in to dinner. Colonel Markham drawls so, and Mr. Pottinger speaks through his nose. Then Mr. Baxter is so fat, and the seal—oh! I see Evan has caught somebody that will do to walk across the room with. Uncle Singleton, let that black-looking man take me in to dinner. Evan, I wish to introduce you to Miss Capel."
"Delighted," said Mr. Evan Conway bowing to Margaret.
"You will also take Miss Capel in to dinner."
"Delighted."
"And, oh! in case I don't come near you again, be careful that you make Mr. Humphries sing in the evening."
"Delighted."
"Evan is not a fool," said Harriet, turning to Margaret, "though you would think so by his using only one word to express everything. What is that man's name Evan, who is propping that side of the chimney-piece with his shoulder?"
"Gordon."
"Oh, good Heaven! A Scotchman! I retract, Margaret, I will have Colonel Markham; though he drawls, he says very little; and any-thing is better than the brogue. What is he, this Scotchman?"
"Nothing."
"Worse and worse. I detest a man without an occupation; and now I look at him, I suspect he writes."
"Sometimes."
"What does he write in the name of goodness?"
"Travels."
"Oh! that is better than poetry, don't you think so Margaret? I am not sure if I will not put up with him. Is he poor?"
"No."
"Rich then?"
"Nor rich."
"One of your black swans that I always find to be so much worse than geese?"
"Perhaps."
"Introduce him to me."
"Harriet—Mr. Gordon."
"What a detestable introduction. I suppose Mr. Gordon, you are sufficiently acquainted with Evan not to be surprised at any-thing he says or does?"
Margaret did not hear Mr. Gordon's reply, for he led Harriet off to dinner, which was announced at the moment, and she accepted the offered arm of Mr. Evan Conway.
Margaret was struck with the appearance of the dining-room. It was a large dark room; for although crowded with lamps, black oak is the most difficult of all things to light up. The mantle-piece was in the form of a Gothic arch; the ceiling crossed with carved beams of wood; and at the end of the apartment there was an arched recess, where stood the sideboard loaded with old plate.
"Are you fond of talking?" said Mr. Evan, as soon as they were placed at table.
Margaret thought the question an odd one; but she said that she had never considered the subject, and that she should hardly think herself a good judge of her own peculiarities.
"Singular now, what different replies people give to the same question," said her companion. "Most young ladies say, oh, no, Mr. Evan! Or, how can you ask such things, Mr. Conway? Or, dear me, what makes you think so? You may imagine how much refreshed I feel, when a young lady makes an answer which shows something like thought and originality. Pray who taught you to sing?"
"I believe, I taught myself," said Margaret, amused by the singularity of her neighbour.
"Very industrious of you!" said he smiling. "It is a great exertion to teach oneself any-thing. One has to undergo the double labour of master and scholar—both hard situations. Do you like the society in this neighbourhood?"
"I know nothing of it. I arrived to-day, just before dinner."
"But the general aspect of it—do pronounce an opinion. What a combination of grace and intelligence in the ladies! and—and—what is the corresponding virtue in the gentlemen?"
"I cannot tell," said Margaret.
"Oh! let us come to a decision—or, suppose we illustrate. The man opposite, whom that amiable girl is trying to encourage, mistaking awkwardness for shyness,—is he your beau-ideal?"
"I will not tell you," said Margaret.
"Poor Humphries!" said Mr. Evan, still looking at the couple on the other side. "He will go home now, and swear she is his devoted admirer! How well Miss Bremer hits off a scene of that kind in the new novel of the H– Family."
"I recollect it," said Margaret, smiling.
"His letter to his brother—ha! ha!—You ladies see the bye-play of society so very keenly."
"I am not an authoress," said Margaret.
"I am aware of that. You do not look in the least like one, I can assure you."
"What do they look like, then?"
"Green spectacles, frizzled hair, which they obstinately refuse to cover with a cap. Large hands in black mittens—ditto feet, in villainous thick shoes. In fact, every thing that is most odious in women, and to crown all, when they walk abroad, or take the air, or whatever phrase they may employ to indicate their savage peregrinations, they exhibit to the world an old straw bonnet adorned with a broken black feather—this costume is invariable."
"I do not believe that picture to be always correct," said Margaret laughing.
"But it has entirely answered my purpose, it has made you laugh; and a genuine merry laugh is not a thing to be met with every day in the week."
"But a description is of no value if it is devoid of truth," said Margaret.
"Truth, my dear Miss Capel, is a very excellent lady or gentleman, (I am not quite certain of the gender) and I do not dispute its value; for you may have often remarked that the things are valuable in proportion to their scarcity. The most ill-favoured curiosities fetch a high price in the market. Nobody denies that truth is scarce enough to be a curiosity, and in most cases a very ill-favoured one. You don't agree with me, and I'm very sorry for it—but I cannot alter my opinion."
"I was not going to oppose it," said Margaret. "I have no mania for making converts."
"No. You were merely saying to yourself that you had come in the way of a monstrous odd person. That you did not agree with a word he said; but that it was not worth while to oppose the fancies of a passing acquaintance."
Margaret laughed.
"Now, by way of returning good for evil, I will give you some excellent advice. Never touch either curry or ice at this house. They do not manage well the two extremes of hot and cold. The curry is stuffed with rhubarb,