The Tales of Haunted Nights (Gothic Horror: Bulwer-Lytton-Series). Эдвард Бульвер-Литтон

life, travelling from place to place, and must have spent already a great deal of money.”

      “Apropos of money,” said Mrs. Mervale; “I fear we must change our butcher; he is certainly in league with the cook.”

      “That is a pity; his beef is remarkably fine. These London servants are as bad as the Carbonari. But, as I was saying, poor Glyndon—”

      Here a knock was heard at the door. “Bless me,” said Mrs. Mervale, “it is past ten! Who can that possibly be?”

      “Perhaps your uncle, the admiral,” said the husband, with a slight peevishness in his accent. “He generally favours us about this hour.”

      “I hope, my love, that none of my relations are unwelcome visitors at your house. The admiral is a most entertaining man, and his fortune is entirely at his own disposal.”

      “No one I respect more,” said Mr. Mervale, with emphasis.

      The servant threw open the door, and announced Mr. Glyndon.

      “Mr. Glyndon!—what an extraordinary—” exclaimed Mrs. Mervale; but before she could conclude the sentence, Glyndon was in the room.

      The two friends greeted each other with all the warmth of early recollection and long absence. An appropriate and proud presentation to Mrs. Mervale ensued; and Mrs. Mervale, with a dignified smile, and a furtive glance at his boots, bade her husband’s friend welcome to England.

      Glyndon was greatly altered since Mervale had seen him last. Though less than two years had elapsed since then, his fair complexion was more bronzed and manly. Deep lines of care, or thought, or dissipation, had replaced the smooth contour of happy youth. To a manner once gentle and polished had succeeded a certain recklessness of mien, tone, and bearing, which bespoke the habits of a society that cared little for the calm decorums of conventional ease. Still a kind of wild nobleness, not before apparent in him, characterised his aspect, and gave something of dignity to the freedom of his language and gestures.

      “So, then, you are settled, Mervale—I need not ask you if you are happy. Worth, sense, wealth, character, and so fair a companion deserve happiness, and command it.”

      “Would you like some tea, Mr. Glyndon?” asked Mrs. Mervale, kindly.

      “Thank you—no. I propose a more convivial stimulus to my old friend. Wine, Mervale—wine, eh!—or a bowl of old English punch. Your wife will excuse us—we will make a night of it!”

      Mrs. Mervale drew back her chair, and tried not to look aghast. Glyndon did not give his friend time to reply.

      “So at last I am in England,” he said, looking round the room, with a slight sneer on his lips; “surely this sober air must have its influence; surely here I shall be like the rest.”

      “Have you been ill, Glyndon?”

      “Ill, yes. Humph! you have a fine house. Does it contain a spare room for a solitary wanderer?”

      Mr. Mervale glanced at his wife, and his wife looked steadily on the carpet. “Modest and shy in his manners—rather too much so!” Mrs. Mervale was in the seventh heaven of indignation and amaze!

      “My dear?” said Mr. Mervale at last, meekly and interogatingly.

      “My dear!” returned Mrs. Mervale, innocently and sourly.

      “We can make up a room for my old friend, Sarah?”

      The old friend had sunk back on his chair, and, gazing intently on the fire, with his feet at ease upon the fender, seemed to have forgotten his question.

      Mrs. Mervale bit her lips, looked thoughtful, and at last coldly replied, “Certainly, Mr. Mervale; your friends do right to make themselves at home.”

      With that she lighted a candle, and moved majestically from the room. When she returned, the two friends had vanished into Mr. Mervale’s study.

      Twelve o’clock struck—one o’clock, two! Thrice had Mrs. Mervale sent into the room to know—first, if they wanted anything; secondly, if Mr. Glyndon slept on a mattress or feather-bed; thirdly, to inquire if Mr. Glyndon’s trunk, which he had brought with him, should be unpacked. And to the answer to all these questions was added, in a loud voice from the visitor—a voice that pierced from the kitchen to the attic—“Another bowl! stronger, if you please, and be quick with it!”

      At last Mr. Mervale appeared in the conjugal chamber, not penitent, nor apologetic—no, not a bit of it. His eyes twinkled, his cheek flushed, his feet reeled; he sang—Mr. Thomas Mervale positively sang!

      “Mr. Mervale! is it possible, sir—”

      “ ‘Old King Cole was a merry old soul—’ ”

      “Mr. Mervale! sir!—leave me alone, sir!”

      “ ‘And a merry old soul was he—’ ”

      “What an example to the servants!”

      “ ‘And he called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl—’ ”

      “If you don’t behave yourself, sir, I shall call—”

      “ ‘Call for his fiddlers three!’ ”

      CHAPTER 5.III.

       Table of Contents

      In der Welt weit

       Aus der Einsamkeit

       Wollen sie Dich locken.

       —“Faust.”

       (In the wide world, out of the solitude, will these allure thee.)

       The next morning, at breakfast, Mrs. Mervale looked as if all the wrongs of injured woman sat upon her brow. Mr. Mervale seemed the picture of remorseful guilt and avenging bile. He said little, except to complain of headache, and to request the eggs to be removed from the table. Clarence Glyndon—impervious, unconscious, unailing, impenitent—was in noisy spirits, and talked for three.

      “Poor Mervale! he has lost the habit of good-fellowship, madam. Another night or two, and he will be himself again!”

      “Sir,” said Mrs. Mervale, launching a premeditated sentence with more than Johnsonian dignity, “permit me to remind you that Mr. Mervale is now a married man, the destined father of a family, and the present master of a household.”

      “Precisely the reasons why I envy him so much. I myself have a great mind to marry. Happiness is contagious.”

      “Do you still take to painting?” asked Mervale, languidly, endeavouring to turn the tables on his guest.

      “Oh, no; I have adopted your advice. No art, no ideal—nothing loftier than Commonplace for me now. If I were to paint again, I positively think you would purchase my pictures. Make haste and finish your breakfast, man; I wish to consult you. I have come to England to see after my affairs. My ambition is to make money; your counsels and experience cannot fail to assist me here.”

      “Ah, you were soon disenchanted of your Philosopher’s Stone! You must know, Sarah, that when I last left Glyndon, he was bent upon turning alchemist and magician.”

      “You are witty to-day, Mr. Mervale.”

      “Upon my honour it is true, I told you so before.”

      Glyndon rose abruptly.

      “Why revive those recollections of folly and presumption? Have I not said that I have returned to my native land to pursue the healthful avocations of my kind! Oh, yes! what so healthful, so noble, so fitted to our nature, as what you call the Practical Life? If we have faculties, what is their use, but to sell them to advantage! Buy knowledge as we do our goods; buy it at the cheapest market, sell it at the dearest. Have you not breakfasted yet?”

      The