“That is the true principle,” said the
priest, “and here comes his Lordship in person
to begin the practice of it.”
Lord Braithwaite came into the principal door of the
library as the priest was speaking, and stood a moment
just upon the threshold, looking keenly out of the
stronger light into this dull and darksome apartment,
as if unable to see perfectly what was within; or rather,
as Redclyffe fancied, trying to discover what was
passing between those two. And, indeed, as when
a third person comes suddenly upon two who are talking
of him, the two generally evince in their manner some
consciousness of the fact; so it was in this case,
with Redclyffe at least, although the priest seemed
perfectly undisturbed, either through practice of
concealment, or because he had nothing to conceal.
His Lordship, after a moment’s pause, came forward,
presenting his hand to Redclyffe, who shook it, and
not without a certain cordiality; till he perceived
that it was the left hand, when he probably intimated
some surprise by a change of manner.
“I am an awkward person,” said his Lordship.
“The left hand, however, is nearest the heart;
so be assured I mean no discourtesy.”
“The Signor Ambassador and myself,” observed
the priest, “have had a most interesting conversation
(to me at least) about books and bookworms, spiders,
and other congruous matters; and I find his Excellency
has heretofore made acquaintance with a great spider
bearing strong resemblance to the hermit of our library.”
“Indeed,” said his Lordship. “I
was not aware that America had yet enough of age and
old misfortune, crime, sordidness, that accumulate
with it, to have produced spiders like this. Had
he sucked into himself all the noisomeness of your
heat?”
Redclyffe made some slight answer, that the spider
was a sort of pet of an old virtuoso to whom he owed
many obligations in his boyhood; and the conversation
turned from this subject to others suggested by topics
of the day and place. His Lordship was affable,
and Redclyffe could not, it must be confessed, see
anything to justify the prejudices of the neighbors
against him. Indeed, he was inclined to attribute
them, in great measure, to the narrowness of the English
view,—to those insular prejudices which
have always prevented them from fully appreciating
what differs from their own habits. At lunch,
which was soon announced, the party of three became
very pleasant and sociable, his Lordship drinking
a light Italian red wine, and recommending it to Redclyffe;
who, however, was English enough to prefer some bitter
ale, while the priest contented himself with pure
water,—which is, in truth, a less agreeable
drink in chill, moist England than in any country
we are acquainted with.
“You must make yourself quite at home here,”
said his Lordship, as they rose from table. “I
am not a good host, nor a very genial man, I believe.
I can do little to entertain you; but here is the house
and the grounds at your disposal,—horses
in the stable,—guns in the hall,—here
is Father Angelo, good at chess. There is the
library. Pray make the most of them all; and
if I can contribute in any way to your pleasure, let
me know.”
