University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

The next morning, on coming in from a ramble,
Claude found Count Carolan's card, with an invitation
to dinner the next day. In the mean time he
amused himself exploring the town, ranging through
the immense and splendid palaces, lounging in the
Park, and seeing the various curiosities interesting
to travellers.

Returning from a walk later in the morning of the
same day on which he received Carolan's first note,
he found another from him, begging him to be at
home the next morning at twelve, as it would give
him pleasure to accompany him in the call usually

made by a stranger desirous of being introduced
into society. Claude knew not whether to ascribe
this attention to the representations of Madame
Wharton, or to the letter of introduction from Lord
Perceval. He felt that the former was cordially his
friend; and he knew that the latter, well disposed
towards him, had written a warm note, begging his
services in favour of a valued friend. Whatever it
might be ascribed to, he replied by accepting gratefully
a kindness offered with so much courtesy.

He had scarcely replied to it when a second note,
in a pretty female hand, was brought in by Carl.

He opened and read:

It was about three o'clock, and Claude, who, in
the pleasure of seeing the town and reflections
upon his own prospects and plans, had forgotten
his honest fellow-voyagers and the modest Mary,
thought he could not better employ the leisure hour
before dinner than in paying the desired visit immediately.

Mrs. Digby, in accordance with her plan of making
a dash, had taken very elegant apartments; and
Claude found the new rooms in the broad and shaded
street called “the Linden,” or sometimes, also,
from the avenues of linden-trees which ornamented
its whole length, sous les arbres. The house was
in the most fashionable part of it and of the town.
A servant, in a gaudy livery, waited at the door and
admitted him. He could scarcely believe that he

was in the domicil of the Digbys, so much had they,
in the diligence, savoured of London low life. He
found them in a pretty boudoir, at the end of several
large and handsome rooms. They were so well
dressed that he could scarcely recognise his old
companions of the schnellpost. Mrs. Digby had
the appearance of a very respectable old lady. Mr.
Digby's toilet had also been carefully attended to,
and the timid Mary looked lovelier than ever.
Claude really admired her modest face, the beautiful
contour of her head, her clear and tender complexion,
and the Hebe-like proportions of her form.
For a moment he thought her almost as pretty as
the painting which had so much attracted his attention.
From the appearance of the whole party, he
saw at once that, with the aid of dress—if the two
parents would only hold their tongues a little more,
and Mary a little less—they might, with the aid of
their wealth, and under the protection of the name
of their “relative, the late Lord Clew,” pass through
the walks of fashion for a month or two as well as
others. His coming was warmly welcomed. Digby
rose from a person with whom he was sitting at
a little table, advanced cordially, and, after slapping
him on the back with hearty familiarity, told him
he was “devilish glad to see him.” Mrs. Digby was
loud in her pleasure, and Mary blushed with tenfold
grace, and lifted her eyes and cast them down
again with a timid embarrassment rather dangerous
to a susceptible youth who had never fallen in love
with anything more substantial than a picture.

“Well, I am devilish glad to see you, my boy,”
said Digby.

“Now, John, you just sit down to your lesson,”
said Mrs. Digby. “We'll take care of Mr. Wyndham.
You needn't think you're going to get clear
on his account. Only think, sir,” continued she,
turning to Claude again, “a person connected with
the late Lord Clew, and not to know a word of

French. He doesn't even know what turnips are.
But, by-the-way, Mr. Wyndham, you haven't been
introduced. This is our French master; you needn't
be afraid of what you say before him; for—he don't
understand a single word of English—we talk our
secrets before him, poor devil! just as we would
before a dumb beast; don't we, old bullfrog?”

The Frenchman, who perceived that he was spoken
to without knowing the meaning of the words,
made two low bows, and placed his hand on his
heart with an expression of grateful civility.

“We have such fun,” said Mary, for the first time
launching into a remark.

“I call him long pockets,” said Digby. “Don't
I, old beeswax?”

“Infinément obligé!” cried the Frenchman, again
turning to Digby with a violent bow.

“This is Mr. Wyndham,” said Mrs. Digby.

“Vinder?” echoed the poor man, not understanding.

“I say,” cried Mrs. Digby, raising her voice almost
to a scream, and putting her mouth close to
his ear, as if she could make him better comprehend
by speaking very loud; “I say, this is Mr. Wyndham—Mounseer
Wyndham—our intimate friend—
came in the diligence with us from Hamburg—because,
you know, our travelling carriage was broke
by that stupid John” (here she cast a look of indignation
on her unhappy husband)—“so he came on
with us. Do you understand that?”

The man cast a look of inquiry upon her features
for the sense which her words failed to convey, and
then looked in the faces of the rest; but, not succeeding
in getting the faintest glimpse of what she
had communicated, notwithstanding she went on
with greater vehemence to the last word, he shrugged
his shoulders, drew up his face into a dismal
look of regret and opaqueness, and said,

“Ma foi, madame—comprends pas!”

