IN WHICH I GO TO BRANDON, AND SEE AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE IN THE TAPESTRY
ROOM.
To my surprise, a large letter, bearing the Gylingden postmark, and with
a seal as large as a florin, showing, had I examined the heraldry, the
Brandon arms with the Lake bearings quartered thereon, and proving to be
a very earnest invitation from Stanley Lake, found me in London just
about this time.
I paused, I was doubtful about accepting it, for the business of the
season was just about to commence in earnest, and the country had not yet
assumed its charms. But I now know very well that from the first it was
quite settled that down I should go. I was too curious to see the bride
in her new relations, and to observe something of the conjugal
administration of Lake, to allow anything seriously to stand in the way
of my proposed trip.
There was a postscript to Lake's letter which might have opened my eyes
as to the motives of this pressing invitation, which I pleased myself by
thinking, though penned by Captain Lake, came in reality from his
beautiful young bride.
This small appendix was thus conceived:—
'P.S.—Tom Wealdon, as usual, deep in elections, under the rose, begs you
kindly to bring down whatever you think to be the best book or books on
the subject, and he will remit to your bookseller. Order them in his
name, but bring them down with you.'
So I was a second time going down to Brandon as honorary counsel, without
knowing it. My invitations, I fear, were obtained, if not under false
pretences, at least upon false estimates, and the laity rated my legal
lore too highly.
I reached Brandon rather late. The bride had retired for the night. I had
a very late dinner—in fact a supper—in the parlour. Lake sat with me
chatting, rather cleverly, not pleasantly. Wealdon was at Brandon about
sessions business, and as usual full of election stratagems and
calculations. Stanley volunteered to assure me he had not the faintest
idea of looking for a constituency. I really believe—and at this
distance of time I may use strong language in a historical sense—that
Captain Lake was the greatest liar I ever encountered with. He seemed to
do it without a purpose—by instinct, or on principle—and would
contradict himself solemnly twice or thrice in a week, without seeming to
perceive it. I dare say he lied always, and about everything. But it was
in matters of some moment that one perceived it.
What object could he gain, for instance, by the fib he had just told me? On second thoughts this night he coolly apprised me that he had some idea of sounding the electors. So, my meal ended, we went into the tapestry room where, the night being sharp, a pleasant bit of fire burned in the grate, and Wealdon greeted me.
My journey, though by rail, and as easy as that of the Persian gentleman
who skimmed the air, seated on a piece of carpet, predisposed me to
sleep. Such volumes of fine and various country air, and such an eight
hours' procession of all sorts of natural pictures are not traversed
without effect. Sitting in my well-stuffed chair, my elbows on the
cushioned arms, the conversation of Lake and the Town Clerk now and then
grew faint, and their faces faded away, and little 'fyttes' and fragments
of those light and pleasant dreams, like fairy tales, which visit such
stolen naps, superseded with their picturesque and musical illusions the
realities and recollections of life.
Once or twice a nod a little too deep or sudden called me up. But Lake
was busy about the Dollington constituency, and the Town Clerk's bluff
face was serious and thoughtful. It was the old question about Rogers, the brewer, and whether Lord Adleston and Sir William could not get him; or else it had gone on to the great railway contractor, Dobbs, and the question how many votes his influence was really worth; and, somehow, I never got very far into the pros and cons of these discussions, which soon subsided into the fairy tale I have mentioned, and that sweet perpendicular sleep—all the sweeter, like everything else, for being contraband and irregular.
For one bout—I fancy a good deal longer than the others—my nap was much
sounder than before, and I opened my eyes at last with the shudder and
half horror that accompany an awakening from a general chill—a dismal
and frightened sensation.