MR. BURTON IN DESHABILLE.
IT was some hours later, and a fine moonlight night. The afternoon service was long over, and what cause on earth could have induced Sir John Mardykes to mount his tax-cart, and drive at the best pace of his famous trotter, Flying Dutchman, who won the wager on the Brighton road, back again at this hour all the way from Mardykes Hall to Golden Friars?
Sir John was glowering and sniffing, and purpling in the moonlight; such was his resentment as he flew along the beautiful road that winds by the margin of the lake.
A letter had reached him late that evening. It had come with others, and his servant had brought it from the neighbouring post-office.
It was written in a vulgar hand and ill-spelled, and the story it told was this: That Charles Shirley had amused Miss Laura Mildmay less than a week before by telling her how he (Sir John) dyed his whiskers, and twisted in curl-papers so much hair as Time had left him; how his insteps were entirely composed of cotton wadding, his feet being “as flat as flounders”; how his shoulders were formed of the same material, nature having denied him any; how he was known to rouge at the race and hunt balls, and practised dancing with old Mrs. Hinchley, his housekeeper, in a deserted garret at Mardykes Hall, with a great deal more that was ridiculous and insulting; and how all this was said in presence of Mr. Burton, who could not deny it.
A two-pint pot, although it may hold many quarts of beer in succession, cannot hold more than one quart at a time. The measure of the capacity of Sir John Mardykes’ head was represented by one idea. That it could hold — but not a second, without displacing the first.
Sir John was too full of his one subject to think of artificial proprieties-to think of anything else, in fact.
Up the stairs of the George he trotted, hot and serious, and, with the ceremony of a knock, but without waiting for an answer, he opened Mr. Burton’s door and walked in, saying —
“How d’ye do, Mr. Burton-how do you do, sir? I — ohl.”
Sir John stopped short in the middle of the room.
It was Mr. Burton’s habit to lock his door when he came up for the evening. He could have sworn he had done so on this occasion. But Homer nods-and Mr. Burton had palpably neglected to turn his key as usual in his door.
He was sitting with his dressing-gown on, in an easy-chair, with a bottle of brandy and some water, and a glass before him; a half-smoked cigar-smouldered between his fingers, and a pair of candles burned on his table. But Sir John was a good deal startled.
Mr. Burton’s teeth were gone, and his left eye was out, and a deep ugly hole was in the place of that organ. He had screwed his mouth into a grim grimace, and his face looked ever so broad, and ever so short.
His whole face was crimson with the fire of brandy, not brandy-and-water, for the aroma was fiercer than even moderate dilution would account for. His lips were pursed and working, as they will over toothless gums. The blank eye puzzled the baronet, and the other pierced him with a gleam of fire.
On the dressing-table close by were two tumblers of water, in one of which were Mr. Burton’s teeth, and in the other his glass eye.
The loss of these unsuspected auxiliaries made a very disconcerting change in Mr. Burton’s appearance — a transformation, indeed, that absolutely astounded Sir John Mardykes; and perhaps the discovery a little abashed and irritated the stranger, who, still staring hard at the baronet, rose, and both remained for some seconds silent.
“I’m afraid I’ve somehow put my foot in it, sir,” said Sir John bluntly; “I’m awfully sorry, Mr. Burton, that I should have interrupted you.”
“You have interrupted nothing, sir. I don’t know what you mean. I intend, if you allow me, to go on with my cigar; and my doctor tells me I must sip a little brandy-and-water. Will you try a cigar? or will you take a little brandy-and-water? or may I tell them to bring a little sherry and a biscuit?”
Was it fancy, or was it the loss of Mr. Burton’s teeth? It seemed to the baronet that that excellent man was speaking ever so little thickly.
“You’re very good, but — no, thank you very much, nothing. I came — I was very anxious — to say a few words; but I’m afraid I’m rather in your way; am I?”
“Dear me, Sir John, not in the least. I hope I should be found always ready to confess any infirmity; but personal infirmities I can’t conceive any one’s being ashamed of. For the sake of articulation I use those things over there, and to prevent my being quite shocking to my friends, I use the glass eye. I lost my eye in a trifling accident in a railway carriage, on my way to our great and interesting meeting about the Jewish mission. Looking out of the window, a particle of iron, hardly so large as the point of a pin, flew into my eye. I neglected it, an ulcer formed, the cornea was perforated, and-and the thing was done. It is a comfort, Sir John, we know that everything is ordered, and all for the best, for those who rest their hopes where alone is safety, and peace, and happiness. Won’t you sit? (he placed a chair for his visitor), and can I be useful in any way?”
Mr. Burton, who had been fidgeting about the room, had by this time got to the door.
“You don’t object, Sir John, to my making this a little more-more— “and he bolted the door. “I usually do. I don’t care to be surprised in my — ha! ha! hai-déshabille by the waiters and people of the house.
“You’re very good, sir — very kind. I shan’t detain you long. I — this thing reached me, Mr. Burton, and I don’t mind it — not much — but I thought I might as well show it to you.”
