“Upon my word, they are a charming couple,” said Sir Joshua Parker, in his fat voice, “and an acquisition to our county families.”
Sir Joshua was very fond of talking about our county families, although his own establishment in that galaxy had been but recent, his father and grandfather having made their fortunes in the soap-boiling business, amidst the slums of Lambeth. Lady Barker, the dowager, was of the vieille roche, having been a Trefusis and an heiress when she married the late General Sir Rodney Barker, K.C.B.
After that one little flash of anger on the night of the dinner party, Edward Clare was all friendliness. Celia spent a large portion of her life at the Manor House, where she was always welcome; and it seemed only natural that her brother Edward should drop in frequently, almost as he had done in the old days when Jasper Treverton was alive. There were so many reasons for his coming. The library at the Manor House was much larger and better than the Vicar’s modest collection of old-fashioned books. The gardens were a delight to the young man’s poetic soul. John Treverton showed no dislike to him. He appeared to consider the poet a poor creature, whose going or coming could make no difference.
“I confess that I have a contempt for that kind of man,” he told his wife, candidly. “An effeminate, white-handed mortal, who sets up as a wit and a poet on the most limited stock-in-trade—all his best goods in his windows, and nothing but empty shelves inside the shop. But of course, as long as you like him, Laura, he will be welcome here.”
“I like him for the sake of his father and mother, who are my oldest and best friends,” answered Laura.
“Which means in plain English that you only tolerate him?” said John, carelessly. “Well, he is harmless, and sometimes amusing. Let him come.”
Edward came, and seemed at home and happy in the small family circle. He lounged beside the fire in the snug book-room, and joined in the easy familiar talk, when the autumn dusk was deepening and Laura made tea at her pretty little table, with her husband by her side, while Celia, who had a fancy for eccentric positions and attitudes, sat on the hearthrug.
One November evening, about a month after the dinner party, the conversation happened to light upon the county magnates who had adorned that banquet.
“Did anybody ever see such a funny little figure as Lady Barker, surmounted by that wig!” cried Celia. “I really think her dressmaker must be very clever to make any kind of gown that will hold together upon her, I don’t complain of her being fat. A woman may weigh sixteen stone and carry herself like a duchess. But Lady Barker is such an undecided figure. There’s no consistency in her. When she sinks on a sofa one expects to see her collapse, like a mould of jelly that hasn’t cooled properly. Oh, Edward, you should see Mr. Treverton’s portrait of her—the most delicious caricature.”
“Caricature!” echoed Edward. “Why, that is another new talent. If Treverton goes on in this way we shall have to call him the admirable Crichton. It was only last week that I found out he could paint; and now you say he is a caricaturist. What next?”
“I believe you have come to the end of my small stock of accomplishments,” said John Treverton, laughing. “I used once to amuse myself by an attempt to illustrate the absurdities of human nature in pen and ink. It pleased my brother officers, and helped to keep us alive sometimes in the dullness of country quarters.”
“Talking of caricature, by the way,” said Edward, lazily, as he slowly stirred his cup of tea, “did you ever see Folly as It Flies?”
“The comic newspaper? Yes, often.”
“Ah, then you must have noticed the things done by that fellow Chicot—the man who murdered his wife. They were extraordinarily clever—out and away the best things I have ever seen since the days of Gavarni; rather too French, perhaps, but remarkably good.”
“It was natural the style should be French, since the man was French.”
“I beg your pardon,” said Edward, “he was as English as you or I.”
Celia had risen from the floor and lighted a pair of candles on Laura’s open Davenport, near which Edward was sitting. She selected a sheet of paper from a heap of loose sheets lying there, and showed it to her brother, candle in hand.
“Isn’t that too lovely?” she asked.
Edward examined the sketch with a critical air.
“I don’t want you to suppose I’m trying to flatter you,” he said at last, “but, upon my word, this little sketch is as good as anything of Chicot’s, and very much in his style.”
“It is the only accomplishment of my husband’s that I cannot praise,” said Laura, with gentlest reproof, “for it cannot be exercised without unkindness to the subject of the caricature.”
“ ‘He that is robbed not wanting what is stolen, let him not know it, and he is not robbed,’ ” quoted Celia, who had resumed her lowly place at Laura’s feet. “Shakespeare’s ineffable wisdom found that out; and may not the same thing be said of caricature? If Lady Barker never knows what a lifelike portrait you have drawn of her, with half-a-dozen scratches of a Hindu pen, the faithfulness of the picture can’t hurt her.”
“But isn’t it the usual course to show that kind of
