Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/386

 Novzxbkb 5,  1869.]  HOW  I BECAME  A HERO. 375

“Now, what  can  I do?”

“Well, you  ask  if  Sir  Frederick  Worth’s  car- riage is here. They send  for  the  luggage,  too. This is  very  kind  of  you.”

Sir Frederick’s  carriage,  and  Sir  Frederick’s drag for  the  luggage — servants  who  knew  their work, and  magnificent  horses  who  knew  their masters — a first-rate turn-out  it  was. I did Nugent’s work  like  a man,  not  any  better,  I am afraid;  for  Mrs.  Barrington,  on  her  husband’s arm, gave  many  sweet-voiced  directions: “O not under that  trunk,  please.”  “Will  you  tell  the men to  put  those  light  boxes  on  the  top!” And, “Make the  men  put  all  those  light  things  in  the carriage and  not  in  the  drag:” and  so  on.

“This card  has  our  direction  when  in  London on it,”  said  Mr.  Barrington; “I hope  we  shall see you  again.”  Like  all  blind  people,  he  talked of seeing.

The carriage  drove  up. Mrs. Barrington  got in: “Now, Leslie!” — once  more  those  sweet- voiced words.

“But where  are  you  going,  now?”  addressing me.

“I am going  to  Beachly.”

“Do you  live  there?”

“No. I go — I go — for a little  change,”  I answered,  smiling  at  the  idle  reason. She smiled, too. What a radiance  was  that  smile!

“We shall  be  there  ourselves  in  a fortnight,  I hope. We have  taken  a house — Beaumont. I never was  there: but  you  will  find  us  out. ”

“Pray do — don’t  forget!” said  Mr.  Bar- rington.

I stood with  my  hat  up— they  drove  away — I walked  back  to  the  platform. How hot,  hard, and white  everything  looked! I took refuge  in a room: it  would  not  do. Beer and  porter; cakes and sweetmeats— they  always  made  me  ill. Once more among  the  porters,  a sort  of  wooden  sofa, all bars  and  blisters,  was  a luxury. I sat in  the shade: I did not  know  how  the  time  passed. The blind  man  and  his  beautiful  wife  filled  my thoughts. A train came  up — a woman,  half  out of the  window,  caught  sight  of  me. Her face lighted up; she  cried,  “O,  sir!”

I jumped forward: “All  right: you  get  out here.”

“And the  luggage,  sir?”

You see,  I had  suddenly  become  a friend  of  the family. I pulled Mrs.  Nugent  out,  told  her  to get  a fly,  and  was  promptly  obeyed. The half- hour was  over; and  seeing  an  empty  carriage  in the  train  to  Beachly,  I got  in,  made  myself  up  in a corner,  with  an  obstinate  determination  to  think no more,  and  slumber,  if  possible,  and  I slept accordingly; and  arrived  at  my  lodgings  safely, as I have  said.

“You have  been  expecting  me?”  was  my  first speech to  my  landlady,  as  she  preceded  me  up-stairs.

“Yes, sir.  Your  sister,  sir — she  said  she  was your sister — a lady  of  the  name  of  Porter,  took these apartments  last  week,  and  said  you  would be here  to-day. This is  your  drawing-room,  sir. Small  room  inside  again,  you  perceive: very useful a second  room,  however  small. Bed-room and dressing-room  up-stairs. Do you  travel  alone, sir?”

“I am  alone,”  was  the  reply,  that  came  in rather  a peremptory  manner,  I suppose,  for  the good woman  stepped  back,  and  begged  my  pardon. I knew she  thought  of  a wife  and  several  smaller angels, but  I could  not  help  it.

I heard the  luggage  going  up-stairs. I said I would  have  tea  immediately,  and  I threw  myself into an  easy  chair,  thinking  over  the  day. The room was  such  as  all  goers-to-the-sea-side  know well. Pictures on  the  wall,  inclining  to  gloom and somnolence. “Scenery pictures,”  as  my hostess  said,  adding,  “my  brother-in-law’s” — Of course  you  know  them  now. I gazed on  them helplessly. When tea  came  my  dreamy  fit  was over. So, leaving  the  tea  to  cool  itself,  I got down to  the  beach,  which  was  spread  for  a tempt- ing two miles  below  me. I walked from  end  to end,  and  back  again,  swinging  along  as  if  I was doing a match  on  a turnpike  road. When I turned  towards  the  house,  three  caps  disappeared from as  many  windows. I knew that  they had called  me  “the  odd  gentleman.”  I resumed the interrupted  tea,  and  contemplated  my  outer man in  the  looking-glass. Look over  my  shoulder, fair reader. You see  me — a man  of  forty,  not gray yet,  neither  wrinkled  nor  fat: in  excellent health. Something about  the  shoulders  speaks of the  noble  science. “A Westminster boy  still,” was my  own  verdict. Very young  ladies  might have called  me  middle-aged: sensible  mammas would be  sure  to  pronounce  me  an  excellent match; so steady — such  a good  friend  for  Fred, and to  themselves  quite  a blessing.

These observations  are  not  out  of  place,  for  I — hitherto supposed  to  be  a confirmed  bachelor — stood at  that  glass,  and  took  into  consideration — Matrimony. Why in  the  world  had  I never married? Had I asked  my  sister,  who  lived comfortably in  the  country  about  sixteen  miles  off, she would  have  answered  fluently: “I am  sure  I don’t  know,  Reginald,  but  it  is  perfectly  certain that you  will  never  marry  now.”  I heard  her answer as  if  she  had  been  there. I heard a soft echo of  another  voice,  “Now,  Leslie!”  “Now, now,” I repeated  the  words,  and  applied  them differently. But where  was  the  lady,  and  who? I did not  know  a living  woman  to  whom  I could have offered  myself. Once, twenty  years  ago,  I had  supposed  myself  heart-broken; and  perhaps something did  happen,  as  I had  never  been  in love  since. But I knew  that  I never  saw  Lady Martingale without  blessing  Fate  and  my  stars, and that  I felt  a friendship  for  my  lord,  which made me  grateful  for  his  mere  existence. Why, then, had  I never  married! “A wrong  form  of the  question,”  I murmured  to  myself,  sitting down to  my  tea  -with  a relish. “Why don't  I marry? I wonder if  she  has  a sister!”

“Where is  Beaumont?” said  I,  when  the  next morning my  exquisite  dish  of  fish  was  brought  in by  the  landlady.

“Beaumont,” she  repeated,  as  if  the  name  was unfamiliar. “Beaumont, now — I seem  to  know the name — dear  me,  sir,  Beaumont!”

“Find out,”  I said. “It is  a house  taken  by Mr. Leslie Barrington. ”

“O, now  I know — I beg  your  pardon,  sir. You  see  this  is  it. There was  an  old,  strange,