Lewis Arundel; Or, The Railroad Of Life

by Frank E. Smedley

CHAPTER XXII.—THE TRAIN ARRIVES AT AN IMPORTANT STATION.

The catastrophe related at the end of the last chapter attracted the attention of a couple of labourers who had been engaged in mending the road, and they immediately hastened to the spot to render any assistance which might be required. By their aid the poor woman was extricated from her perilous situation, and fortunately proved to be less injured than could have been expected, a dislocated shoulder being the most serious hurt she had sustained. Committing the phaeton and horses to the care of one of the working men, Lewis and the other labourer carried the poor woman to a cottage by the roadside, and deposited her on a bed till such time as the surgeon (for whom General Grant had, by his daughter’s suggestion, despatched the groom on the horse which Lewis had ridden) should arrive. Luckily, they had not long to wait, as the boy met the person he was in search of returning from his round of professional visits. The dislocated shoulder was soon set to rights and bandaged up, and the sight of Annie’s well-filled purse rendered easy an arrangement with the tenants of the cottage to allow the invalid to continue their inmate till the next day, when she could be removed without detriment.

In the meantime the General had drawn Lewis on one side, and was expatiating to him upon the cause of the accident. “You perceive, Mr. Arundel, that my wrist is slightly swollen? Well, sir, that is from an old strain received in the little affair at Sticumlÿkphun. I was only a captain then. The company to which I belonged got separated from the regiment in crossing a jungle, and a party of the Rajah’s irregular horse tried to cut us off; they were upon us so suddenly, we hadn’t time to form a hollow square, and for a minute our fate appeared sealed;—they rode the men down like sheep. In the mêlée a gigantic trooper cut down the colour-sergeant and was about to possess himself of the flag, when I seized the staff with my left hand and struck at him with my sabre, but, unfortunately, it broke on his cuirass; his sword had also snapped with the blow which had caused the sergeant’s death, and a struggle ensued between us for the possession of the colours. His strength was in proportion to his height, but although I felt as if every muscle in my arms was about to snap, I held on till one of my men shot him through the head. At the same moment a troop of the 14th Lancers rode up and rescued us—but my wrists-have never recovered the strain. However, I found little difficulty in holding in these horses, till, just now, when we had turned to come home, some boys overthrew a barrow full of stones by the roadside, which startled the animals; they broke into a gallop, and despite all my efforts to prevent it, the accident to which you were witness occurred.”

“Had I known of your intention, sir, I should have cautioned you not to trust them too implicitly,” replied Lewis. “Before your return,—by Miss Livingstone’s wish,—I went over the stables to ascertain whether there were any carriage horses she could use. I drove these greys the second or third time they had ever been in harness, and they ran away with me in Broadhurst Park; but I have taken them out several times since, when Walter wished for an airing, and I believed they had become quiet.”

“Indeed,” returned the General, more graciously than was his wont, “I was not aware you were so good a whip; that relieves me from a great difficulty; you will be so obliging as to drive the phaeton home, and I can ride your horse. With my wrists in their present condition it would be a great risk for me to attempt to hold in those animals, and the groom is a mere boy. Annie, my dear,” he continued, as his daughter approached them from the cottage, “our difficulties are at an end. Mr. Arundel, it appears, has been in the habit of driving these horses lately, and will be so good as to take my place and see you safely home.”

“But, papa——” began Annie in a tone of remonstrance, while a slight accession of colour replaced the roses which fear had banished from her cheeks.

“My dear, the arrangement is the only one which appears feasible under present circumstances. I shall ride Mr. Arundel’s horse and will keep near, so you need be under no alarm,” returned her father majestically.

Annie by no means approved of the plan. In the first place, she was a good deal afraid of the horses, and having no experience of Lewis’s skill as a driver, was naturally alarmed at trusting herself again behind them. In the second place, she had a vague idea that it was scarcely etiquette to take a tête-à-tête drive with the handsome young tutor. But she saw that her father was quite determined, so, like a sensible girl, she refrained from offering opposition which she foresaw would be useless.

Lewis, however, reading in that “book of beauty,” her expressive face, the secret of her fears, took an opportunity, while the General was altering the stirrups to suit himself, to reassure her by saying, “You need not be in the least afraid, Miss Grant. Believe me, I would not undertake so great a trust as that of your safety did I not feel perfectly sure that I could drive you home without the slightest danger.”