“Ah, the poor wretch!” said Mrs. Digby, laughing
heartily. “Let him alone. Did you ever see
such born fools as these foreigners are? And do you,
John, go on with your lesson.”

This scene afforded Claude an opportunity of observing
the gentleman in question. He was a lank,
weather-stained, long Frenchman, thinly clad in garments
of a threadbare appearance. His trousers
pockets reached nearly to his knees, and were obviously
empty, except when his large hands were
thrust into them, a peculiarity which had probably
drawn upon him the sobriquet of “long pockets”
from the humour of his interesting pupil. It is not
impossible that he might have worn a shirt, but it
is certain that there was no appearance of one, although,
from his peculiar style of dress, the eye was
easily able to penetrate a considerable way under
his stock down his bony throat, and up the sleeves
of his wristbands. His features were cast rather
in a striking than elegant mould. His mouth was
of great width; his lips so large as to have, perhaps,
afforded him the cognomen to which he usually
replied. His ears, like his nose, were of ample
size, and stood handsomely out from his head; and
his foot and hand were also of dimensions which
rivalled each other. He was, in short, a very odd,
but not a particularly ugly-looking person; and, for
the irregularities of physiognomy already stated,
fortune had favoured him with a good set of teeth;
bright, intelligent eyes; a head of hair remarkable
for its abundance, and the flourishing manner in
which, without tongs or pomade, it curled about his
head; and last, but not least, with a stock of self-approbation
never exhausted and not exhaustible,
flowing through all his veins, lurking in every angle
and shade of his face, and creating—happy mortal!—
in his interior bosom an everlasting sunshine.

“Well! the poor devil can't understand us,” said
Mrs. Digby, “so we can talk what we please. His

name is Lippe; a pretty good one, too, isn't it,
considering his mouth? You see, we expect to
travel a good deal, Digby—that is, Mr. D. and
I—before we settle down; for, since our relative,
Lord Clew—poor dear man—has left us plenty of
money, why shouldn't we have the good of it?
That's my idea—and it's necessary that some one
should understand French—for we do get so swindled.
I don't know how it is, but there must be
something about us which makes people mark us
out to cheat; and yet I am sure I don't know why,
for we seem formed like other people.”

She went on to give a long account, from which
Claude learned that this Mr. Lippe had presented
himself upon somebody's recommendation, they
didn't know whose, to give them a sufficient command
of the French, not only to travel with less inconvenience
than they had hitherto been accustomed
to, but to enable them to launch with becoming grace
and ease into the hitherto unexplored waters of
fashionable life. Digby, to do him justice, was not
ambitious of this distinction; and, although not wise,
had sufficient sense to see that neither he nor his
lady were exactly calculated for the sphere into
which she was dragging him. In obedience to her,
however—for he was too good-humoured to resist on
any ordinary occasion—and from a vague idea which
she had dinned into his ear, for many a day as well
as night, that such a course might be advantageous
to Mary, he had consented, in addition to his other
experiments, to learn French. The acquisition of
a new language is, alas! to any one a wearisome
task. To Digby the undertaking was peculiarly
unpromising. He had no memory — no ear — no
ambition, and no head; the even-handed Fortune,
which had sent him into the world “a relative of
the late Lord Clew,” and the heir to £100,000 sterling,
having withheld that article, or, at least, the
brains with which it is usually (if we do not use

the word in too general a sense) supplied. He
hated study, having never learned anything in his
life. The flattering visions of fashion, sufficient to
lead his wife through any possible effort, had no place
in his humbler imagination, and she half suspected
that all the labour they were taking to “get into society”
would be in vain. He had anticipated some
pleasure from his Continental tour, but as yet he
had suffered only a series of annoyances. He had
been cheated, abused, and laughed at; his carriage
had been broken, and once or twice he came near
having his head in the same predicament; and, now
that he found himself at length settled in apartments
in Berlin, instead of enjoying his leisure and independence,
he was set down with old “long pockets”
to a lesson of three or four hours a day. It was
too much; but he dared not, or, at least, did not resist;
and he inwardly hoped that the period when
the pleasure of travelling would begin, would come
one of these days. If anything could have lightened
his distress and perplexity, it would have been
the peculiar style of teaching French adopted by
Mr. Lippe. Like many vain men, he fancied he had
a particular genius, and enjoyed profound draughts
of self-praise in contemplating a new theory of
teaching which he had created. This new system,
exclusively his own, he lauded to the skies, and assured
the innocent and inexperienced Digbys that,
for one thaler a lesson, he would, in two months,
make the whole family speak French, if not like
natives, at least well enough for all the purposes
of travelling and fashion. This wonderful new system
consisted in teaching the pronunciation by imaginary
lines drawn on the table with the finger.

