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,