As Lewis spoke Annie raised her eyes and glanced at him for a moment. It has been already remarked, in the course of this veracious history, that when Lewis smiled, the nameless charm which in Rose Arundel’s face won the love of all who knew her shed its lustre over his handsome features. To analyse such an expression of countenance is scarcely possible, but perhaps the nearest approach to a correct description of it would be to say that it was a bright, sunshiny look which inspired others with a conviction of its wearer’s kindliness of heart and honest truthfulness of purpose. Such was its effect in the present instance, and when her father handed her to her seat in the phaeton the uneasiness which had arisen from a want of confidence in her driver had in great measure disappeared. Lewis waited, with the reins in his hand, till the General had mounted and ridden off with Walter, who acquiesced silently in the change of companion, then springing lightly to his place, he desired the man at the horses’ heads to stand aside, and drove off. The iron-greys soon found out the difference between their late conductor and their present one, and after one or two slight attempts to gain their own way gave up the point and settled down into a quiet, steady trot. Annie, whose alarm had quickened her perceptions on the subject, was not long in remarking the change, and turning to her companion, observed, “How do you contrive to make the horses go so quietly, Mr. Arundel? When papa was driving them they did nothing but dance and caper the whole way, and at last, as you are aware, ran away with us.”

Lewis, who considered that the present was a favourable opportunity, which might never occur again, to unburden his mind in regard to the skating affair, and was debating with himself how he might best introduce the subject, heard her question mechanically, as it were, without its reaching the ears of his understanding, and it was not until he observed her look of surprise at receiving no answer to her query that he hastened to reply, “I beg your pardon, Miss Grant, I was thinking on quite a different subject. I have lived such a hermit’s life of late with poor Walter that I fear I have become dreadfully absent.”

“I merely asked by what charm you had contrived to tame these fiery steeds,” returned Annie, smiling at his evident bewilderment.

“The charm of a steady hand and a strong arm,” replied Lewis. “But these horses and I are old acquaintances; we had a struggle once for the mastery, and I conquered, which they have not forgotten.” He then gave her a short account of the runaway scene in Broad-hurst Park, to which she listened with much interest. When he had concluded, Annie remarked, “How dreadful it must have been when they were rushing towards the lake, and you felt uncertain whether you might be able to check their wild career! That lake seems destined to become the scene of dangerous adventures. I must take this opportunity,” she continued with a faint blush, “of thanking you for saving my life. In the few hurried lines I wrote you, I am afraid I scarcely made you understand how much I—in fact, that I am not ungrateful.”

It was now Lewis’s turn to feel embarrassed. The moment he had sought for was arrived. He must confess that which would turn his companion’s gratitude into aversion; he must forfeit her good opinion irretrievably, and probably for this very reason (so perverse is human nature), he, for the first time, discovered that he valued it highly. Annie was the only member of the family (with the exception, perhaps, of Charles Leicester) who had never caused him to feel painfully his dependent situation; and it had not escaped his notice how on several occasions she had interfered to save him from some trifling annoyance, which her woman’s tact led her to feel would be doubly mortifying to his proud and sensitive nature. Still he had resolved to make the confession, and with him to resolve and to do were one and the same thing. Another difficulty which rendered his task more embarrassing was that, in order to make his explanation intelligible, he must revert to Lord Bellefield’s insult, and though at that moment nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than to bestow on that unworthy scion of nobility a sound horse-whipping, he shrank from the idea of being supposed capable of the littleness of revenging himself by injuring his enemy in the affections of his betrothed. Thinking, however, was useless; the more he reflected the more embarrassed did he become, so he plunged at once in media res by exclaiming, “You cannot be aware, Miss Grant, of the pain your words give me. Far from deserving your gratitude, I must implore your pardon for having nearly sacrificed your life to my unfortunately warm temper and revengeful feelings; nor shall I again enjoy peace of mind till I have obtained your forgiveness, should I indeed be fortunate enough to succeed in doing so.”

At this singular address Annie opened her large eyes and regarded her companion with unmixed astonishment, feeling by no means satisfied that he had not suddenly taken leave of his senses; not heeding her surprise, however, Lewis continued: “In order to make my tale intelligible, I must revert to an occurrence which I would rather, for many reasons, have left unmentioned; but you will, I hope, do me the justice to believe that I am actuated by no unworthy motive in alluding to it. About a year ago my favourite dog became entangled whilst swimming in the Serpentine river, and would have been drowned if I had not jumped in and saved him.”

“I know, I saw it all; we were driving in the park at the time,” interrupted Annie eagerly.

“As I regained the bank,” resumed Lewis, “a gentleman, whom I have since learned to be your cousin, Lord Bellefield, came up and offered me a sum of money for the dog. I had not accomplished Faust’s rescue without some risk, for though I am a good swimmer, my wet clothes kept dragging me down, and I confess the offer of money for an animal I had just imperilled my life to save irritated me, and I returned Lord Bellefield an answer which perhaps he was justified in considering impertinent. When Mr. Leicester introduced me to his brother, on the day of the skating-party, it was evident he had not forgotten this transaction, and he soon found an opportunity to address me in a style which could only have been applied to a dependent with safety.”

