"It is very fine certainly," said Edric, who was half asleep.
"Upon my word," returned the doctor, "I don't think you have heard a single word I have been saying."
"Oh! yes, I have," replied Edric, "every syllable. It was about a man killing his own father, and putting his eyes out with a fork."
"Eh?" cried the doctor, somewhat annoyed at this unequivocal proof that though his words might have struck upon the auricular organs of his pupil, they had not reached his brains. The exclamation of the doctor restored Edric to his senses, and he began to apologize.
"I am really very sorry," said he, "but you must excuse my inattention. Sometimes, you know, the mind is not in tune for literary discussions, even when proceeding from the most eloquent lips. This is my case at the present moment. My mind is so occupied by the important change that has just taken place in my affairs, that, I own, even your learning and eloquence were thrown away upon me."
"If that be the state of your mind," replied the doctor, with chagrin, "it is of no use to show you any more of my literary treasures; else I have some of matchless excellence. Here is a letter addressed to Sheridan, a witty writer of comedies, in the eighteenth century, which has never been opened—and here is a tailor's bill of the immortal Byron, which may possibly never have been looked at. But here is the most inestimable of my relics. Look, at least, at this. This piece of paper, covered carelessly with irregular strokes and lines, was once in the possession of that enchanting, that inimitable novelist of the nineteenth century, generally distinguished in the works of contemporary writers by the mysterious title of 'The Great Unknown!' See, here is half the word 'Waverley,' written upon it, and doubtless all these other irregular marks and scratches proceeded directly from his pen. I confess, Edric, I never contemplate this relic of genius without a feeling of reverence, and almost of awe. 'Perhaps,' say I to myself, when I look at it, 'when these letters were formed, the first idea had but just arisen in the mind of the author of those immortal works, which were afterwards destined to improve and delight mankind. Perhaps, at that very moment gigantic thoughts were rushing through his brain, and a variety of new ideas opening their treasures to his imagination.' Oh, there is something in the mere random stroke of the pen of a celebrated character, inexpressibly affecting to the mind;—it carries one back to the very time when he lived—it seems to make one acquainted with him, and to let us into the secrets of his inmost thoughts. But I see you are not attending to me, Edric!"
"I am very sorry—another time I should be happy—but now—I cannot. However, when we return, perhaps—"
"It may be then too late," said the doctor, with solemnity; and locking up his cabinet, he led the way back to his common sitting-room, in high dudgeon.
CHAPTER VII.
The morning after the events just recorded, as Mr. Montagu, the brother of Sir Ambrose, was sitting at the breakfast-table with his wife and daughter, they were all startled by the unexpected arrival of a letter from Sir Ambrose. "Bless me!" cried Mr. Montagu, moved for once to forget his usual habits of indifference—"I do believe it is a letter from my brother."
"Your brother!" screamed Mrs. Montagu, starting up to examine it, and in her agitation overturning a patent steam coffee-machine, by which coffee was roasted, ground, made, and poured out with an ad libitum of boiling milk and sugar, all in the short space of five minutes. "Oh!" continued she—"I am scalded to death!"
"I hope not, my dear," said Mr. Montagu, calmly taking up his letter, and carefully examining it on all sides without opening it. "Yes," continued he, "it is indeed from my brother, and I hope it contains no ill news, for I do not perceive any signs of mourning about it." And so saying, he very tranquilly laid his letter again upon the table, and recommenced sipping his coffee.
"La! papa, hadn't you better open your letter and read it?" asked Clara, who was busily employed in assisting her mother.
"Ah!" resumed Mr. Montagu. "True! I never thought of that—I think I had." Then again taking the letter in his hand, he broke the seal and gave it to Clara to read.
"And do you think my daughter is to leave me when I am in this miserable condition, Mr. Montagu, to read letters from your brother, Mr. Montagu—a man who has always treated me with such disrespect, Mr. Montagu—and I half scalded to death!"
"I am sure I'm very sorry, my dear," began Mr. Montagu.
"Oh, spare your sorrow," exclaimed his wife—"for I'm sure you don't care one single straw about me. You're a cruel man—"
"Hadn't I better read the letter?" asked Clara, trembling at the thought of the domestic sparring she saw about to ensue.
"Yes, yes! read, my dear," said her father, glad of any pretext to avert the coming storm: for though he seldom disturbed himself about any thing, provided his study was not swept oftener than once a month, and he was not obliged to submit to the insupportable fatigue of arranging his ideas in the tense form, necessary for conversation; he had yet a most inconceivable horror of his wife's fluency of tongue, thus affording a striking proof of the ingratitude of mortals, who often ungraciously find fault with the very things for which they have most occasion to be thankful; as it must be allowed that nothing could really be more convenient for a man of a taciturn disposition, than to have a wife who could manage to talk at once for him and herself too.
Notwithstanding the encouragement of her father, Clara, however, still paused, looking with a timid eye towards her mother, for that lady's permission to begin. Curiosity struggled powerfully with anger in the breast of Mrs. Montagu for some minutes; but at last the former prevailed, and with a nod she permitted Clara to read. She immediately began as follows:—
"My dear brother."
"Humph," observed Mrs. Montagu, "his last letter began—Sir. He's getting wonderfully civil, I think."
"Pshaw!" exclaimed her husband.
Clara continued—"I am happy to inform you, that my dear Edmund has gained a glorious victory."
"And what is that to us, I should like to know?" said Mrs. Montagu: "for my part, I have too much pride to trouble myself about people, who don't trouble themselves about me."
Clara went on.—"We are all coming up to London, to be present at a grand triumph the Queen is going to give him; and thinking it a pity there should be a misunderstanding——"
"Ah! what's that, child?" exclaimed Mr. Montagu, laying down a problem which he had been studying ever since she began.—"Read that again, Clara."
"And thinking it a pity there should be a misunderstanding any longer existing between you and me, we being both fast approaching to the grave, I intend, with your and Mrs. Montagu's permission——"
"Mrs. Montagu's permission!" cried the delighted Mrs. Montagu; "are you quite sure he says that, Clara?" and she pressed over her daughter's shoulder to ascertain the joyful fact. "Well, well, I do declare he really does says so. Look, my dear, there it is—'Mrs. Montagu's permission.' He never called me Mrs. Montagu before. God bless him! a nice old gentleman! I am sure I shall be very glad to see him and his brave son, too. Only think, my dear! what an honour it is to have a hero in one's family! Read on, Clara; I feel quite interested to know all the particulars of my nephew's victory. You know, he is my nephew, Mr. Montagu, as well as yours, as I am your wife, and he is your own brother's son; so, read on, Clara, and let us know all about him."
Clara obeyed the moment her mother gave her an opportunity. "I intend, with your and Mrs. Montagu's permission, to take the opportunity of visiting you. I remain, with kind remembrances to Mrs. Montagu and my niece, to whom I long to be introduced, your affectionate brother,
"Ambrose Montagu."
"Very well," said Mr. Montagu, "I shall be very glad to see him; I always loved my brother, and I was quite sorry when we were not friends."
"Here is a postscript,"