Left together over their wine, the men began to talk politics.
I listened at the outset, expecting to get some information. Our readings in modern history at Tadmor had informed us of the dominant political position of the middle classes in England, since the time of the first Reform Bill. Mr. Farnaby’s guests represented the respectable mediocrity of social position, the professional and commercial average of the nation. They all talked glibly enough—I and an old gentleman who sat next to me being the only listeners. I had spent the morning lazily in the smoking-room of the hotel, reading the day’s newspapers. And what did I hear now, when the politicians set in for their discussion? I heard the leading articles of the day’s newspapers translated into bald chat, and coolly addressed by one man to another, as if they were his own individual views on public affairs! This absurd imposture positively went the round of the table, received and respected by everybody with a stolid solemnity of make-believe which it was downright shameful to see. Not a man present said, “I saw that today in the Times or the Telegraph.” Not a man present had an opinion of his own; or, if he had an opinion, ventured to express it; or, if he knew nothing of the subject, was honest enough to say so. One enormous Sham, and everybody in a conspiracy to take it for the real thing: that is an accurate description of the state of political feeling among the representative men at Mr. Farnaby’s dinner. I am not judging rashly by one example only; I have been taken to clubs and public festivals, only to hear over and over again what I heard in Mr. Farnaby’s dining-room. Does it need any great foresight to see that such a state of things as this cannot last much longer, in a country which has not done with reforming itself yet? The time is coming, in England, when the people who have opinions of their own will be heard, and when Parliament will be forced to open the door to them.
This is a nice outbreak of republican freedom! What does my long-suffering friend think of it—waiting all the time to be presented to Mr. Farnaby’s niece? Everything in its place, Rufus. The niece followed the politics, at the time; and she shall follow them now.
You shall hear first what my next neighbour said of her—a quaint old fellow, a retired doctor, if I remember correctly. He seemed to be as weary of the second-hand newspaper talk as I was; he quite sparkled and cheered up when I introduced the subject of Miss Regina. Have I mentioned her name yet? If not, here it is for you in full:—Miss Regina Mildmay.
“I call her the brown girl,” said the old gentleman. “Brown hair, brown eyes, and a brown skin. No, not a brunette; not dark enough for that—a warm, delicate brown; wait till you see it! Takes after her father, I should tell you. He was a fine-looking man in his time; foreign blood in his veins, by his mother’s side. Miss Regina gets her queer name by being christened after his mother. Never mind her name; she’s a charming person. Let’s drink her health.”
We drank her health. Remembering that he had called her “the brown girl,” I said I supposed she was still quite young.
“Better than young,” the doctor answered; “in the prime of life. I call her a girl, by habit. Wait till you see her!”
“Has she a good figure, sir?”
“Ha! you’re like the Turks, are you? A nice-looking woman doesn’t content you—you must have her well-made too. We can accommodate you, sir; we are slim and tall, with a swing of our hips, and we walk like a goddess. Wait and see how her head is put on her shoulders—I say no more. Proud? Not she! A simple, unaffected, kind-hearted creature. Always the same; I never saw her out of temper in my life; I never heard her speak ill of anybody. The man who gets her will be a man to be envied, I can tell you!”
“Is she engaged to be married?”
“No. She has had plenty of offers; but she doesn’t seem to care for anything of that sort—so far. Devotes herself to Mrs. Farnaby, and keeps up her school-friendships. A splendid creature, with the vital thermometer at temperate heart—a calm, meditative, equable person. Pass me the olives. Only think! the man who discovered olives is unknown; no statue of him erected in any part of the civilized earth. I know few more remarkable instances of human ingratitude.”
I risked a bold question—but not on the subject of olives. “Isn’t Miss Regina’s life rather a dull one in this house?”
The doctor cautiously lowered his voice. “It would be dull enough to some women. Regina’s early life has been a hard one. Her mother was Mr. Ronald’s eldest daughter. The old brute never forgave her for marrying against his wishes. Mrs. Ronald did all she could, secretly, to help the young wife in disgrace. But old Ronald had sole command of the money, and kept it to himself. From Regina’s earliest childhood there was always distress at home. Her father harassed by creditors, trying one scheme after another, and failing in all; her mother and herself, half starved—with their very bedclothes sometimes at the pawnbrokers. I attended them in their illnesses, and though they hid their wretchedness from everybody else (proud as Lucifer, both of them!), they couldn’t hide it from me. Fancy the change to this house! I don’t say that living here in clover is enough for such a person as Regina; I only say it has its influence. She is one of those young women, sir, who delight in sacrificing themselves to others—she is devoted, for instance, to Mrs. Farnaby. I only hope Mrs. Farnaby is worthy of it! Not that it matters to Regina. What she does, she does out of her own sweetness of disposition. She brightens this household, I can tell you! Farnaby did a wise thing, in his own domestic interests, when he adopted her as his daughter. She thinks she can never be grateful enough to him—the good creature!—though she has repaid him a hundredfold. He’ll find that out, one of these days, when a husband takes her away. Don’t suppose that I want to disparage our host—he’s an old friend of mine; but he’s a little too apt to take the good things that fall to his lot as if they were nothing but a just recognition of his own merits. I have told him that to his face, often enough to have a right to say it of him when he doesn’t hear me. Do you smoke? I wish they would drop their politics, and take to tobacco. I say Farnaby! I want a cigar.”
This broad hint produced an adjournment to the smoking-room, the doctor leading the way. I began to wonder how much longer my introduction to Miss Regina was to be delayed. It was not to come until I had seen a new side of my host’s character, and had found myself promoted to a place of my own in Mr. Farnaby’s estimation.
As we rose from table one of the guests spoke to me of a visit that he had recently paid to the part of Buckinghamshire which I come from. “I was shown a remarkably picturesque old house on the heath,” he said. “They told me it had been inhabited for centuries by the family of the Goldenhearts. Are you in any way related to them?” I answered that I was very nearly related, having been born in the house—and there, as I suppose, the matter ended. Being the youngest man of the party, I waited, of course, until the rest of the gentlemen had passed out to the smoking-room. Mr. Farnaby and I were left together. To my astonishment, he put his arm cordially into mine, and led me out of the dining-room with the genial familiarity of an old friend!
“I’ll give you such a cigar,” he said, “as you can’t buy for money in all London. You have enjoyed yourself, I hope? Now we know what wine you like, you won’t have to ask the butler for it next time. Drop in any day, and take pot-luck with us.” He came to a standstill in the hall; his brassy rasping voice assumed a new tone—a sort of parody of respect. “Have you been to your family place,” he asked, “since your return to England?”
He had evidently heard the few words exchanged between his friend and myself. It seemed odd that he should take any interest in a place belonging to people who were strangers to him. However, his question was easily answered. I had only to inform him that my father had sold the house when he left England.
“Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear that!” he said. “Those old family places ought to be kept up. The greatness of England, sir, strikes its roots in the old families of England. They may be rich, or they may be poor—that don’t matter. An old family is an old family; it’s sad to see their hearths and homes sold to wealthy manufacturers who don’t know