When I lived in the country,—which was a long time ago,—our nearest
neighbours were the Luscombes. They were very great personages in the
country indeed, and the family were greatly "respected"; though not, so far as I
could discern, for any particular reason, except from their having been there for
several generations. People are supposed to improve, like wine, from keeping—
even if they are rather "ordinary" at starting; and the Luscombes, at the time I
knew them, were considered quite a "vintage" family. They had begun in Charles
II.'s time, and dated their descent from greatness in the female line. That they
had managed to keep a great estate not very much impaired so long was
certainly a proof of great cleverness, since there had been many spend-thrifts
among them; but fortunately there had been a miser or two, who had restored the
average, and their fortunes.
Mr. Roger Luscombe, the present proprietor, was neither the one nor the other,
but he was inclined to frugality, and no wonder; a burnt child dreads the fire, even
though he may have had nothing to do with lighting it himself, and his father had
kicked down a good many thousands with the help of "the bones" (as dice were
called in his day) and "the devil's books" (which was the name for cards with
those that disapproved of them) and race-horses; there was plenty left, but it
made the old gentleman careful and especially solicitous to keep it. There was no
stint, however, of any kind at the Court, which to me, who lived in the little
vicarage of Dalton with my father, seemed a palace.
It was indeed a very fine place, with statues in the hall and pictures in the gallery
and peacocks on the terrace. Lady Jane, the daughter of a wealthy peer, who
had almost put things on their old footing with her ample dowry, was a very great
lady, and had been used, I was told, to an even more splendid home; but to me,
who had no mother, she was simply the kindest and most gracious woman I had
ever known.
My connection with the Luscombes arose from their only son Richard being my
father's pupil. We were both brought up at home, but for very different reasons. In
my case it was from economy: the living was small and our family was large,
though, as it happened, I had no brothers. Richard was too precious to his
parents to be trusted to the tender mercies of a public school. He was in delicate
health, not so much natural to him as caused by an excess of care—coddling.
Though he and I were very good friends, unless when we were quarreling, it
must be owned that he was a spoiled boy.
There is a good deal of nonsense talked of young gentlemen who are brought up
from their cradles in an atmosphere of flattery not being spoiled; but unless they
are angels—which is a very exceptional case—it cannot be otherwise. Richard