And he handed him the letter from “Felix Friendly,” and Mr. Burton took it, and using his spectacles like an eyeglass, applied a lens to his extant eye, and read the paper through, his lips pursing and working as he did so, and Sir John watching these indications from the seat of vision. The living eye was turned away from him, and nothing but the sunken crater to speculate upon.
When he had finished the letter, lowering the hand which held it to the table with a little emphasis, and directing a vivid glance which showed a good deal of the white eye-ball across the bridge of his nose, upon Sir John, he said, a little sternly —
“And who the — who on earth can this person be, who takes the liberty of mixing my name up in a local affair of this nature? But no, I shan’t allow myself to be ruffled by it. Naturally a hot-tempered man, Sir John, I am thankful that I have learned to watch over and to resist my impulses.”
He returned the letter with a slight bow. Sir John took it, but did not put it up.
“But, Mr. Burton, you know, sir-don’t you see? I can’t let it rest so. I came here, sir, in consequence of it. I came to ask, is it so? I want to know, Mr. Burton, whether the letter says fact or no?”
Sir John was excited, red, and a little confused; but still his one idea filled his head with great stolidity.
“Sir John, you are a man of the world, too sensitive of ridicule, and if you will, contempt. Why not imitate me? My personal infirmities, wherever discovered, have been laughed at. It has troubled me little, my thoughts are elsewhere. Your view is directed too much upon the level of earth. Why not, Sir John, look a little more on and up-on and up?”
“But, a-aw, that’s all very well about a fellow’s religion, or his soul; but this, don’t you see, is about my person; and, zounds-I beg you pardon, but really, it is, you know, a sort of thing a fellow can’t afford to — to — to — and, in short, I have a right to know— “
“Dear me! how unfortunate! Don’t you see, my dear Sir John, how likely such a thing is to produce ill-feeling? Why should you ask me?”
“Why — whaw — haw — aw — eh, don’t you see? Because — you happen to know, and I don’t see why you should be ashamed or afraid to say the truth.”
“The truth? Ha, yes, you have me there, Sir John. Ay, you have. Dear, dear, dear! I do so wish I had my dear friend Marvel here, he always takes so clear, simple, and decided a view of duty. He is such a guide; but I think I know what he would say. He’d say, as he always does, ‘Truth first, consequences afterward’; especially where, as here, worse consequences would probably follow upon silence. But-oh, shame that such things should be!”
“Whaw-aw — what things?” demanded the baronet.
“Anonymous informers-spies — traitors. Sir, you must kindly pi omise that you will not mention my name, should you ever speak upon this subject to any one.”
“Certainly not, Mr. Burton — not the least occasion. But is that — that tissue “ — and he knocked the back of his disengaged fingers upon the letter, with a reddening face— “that — that, is it true, sir — is it true, Mr. Burton?”
“Well, Sir John, as you put it to me that way — and most distressing it is — I’ll tell you. It is true — the statement is true, but it was most unjustifiable, and it must have come from some extremely low person; and great allowances are to be made for a young man so much in love and so much alarmed at rivalry, and so anxious to enlist the young lady’s feeling of elegance and sense of ridicule in his favour. They all do it. Pray, let there be no more said about it.”
The baronet was staring at him with very goggle eyes and a purpling face, and before he could speak, seemed to swallow down a big bit of hot bread.
He cleared his voice, and said —
“Thank you, thank you very much. It’s all plain sailing now.”
“And it is a foolish affair,” said Mr. Burton. “You’ll not think of it-I may tell him so?”
“You may tell him, with my compliments, he’s a blackguard and a liar!”
“Sir!”
“That is, of course, I mean any one may tell him, and I shall be very much obliged.”
“But, dear Sir John Mardykes, surely you’ll modify these dreadful terms, which include everything? You will withdraw them, I am very sure?” pleaded Mr. Burton.
“I think he’s all that, sir. Mr. Burton, I hold to it! and I think he’s a coward, sir, beside — a nasty dog, sir — a sneak and a coward, Mr. Burton, and — and I shouldn’t the least wonder if he had prejudiced me.”
“Oh, you’ll sleep on it, Sir John. Do you stay here?”
“No, sir; I’m going home.”
“You’ll look in at the vicar’s house?”
“Straight home — certainly not. I’m going home, sir. I-l — know what I think. Good night, Mr. Burton,” he added, stopping suddenly at the door-he had nearly omitted that courtesy. “I may have a talk with the vicar to-morrow — a shabby scoundrel! I’m off, Mr. Burton. Good night, sir.”
“And you kindly don’t mention my name, Sir John?”
“Certainly not. Farewell, Mr. Bui ton.”
“Heaven bless you!” said Mr. Burton, very kindly. And bolting his door again, he swallowed what remained of the brandy he had been sipping, and looked from his window and saw the baronet drive away at a very hard pace back again towards Mardykes.