There sat poor Digby—his face red, the perspiration
beginning to start from his forehead, and every
now and then turning half aside to indulge in a
hearty yawn, which extended his jaws almost to
the dimensions of those of Lippe himself; while

the latter—who was of a sanguine and frisky temperament,
and who could not conceive how a man could
not pronounce “pu” instead of “poo,” and “monsieur”
instead of “mounsheer,” although he showed
him, as plain as the nose on his face (and that was
very plain indeed), the exact manner of pronouncing
it, by an acute angle, drawn twenty times, one after
the other, on the table—would jump up every two
minutes, borne away by the enthusiasm which genius
always feels in its art, thrust his hands into his
trousers pockets up to the elbows, his eyes flashing
fire, and then draw them out again to make new illustrative
angles, circles, rhomboids, and parallelograms,
on the table or in the air.

“Allons,” said he, as Claude a moment lost the
train of Mrs. Digby's chat, which, luckily, she did not
interrupt by any questions to obscure this scene;
“pour le mot `Ulysse.' Voyez vous, prononcez le de
cette manière-ici” (drawing a figure on the table),
“voilà! allons! commencez encore!”

“Kall—lip—why that's the fellow's own name,”
interrupted Digby. “Is this book about him?”

“Allons! monsieur!”

“Oui, munsheer, oui. Kall—lip—so, ner—poovey
sir, consolleydoo—”

“Du—” cried Lippe, with an acute angle.

“Doo.”

“Du, monsieur—” with flashing eyes—“du—du
—du.”

“Doo—doo—doo—do—part doo—lysse dong—”

“Dans, monsieur!” screamed the choleric Frenchman,
with a fiery face, and approaching him as if
he were going to knock him down.

“Well—d—n it—I say `dong,' ” said Digby, the
sweat rolling off his forehead.

“Ah! sacré diable! mais n'emporte,” he continued,
recollecting himself, “tout cela viendra—
allons! continuez! dans sa—”

“What's John bobbing his head in here for every
minute?” said Digby.

“Two tradesmen's boys—with bills—and a pine-board
bedstead,” said John.

“Ah,” said Mrs. Digby, “it's these bills again.”

The boys with their bills were admitted, and a
long wrangle ensued, in which the boys demanded
double charges. Mr. Lippe interpreted that the
three persons were ready to swear to everything,
and they wouldn't go away without being paid,
which at length they were.

“Well,” said Digby, “if this is what you call
travelling!”

Mrs. Digby was in a rage also, and Claude could
not himself help feeling indignant at the fraud which
had undoubtedly been practised against the English
strangers—the pine-board bedstead having been
sent instead of a mahogany one which they had
chosen and paid for.

While they were in the midst of the wrangle,
Tom announced dinner. Claude was going to take
leave, but the vehemence of their entreaties that he
would stay and dine left him no alternative. He
gave his arm, therefore, to Mrs. Digby, when, to his
surprise, Mr. Lippe offered his to Mary, and led her
in.

“Is Mr. Lippe a member of your family?” asked
he.

“Oh yes. He's going to live in the house—to interpret
for us—teach us French—shop with us—
and do a thousand little odd jobs. I am really
ashamed that he should dine at table with us in such
shocking clothes—but, poor wretch!—we have sent
for some new ones—and he'll be as spruce as any
of us to-morrow. Poor stupid fool!”

At this moment Tom appeared again at the door,
and announced a lady and gentleman to look at the
rooms.

“Tell them to come to-morrow morning,” said
Mrs. Digby.

“They have already been, they say, once, and
they will not come again.”

“Well, they can't come in now; we are at dinner.”

Tom returned immediately with—

“The lady and gentleman must see the rooms!”

“Must!” said Mr. Digby; “they cannot; the family
are very particularly engaged; and they are also
about going to dinner. They may see them at any
time before three; it is now nearly four.”

“Ah! bless me,” said Mrs. Digby at the window,
“what an elegant carriage—two footmen—splendid
liveries—coachman in cocked hat—silver lace—silk
stockings. Bless my soul!—who can they be?
Can they be the people who want to look at the
rooms?”

Tom now appeared again, in company with one
of the richly-dressed footmen.

“The gentleman insists upon coming in—the
rooms are to let—and he must see them.”

“Really, this is very singular!” said Claude.

“They speak English, ma'am,” said Tom.

“If he is a gentleman,” said Claude, “I will protect
you from this intrusion. Who is your master?”
said he to the footman.

“Lord Elkington,” replied the man, respectfully.

“Tell Lord Elkington that the rooms are at present
occupied by ladies who are about to dine, and
beg to decline any visit of this kind at so late an
hour.”

