A Pair of Blue Eyes | Page 9

it has
occurred to me that I know something of you. You belong to a
well-known ancient county family--not ordinary Smiths in the least.'
'I don't think we have any of their blood in our veins.'
'Nonsense! you must. Hand me the "Landed Gentry." Now, let me see.
There, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith--he lies in St. Mary's Church,
doesn't he? Well, out of that family Sprang the Leaseworthy Smiths,
and collaterally came General Sir Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith of
Caxbury----'
'Yes; I have seen his monument there,' shouted Stephen. 'But there is no
connection between his family and mine: there cannot be.'
'There is none, possibly, to your knowledge. But look at this, my dear
sir,' said the vicar, striking his fist upon the bedpost for emphasis. 'Here
are you, Stephen Fitzmaurice Smith, living in London, but springing
from Caxbury. Here in this book is a genealogical tree of the Stephen
Fitzmaurice Smiths of Caxbury Manor. You may be only a family of
professional men now--I am not inquisitive: I don't ask questions of
that kind; it is not in me to do so--but it is as plain as the nose in your
face that there's your origin! And, Mr. Smith, I congratulate you upon
your blood; blue blood, sir; and, upon my life, a very desirable colour,
as the world goes.'
'I wish you could congratulate me upon some more tangible quality,'
said the younger man, sadly no less than modestly.
'Nonsense! that will come with time. You are young: all your life is
before you. Now look--see how far back in the mists of antiquity my
own family of Swancourt have a root. Here, you see,' he continued,

turning to the page, 'is Geoffrey, the one among my ancestors who lost
a barony because he would cut his joke. Ah, it's the sort of us! But the
story is too long to tell now. Ay, I'm a poor man--a poor gentleman, in
fact: those I would be friends with, won't be friends with me; those who
are willing to be friends with me, I am above being friends with.
Beyond dining with a neighbouring incumbent or two. and an
occasional chat-- sometimes dinner--with Lord Luxellian, a connection
of mine, I am in absolute solitude--absolute.'
'You have your studies, your books, and your--daughter.'
'Oh yes, yes; and I don't complain of poverty. Canto coram latrone.
Well, Mr. Smith, don't let me detain you any longer in a sick room. Ha!
that reminds me of a story I once heard in my younger days.' Here the
vicar began a series of small private laughs, and Stephen looked inquiry.
'Oh, no, no! it is too bad-- too bad to tell!' continued Mr. Swancourt in
undertones of grim mirth. 'Well, go downstairs; my daughter must do
the best she can with you this evening. Ask her to sing to you--she
plays and sings very nicely. Good-night; I feel as if I had known you
for five or six years. I'll ring for somebody to show you down.'
'Never mind,' said Stephen, 'I can find the way.' And he went
downstairs, thinking of the delightful freedom of manner in the remoter
counties in comparison with the reserve of London.
'I forgot to tell you that my father was rather deaf,' said Elfride
anxiously, when Stephen entered the little drawing-room.
'Never mind; I know all about it, and we are great friends,' the man of
business replied enthusiastically. 'And, Miss Swancourt, will you
kindly sing to me?'
To Miss Swancourt this request seemed, what in fact it was,
exceptionally point-blank; though she guessed that her father had some
hand in framing it, knowing, rather to her cost, of his unceremonious
way of utilizing her for the benefit of dull sojourners. At the same time,
as Mr. Smith's manner was too frank to provoke criticism, and his age
too little to inspire fear, she was ready--not to say pleased--to accede.

Selecting from the canterbury some old family ditties, that in years
gone by had been played and sung by her mother, Elfride sat down to
the pianoforte, and began, "Twas on the evening of a winter's day,' in a
pretty contralto voice.
'Do you like that old thing, Mr. Smith?' she said at the end.
'Yes, I do much,' said Stephen--words he would have uttered, and
sincerely, to anything on earth, from glee to requiem, that she might
have chosen.
'You shall have a little one by De Leyre, that was given me by a young
French lady who was staying at Endelstow House:
'"Je l'ai plante, je l'ai vu naitre, Ce beau rosier ou les oiseaux," &c.;
and then I shall want to give you my own favourite for the very last,
Shelley's "When the lamp is shattered," as set to music by my poor
mother. I so