In common with most persons of his class, Sir Ambrose Montagu considered regularity as a cardinal virtue; and in his own habits, he was as undeviating and exact as the machinery which performed the principal domestic operations in his mansion. Every day after dinner at the same hour, he proceeded regularly to his library, where Abelard, an old butler, who had grown grey in his service, as regularly presented him with a splendid hookah, which he smoked with infinite satisfaction; whilst Davis, his steward, reported all that had occurred relative to the affairs of the farm during the day, and received orders for all that was to take place during the morrow.
One fine evening in June, 2127, Davis was not listened to with the accustomed interest; and the smoke of the hookah, instead of being gently puffed out with its usual air of calm enjoyment, rose rapidly in volumes, or sank entirely away, as Sir Ambrose appeared alternately excited by strong feeling, or lost in meditation. Parental affection occasioned this unwonted agitation; letters had been received from Edmund, announcing him to be upon the eve of battle with an army far superior to his own, and the impatience with which the doting father expected intelligence of the event, may be easier imagined than described. Still the force of habit prevailed, and the accustomed hour found him with his faithful attendants, Davis and Abelard, at their usual posts in the library.
The worthy baronet was above seventy; and his long white hair hung in waving curls upon his shoulders, as he now sat in his comfortable elastic armchair, leaning one elbow upon the table before him. His features had been very handsome, and his complexion still retained that look of health and clearness, which, in a green old age, is the sure indication of a well-spent life. His countenance, though intelligent, was unmarked by the traces of any stormy passions; the cares and troubles of life seemed to have passed gently over him, and content had smoothed the wrinkles age might have made upon his brow; whilst the tall thin figure of Mr. Davis, as he stood reverentially bending forward, his hat in his hand, and his whole demeanour expressing a singular mixture of preciseness and habitual respect, contrasted strongly with the dignified appearance of his master.
The windows of the library opened to the ground, and looked out upon a fine terrace, shaded by a verandah, supported by trellis-work, round which, twined roses mingled with vines. Below, stretched a smiling valley, beautifully wooded, and watered by a majestic river winding slowly along; now lost amidst the spreading foliage of the trees that hung over its banks, and then shining forth again in the light as a lake of liquid silver. Beyond, rose hills majestically towering to the skies, their clear outline now distinctly marked by the setting sun, as it slowly sank behind them, shedding its glowing tints of purple and gold upon their heathy sides; whilst some of its brilliant rays even penetrated through the leafy shade of the verandah, and danced like summer lightning upon the surface of a mirror of polished steel which hung directly in the face of Sir Ambrose.
“What a lovely evening!” exclaimed the worthy baronet, gazing with a delightful eye upon the rich landscape before him; “often as I have looked upon this scene, methinks every time I see it I discover some new beauty. How finely the golden tint the sun throws upon the tops of those trees, is relieved by the deep masses of shadow below! That was Edmund’s favourite grove, poor fellow!” and the anxious father sighed, as he puffed his hookah.
“It is a fine evening,” said Davis, bowing low, “and if your honour pleases, I think we had better get the steam-mowing apparatus in motion tomorrow. If the sun should be as hot tomorrow as it has been today, I am sure the hay will make without using the burning glass at all.”
“Do as you like, Davis,” returned his master, puffing the smoke violently from his pipe, “I leave it entirely to you.”
“And does not your honour think I had better give the barley a little rain? It will be all burnt up, if this weather should continue; and if your honour approve, it may be done immediately, for I saw a nice black heavy-looking cloud sailing by just now, and I can get the electrical machine out in five minutes to draw it down, if your honour thinks fit.”
“I have already told you I give you permission to do as you like, Davis,” returned the baronet, puffing out volumes of smoke from his hookah. “Inundate the fields if you will; you have my full permission to do whatever you please with them, so that you don’t trouble me any more about the matter.”
“But I would not wish to act without your honour’s full conviction,” resumed the persevering steward. “Your honour must be aware of the aridity of the soil, and of the impossibility that exists of a proper development of the incipient heads, unless they be supplied with an adequate quantity of moisture.”
“You are very unreasonable, Davis,” said Sir Ambrose; “most of your fraternity would be satisfied with being permitted