“His lordship has been turned away once before
on the same plea,” said the man.

“The doors are open, and he may come in,” said
Claude, “if he pleases; but it will be without the
consent, and contrary to the wishes of the family.
Say so to your master.”

A gentleman and lady now appeared at the head
of the stairs, having been below talking to the
landlady. The man delivered the message. When
he had done—

“Lead the way in, Scarlet,” said Lord Elkington;
“I think these would do for us.”

“I beg your pardon,” said he, bowing slightly to
the ladies, taking off his hat, and looking around the
room with his glass.

“Did you deliver my message?” said Claude to
the footman.

“Scarlet,” said Elkington, without giving the
man time to reply, “go down stairs!” He then
turned his glass carelessly to the ceiling, curtains,
carpets, fauteuils, and other furniture.

“Ah—ah—very well—but too small, I fear.”

Claude stood before him very angry, and probably
showing it in his attitude and manner; but the
intruder seemed to care very little for his wrath.
He passed his glass an instant over his face and
person, and then, as if he found nothing there worthy
of a second look, he prepared to leave the room
after a glance at the females, for he was one of
those men who subject every woman's face to an
examination. On seeing Mary he stopped, and
seemed evidently struck.

“I beg your pardon, my dear,” said he; “I fear
there has been some mistake. I was not aware
that these rooms were occupied by—by—I really
beg your pardon!”

“Oh, sir—my lord,” said Mrs. Digby, “you are
too good. If we had had the slightest idea that it
was Lord Elkington—my lord!”

Elkington's eyes, during this highly amiable address,
were less occupied by the courtesy of the
mother than by the beauty of Mary. He regarded
her with an admiration so obvious and rude as at
length to cause some embarrassment on the part of
the object of it, and some anger on that of Mr.
Digby.

“I have unfortunately, madame,” said Lord Elkington,
“an appointment at this moment which prevents
my explaining to you the mistake which has
caused an intrusion, I fear, rather abrupt; but, with
your kind permission, I will avail myself of the earliest
leisure to call again and do so.”

“There is not the slightest necessity,” said Mr.
Digby, rather bluntly.

“Oh, my lord,” said Mrs. Digby, “you are so
kind; I assure you, at any time—at all times—we
shall be most happy, sir—my lord, I mean—to—”

During this scene Claude had stood gazing on
the person thus rudely pressing into a private house,
and conducting himself so singularly; and the feeling
of indignation, which he could not repress, was
plainly marked on his countenance. As Elkington
withdrew, Claude perceived, for the first time, a female
figure in the corridor. He recognised, at a
glance, Lady Beverly, to whom he had rendered a
slight service on the previous evening; but his attention
was particularly drawn towards her attitude
and the expression of her features. She was standing
at her full height, the upper part of her body a
little drawn back, as if she had recoiled from some
object of surprise and terror. Her attitude was not
unlike that of one who has just perceived a basilisk
in his path, and her eyes were fixed so intently on
Claude, that, as if lost in thoughts not connected
with the present, she did not interrupt her gaze
even when his glance met hers. She looked pale
and shocked.

Elkington was by this time at her side, and they
hastened to the carriage.

Numerous were the comments upon this incident
as soon as the distinguished intruders were gone.
Mr. Digby, redder even with anger than his previous
exertions with the new system of Mr. Lippe
had been able to make him, swore he would go instantly
after him and “knock the puppy down.”

“A man,” said he, stammering, “to—to—himself
here into a private family, without either civility or
—or—and then to conduct himself to—to—towards
my daughter!”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Digby; “you are always
such a fool. I don't see any harm in his looking at

Mary, or any one else; and as for rudeness, I don't
think one of the first leaders of the ho-tong, as he
is, could—”

“Well, if this is what you call ho-tong!” said
Mr. Digby.

They now adjourned to dinner, where Mr. Lippe
explained the French for the various dishes, qualifying
himself for greater accuracy by devouring
goodly quantities of the same. Mrs. Digby talked
of many things which, “thank Heaven, she need not
be afraid to procure, as she could afford it;” intermingling
her numerous arguments upon all subjects
with allusions to “her relative, the late Lord
Clew.” Mr. Lippe, notwithstanding his shabby
clothes and his unhappily long ears, exhibited a satisfaction
and self-complacency really enviable; and
as for Mary, satisfied with her loveliness, without
attempting to increase it by the charms of wit or
conversation, she ate and blushed in silence. The
general talk was dull; neither pleasing by its lightness,
nor instructive by its intellectuality. Claude
was rendered almost nervous, as well by the profound
conceit of Lippe, and the painful and never
successful struggles of Digby to remember the principal
word in every sentence he uttered. He took
leave, therefore, at an early hour.