I speedily joined the worthy and well-known landlord of the “Wheatsheaf”—Mr. Jennings, and his cheerful wife and barmaid; all of whom gave me a hearty country welcome, shaking my hands and arms in every direction ad libitum, in anticipation, no doubt, of my remembering them for a few days at all events. At the close of this gymnastic exercise, I requested them to give me some breakfast, in the small pavilion near the garden; also some pens, ink, and paper. My request was at once attended to.
“Do you intend to stay with us a few days, Mr. Soyer?” asked the landlord.
“No; I shall try and get back this evening, if possible—but to-morrow morning, at the latest. I only came to close a few pending accounts of my last summer’s stay at your lovely Virginia Water, and am going to Paris for the Exhibition, having been offered the superintendence of a large establishment.”
“But I hear that the Exhibition is postponed till next year.”
“So it is; but this is to be quite a new building, and erected close to the Exhibition, if we can get permission granted.”
“Good morning, sir; I shall see you before you leave. I am only going to the farm.”
“Yes, you will.”
I was sitting down to my breakfast, when, to my annoyance, as I had much business to transact, some one knocked at the door, and, without waiting for the reply, came in. It was the landlord, with a face full of anxiety and astonishment, his glasses raised to his forehead, a newspaper in his hand, and looking as serious as if he had just been married, or had lost one of his favourite pups. “I say, master,” said he, “do you mean it?”
“Mean what, man?”
“But now, really! do you mean it?”
“I’m puzzled to know to what you allude. Is it about my trip to Paris?”
“Paris! no, that has nothing to do with the letter of yours I have just read in the Times of this day.”
“Oh! now I understand you, and can easily account for your long face and evident astonishment.”
“Now you understand me, don’t you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Well, allow me to tell you frankly that you are very foolish; you are not a military man, and have made the offer, it is true, very likely in a moment of enthusiasm; but plead any excuse you can to get out of it if you are sent for; remain where you are—‘Good folks are scarce,’ says the proverb.”
“Thanks to the proverb first, and you afterwards,” said I.
“And if you do go, it is a hundred to one against your returning.”
“Many thanks for your frank advice; but I am determined to go, and if Government send for me, I wish to be ready at a day’s notice; so sure I am that I can render some services to my fellow-creatures by so doing.”
“I have no doubt you can—but you may catch the fever, or God knows what besides! Why, they are dying by fifties and sixties a-day in the hospital at Scutari; look, here is the latest account, the names of the poor fellows defunct, and number of their regiments. There is no mistake in that.”
“I am aware of all that; but mind you, my firm belief is, that no fruit falls from the tree to the ground till it is perfectly ripe; and I also believe that we are never gathered from this frivolous world till we are really wanted in the other.”
“Such being your determination, it is no use talking any more about it; I only hope your health will not fail you, and that you will return and keep us alive as you did last year. I can assure you, your joyful dinner party, or ‘feet shampeter,’ as Mary the barmaid called it, and you used to say in French, was the talk of the country round. It is only three days ago that Colonel Cholmondeley was inquiring after you, and asking whether you had left the neighbourhood.”
“Ah, really! how is the Colonel?”
“He looks remarkably well, I assure you, and will be very glad to see you.”
“When you see the Colonel, pray present my most sincere compliments.”
“So I will.”
“I’m off, but hope to see you this evening; good-bye, in case I do not.” The days being short, and my business more complicated than I had anticipated, prevented my visiting my favourite summer spot, the Paradis Champêtre of England.[3]
I slept that evening at the “Wheatsheaf;” I had given orders to be called the next morning at daybreak, and was crossing the avenue of lime-trees leading to the lake, in anticipation of witnessing, as I was wont of a summer’s morning, its interminable sheet of silvery waters and green moss velvet banks, sprinkled with myriads of daisies—or stars of the fields—intermixed with golden cups, covered with pearly dew, bordered also by mountainous trees forming a formidable forest; the glittering Chinese fishing temple, Corinthian ruin, the flag floating on the castle tower, “Royal George” frigate and barks, the swans, and the music of thousands of birds with their notes of freedom so wild and full of nature. Alas! all my illusions were dispelled, as I could scarcely see a yard before me; a thick veil, caused by a severe white frost, seemed to monopolise and wrap in its virgin folds the beauty of this lovely spot. Though greatly disappointed, I was returning to the humble country inn with my soul filled by sublime reminiscences of that charming spot, worthy of the enchanted gardens of Armida, when a deformed and awkward-looking lout of a stableman, peeping from a clump of evergreens, thus accosted me:—“Will you take a red herring for breakfast, sir?”
I leave my readers to imagine the effect produced upon my then exalted imagination. Pushing him violently from me, “Away with you! unsociable and ill-timed Quasimodo!” I said. Having thus unceremoniously repulsed my evil genius, and being by that electric shock entirely deprived of my appetite, I ordered a post-chaise in lieu of breakfast, and in a short time was at the turnpike-gate adjoining the inn, waiting for change to pay the toll. It was then about ten minutes to eight o’clock.
In three-quarters of an hour the post-chaise took me to the railway station, and an hour after I was ascending my homely staircase, when the servant apprised me that many persons had called; some had left their cards, and a mounted groom had brought a letter, saying he would call at noon for an answer. Amongst the various letters I found upon my desk, I recognised one in the hand-writing of the Duchess of Sutherland. It was as follows:—
The Duchess of Sutherland will be much pleased to see Monsieur Soyer at Stafford House at two o’clock this day; or ten to-morrow morning, if more convenient to Monsieur Soyer.
7th February, 1856.
I had scarcely read this letter, when a double knock was heard at the street door. It was the footman from Stafford House, sent for an answer. I at once informed him I was going to wait upon her Grace; but as he was there, he might say that, at two o’clock precisely, I would do myself the honour of attending at Stafford House. Concluding, naturally enough, that the summons had reference to my letter, I immediately began to reflect how I should explain the plan I intended to adopt, in case my services were required. In the first place, I had decided that the most important question of all would be the entire freedom of my actions when I arrived at Scutari. This, of course, could not be granted, unless the Government, impressed with the importance of the subject, thought proper to do so. The active part would easily develop itself to my free and experienced mind.
CHAPTER II.
A SUMMONS TO STAFFORD HOUSE.