The man who in all England was most deeply submerged in deadly boredom was, the old Duke of Stone said with wearied finality, himself.He had been a sinful young man of finished taste in 1820; he had cultivated these tastes, which were for literature and art and divers other things, in the most richly alluring foreign capitals until finding himself becoming an equally sinful and finished elderly man, he had decided to marry.After the birth of her four daughters, his wife had died and left them on his hands.Developing at that time a tendency to rheumatic gout and a daily increasing realization of the fact that the resources of a poor dukedom may be hopelessly depleted by an expensive youth passed brilliantly in Vienna, Paris, Berlin, and London, when it was endurable, he found it expedient to give up what he considered the necessities of life and to face existence in the country in England.
It is not imperative that one should enter into detail.There was much, and it covered years during which his four daughters grew up and he "grew down," as he called it.If his temper had originally been a bad one, it would doubtless have become unbearable; as he had been born an amiable person, he merely sank into the boredom which threatens extinction.His girls bored him, his neighbors bored him, Stone Hover bored him, Lancashire bored him, England had always bored him except at abnormal moments.
"I read a great deal, I walk when I can," this he wrote once to a friend in Rome."When I am too stiff with rheumatic gout, I drive myself about in a pony chaise and feel like an aunt in a Bath chair.Ihave so far escaped the actual chair itself.It perpetually rains here, I may mention, so I don't get out often.You who gallop on white roads in the sunshine and hear Italian voices and vowels, figure to yourself your friend trundling through damp, lead-colored Lancashire lanes and being addressed in the Lancashire dialect.But so am Idriven by necessity that I listen to it gratefully.I want to hear village news from villagers.I have become a gossip.It is a wonderful thing to be a gossip.It assists one to get through one's declining years.Do not wait so long as I did before becoming one.Begin in your roseate middle age."An attack of gout more severe than usual had confined him to his room for some time after the arrival of the new owner of Temple Barholm.He had, in fact, been so far indisposed that a week or two had passed before he had heard of him.His favorite nurse had been chosen by him, because she was a comfortable village woman whom he had taught to lay aside her proper awe and talk to him about her own affairs and her neighbors when he was in the mood to listen.She spoke the broadest possible dialect,--he liked dialect, having learned much in his youth from mellow-eyed Neapolitan and Tuscan girls,--and she had never been near a hospital, but had been trained by the bedsides of her children and neighbors.
"If I were a writing person, she would become literature, impinging upon Miss Mitford's tales of 'Our Village,' Miss Austen's varieties, and the young Bronte woman's 'Wuthering Heights.' Mon Dieu! what a resource it would be to be a writing person!" he wrote to the Roman friend.
To his daughters he said:
"She brings back my tenderest youth.When she pokes the fire in the twilight and lumbers about the room, making me comfortable, I lie in my bed and watch the flames dancing on the ceiling and feel as if Iwere six and had the measles.She tucks me in, my dears--she tucks me in, I assure you.Sometimes I feel it quite possible that she will bend over and kiss me."She had tucked him in luxuriously in his arm-chair by the fire on the first day of his convalescence, and as she gave him his tray, with his beef tea and toast, he saw that she contained anecdotal information of interest which tactful encouragement would cause to flow.
"Now that I am well enough to be entertained, Braddle," he said, "tell me what has been happening.""A graidely lot, yore Grace," she answered; "but not so much i' Stone Hover as i' Temple Barholm.He's coom!"Then the duke vaguely recalled rumors he had heard sometime before his indisposition.
"The new Mr.Temple Barholm? He's an American, isn't he? The lost heir who had to be sought for high and low-- principally low, Iunderstand."
The beef tea was excellently savory, the fire was warm, and relief from two weeks of pain left a sort of Nirvana of peace.Rarely had the duke passed a more delightfully entertaining morning.There was a richness in the Temple Barholm situation, as described in detail by Mrs.Braddle, which filled him with delight.His regret that he was not a writing person intensified itself.Americans had not appeared upon the horizon in Miss Mitford's time, or in Miss Austen's, or in the Brontes' the type not having entirely detached itself from that of the red Indian.It struck him, however, that Miss Austen might have done the best work with this affair if she had survived beyond her period.Her finely demure and sly sense of humor would have seen and seized upon its opportunities.Stark moorland life had not encouraged humor in the Brontes, and village patronage had not roused in Miss Mitford a sense of ironic contrasts.Yes, Jane Austen would have done it best.
That the story should be related by Mrs.Braddle gave it extraordinary flavor.No man or woman of his own class could have given such a recounting, or revealed so many facets of this jewel of entertainment.
He and those like him could have seen the thing only from their own amused, outraged, bewildered, or cynically disgusted point of view.