As he spoke these words in a tone of bitter contempt, his eyes flashing and his cheeks burning, his companion murmured as though she were thinking aloud, “It was ungenerous of him, in the extreme.” Lewis remained silent for a moment, and then continued in a calmer voice: “I am by nature of a lamentably hasty temper, and my impulse would have led me to resent Lord Bellefield’s insult on the spot; but many considerations withheld me, and still possessed by angry feeling, I joined the party on the lake. After the ice had given way, while I was assisting those who clung to the edges to scramble out, I first became aware that you were in the water, and I was about to jump in and swim to your assistance when, by some ill luck, your cousin approached in a state of great excitement and ordered me authoritatively to ‘save my master’s daughter.’”

“Oh, how could he say such a thing!” exclaimed Annie indignantly.

“As he spoke,” resumed Lewis, “some evil spirit seemed to take possession of me, and, to annoy him, I bowed and drew back, saying, ‘Your lordship must excuse me—I am no squire of dames;’ adding that of course he would rescue you himself. From the irritation produced by my reply I discovered that his lordship was unable to swim, and having reason to suppose your safety was especially important to him, the fiendish idea crossed my mind that by leaving you to perish I could revenge myself on him more effectually than by any other means.”

“How could you be so unjust, so cruel, even in idea?” interrupted Annie reproachfully,—“I, who have never injured you in thought, word, or deed; but you were maddened at the time, and knew not what you did.”

“I must indeed have been mad,” exclaimed Lewis, completely overcome by the kindness of these last words, “when I could even for a moment forget the gentle courtesy with which you have always treated me—the consideration—the——” He paused abruptly and pressed his hand to his forehead as if to shut out some hateful vision, a relaxation of vigilance of which the near-side horse took advantage to shy at its own shadow and break into a canter, which manouvre restored Lewis’s self-possession in an instant, the rein was again tightened, and the culprit admonished, by a sharp stroke of the whip, that he was not to indulge in such caprices for the future, ere his driver resumed: “I had scarcely formed the idea you so justly stigmatise as cruel, when the atrocity of the act flashed across me, and as Lord Bellefield ran off to procure a boat, I sprang into the water and swam towards you. Imagine then the agony of mind with which I perceived that you would sink before I could reach you! At that moment I felt what it was to be a murderer! The rest of the tale you have no doubt heard from others—how it pleased the Almighty to permit the instinct of my noble dog to become the instrument by which you were saved from death, and I from a life of remorse, to which death itself would have been preferable. Of this you are already aware; it only remains for me to add that if the deepest self-abhorrence, the most sincere repentance for the past may weigh with you, you will forgive me the wrong I meditated.” At this moment the sound of horses’ feet cantering gave notice that General Grant was about to effect a junction with the main body, and Annie replied hastily, “As far as I have anything to forgive, Mr. Arundel, I do so most heartily. If for a moment you thought of allowing my life to be sacrificed, you risked your own to save it immediately afterwards, so that I remain your debtor, even putting to-day’s adventure out of the account—for I fully believe papa and I were in a fair way to break our necks, though he would not allow it.”

“Well, Annie,” remarked the General, riding up to his daughter’s side, “you don’t appear to be frightened now.”

“No, papa,” was the reply, “there is nothing to be alarmed at; the horses go as quietly as possible.”

“Ah! I thought I had pretty well tamed them,” returned the General triumphantly. “You scarcely find them at all difficult to restrain now, Mr. Arundel, I presume.”

“They do pull a little strongly even yet, sir,” returned Lewis quietly; “that glove was whole when I took the reins.” As he spoke he held up his left hand and disclosed two large rents caused by the friction.

“Hum!” replied the General, slightly disconcerted. “Well, you have driven them very steadily; don’t hurry them, take them in cool. Walter and I will precede you and explain how this adventure came about.” So saying he gave his horse the rein, and he and Walter cantered on.

“Lord Bellefield has behaved abominably,” observed Annie abruptly, after they had proceeded for some distance in silence; “he ought to apologise to you, and I have a great mind to make him do so.”

