Horace’s conversation was confined to maledictions on all elderly gentlewomen, and lamentations on his own ill-luck, in having any thing to do with them. The particular shop was reached; the silk was procured, and again they took the road to Croydon.
The rain continued to fall in torrents, and Langham’s spirits seemed to have fallen with the barometer. In sullen silence he continued to drive at a furious rate, till Bouverie’s sympathies were awakened on behalf of his horse: he was just about "to hint a fault and hesitate dislike," when the clock of a church in the distance struck six.
"It is of no use now," exclaimed the impatient driver, slackening his speed. "We are too late for dinner,—the thing of all others that puts my aunt out; I must lay the blame upon you, she can’t say anything to you as a stranger. We must go and dine at that confounded inn."
Wringing wet, they arrived at a disconsolate-looking inn, 'The Swan.' Truly such a sign only could have swung in such weather. A fire was hastily lighted in the best parlour, from whence the smoke drove them; and they took refuge in the kitchen redolent with the smell of recently fried onions, varied with tobacco; for two men sat on one side the fire employed with two pipes. A very tough beefsteak was produced after some delay, badly dressed, for the chimney smoked; this was washed down with some execrable wine,—half cape, half brandy, but called 'sherry.' Charles could far better have endured these minor discomforts than his companion’s ill-humour. Controlled towards himself, it broke with double fury on the heads of the landlady and the kitchen-maid. Charles wondered at this in a man whom he had always seen so full of gaiety and good-humour; but Charles had still many things to learn.
Dinner over, time given for "my aunt's afternoon nap not to be disturbed," they set off for the 'Manor-House,' as it was called. The rain was quite over, but the glistening drops on the green sprays of the hawthorn and ash reflected the moonlight, which was now breaking through the masses of dark cloud. A sweet breath came from the late primroses and the early violets in the hedges of the lane through which they had to pass. Had Bouverie been alone he could have loitered on his way; but his companion had long since merged the poetical in the sarcastic,—if the former quality had ever entered into his composition. They soon arrived at the place of their destination, and entered by a picturesque old gate overhung with ivy; a gravel-walk, and a few stone steps, led into the hall. A sedate-looking butler met them there, and said, with a tone and air equally solemn, "Mrs. Langham, my mistress, waited dinner for you one quarter of an hour; the Major's rice was sadly overdone."
"No fault of mine, my good Williams, I assure you," exclaimed Langham, hurrying on to the sitting-room.
It was large, square, and dark; and a voice, that seemed to Charles singularly shrill, came from the upper end,—"Caroline, my dear, you have spilt the water."
He had no time for further observation, when he was led up to a very tall, upright-looking old lady, in a very tall, upright arm-chair, and was presented in turn to Mrs. Langham, her brother, Major Fanshawe, and to Miss Langham.