“Do not think of such a thing,” returned Lewis hastily. “If I can read his character, Lord Bellefield is a very proud man, and to one whom he considers his inferior he could not bring himself to apologise; nor, on calmly reviewing my own conduct, can I entirely acquit myself of having given him cause of offence. In my manner towards him I have shown too plainly my forgetfulness of our difference of station. Feeling that the son of one who was a soldier, a man of old family, and a gentleman in the highest sense of the word, is any man’s equal, I overlooked the distinction between the heir to a peerage and a poor tutor, and I treated Lord Bellefield, as I would any other man whose manner displeased me, cavalierly, without considering, or indeed caring, in what light my conduct might appear to him. This error I am resolved to avoid for the future, and if he will on his part forbear further insult, it is all I desire. Believe me,” added Lewis in a tone which carried conviction with it, “I do not undervalue your kindness in advocating my cause, but I would not have you suffer further annoyance on my account; so if you have really forgiven me, you will best show it by forgetting the whole matter as speedily as possible.”

Annie shook her head as though she considered such a termination to the affair highly improbable, merely replying, “Perhaps you are right in thinking I should do more harm than good by my interference; at all events, I will be guided in the matter by your wishes. And now, Mr. Arundel,” she continued, “let me say what I have often wished, but have never been able to find an opportunity to tell you before, and that is, that as long as you are with us—not that I mean to limit it only to that time—I hope you will regard me as a friend. I have heard from my cousin Charles an outline of the circumstances through which my father was fortunate enough to secure your valuable assistance for poor Walter, and I can well conceive how greatly you must feel the loss of the society of your mother and sister.”

“I know not how to thank you for such unexampled kindness; you are indeed returning good for evil,” replied Lewis warmly. He paused for a moment, as if he were considering how best he might express his meaning, then added, “As far as may be, I shall most gladly avail myself of the privilege of your friendship. I cannot tell you the weight you have taken off my mind by this convincing proof of your forgiveness. You may imagine how exquisitely painful, knowing how little I deserved them, were all the civil speeches people considered it necessary to make me on my ‘gallant conduct,’ as they termed it; as if there were anything wonderful in swimming a few yards to save a life!—the wonder would be for any man who could swim not to do so.”

“And yet, thinking thus lightly of the peril, you tell me you were so carried away by your angry feeling as to hesitate whether or not to leave me to perish,” returned Annie reflectively. “How strange that the mind can be engrossed by passion so completely as to banish all its natural impulses!”

“You will laugh at me, and think my German education has filled my brain with strange, wild fancies,” replied Lewis; “but I believe that we are under a species of demoniacal possession at such moments—that by indulging our evil feelings instead of resisting them we have given Satan additional power over us. You know the legend of the Wild Huntsman: I cannot but look upon the description of the spirit-riders who accompanied the baron, one on a white, the other on a black steed, and alternately plied him with good and evil counsel, less as an allegory than a reality.”

“You believe, then, that we are constantly surrounded by spiritual beings imperceptible to our bodily senses?” asked Annie. “It is rather a fearful idea.”

“Believe,” returned Lewis, “is perhaps too strong a term to apply to any theory not distinctly borne out by Holy Writ, but as far as I have studied the subject, I think the existence of spiritual beings of opposite natures, some good, some evil, is clearly indicated by Scripture; and there are many passages which would lead one to suppose that they are permitted, under certain restrictions, to interest themselves in mundane affairs, and influence the thoughts which are the springs of human actions—immaterial agents, in fact, for working out the will of God. Nor do I see anything fearful in the idea; on the contrary, as we cannot doubt that it is our own fault if the evil spirits ever prevail against us, and that good angels witness our struggles to do right, and are at hand to assist us, I consider the theory a most consolatory one.”

“I never looked at the subject in this light before,” observed Annie thoughtfully. “Of course, like most other people, I had a vague, visionary kind of belief in the existence of good angels and evil spirits, but I never applied the belief practically, never imagined they had anything to do with me; and yet it seems reasonable that what you have suggested should be the case. Oh! if we could but have our spiritual eyes open so that we could see them, we then should love the good angels so much, and hate and fear the evil ones to such a degree, that it would be quite easy to act rightly, and impossible to do wrong.”

“I suppose, if our faith were as strong as it should be,” returned Lewis, “we ought so to realise the truths of Christianity that we should feel as you describe.”

His companion made no reply, but sat for some minutes apparently pursuing the train of thought to which his words had given rise. At length rousing herself, she turned to Lewis, saying, with a naïve smile, “We shall be capital friends, I see. I did not know you could talk so nicely about things of this kind. I delight in people who give me new ideas—you must teach me German, too, when all this bustle is over. I shall ask papa to let you do so. I want to learn German above everything, and to read Schiller, and Goethe, and La Motte Fouqué, and all sorts of people. Will you take compassion on my ignorance, and accept me as a pupil? I shall not be quite as dull as poor Walter, I hope.”

“I shall be delighted to play Master of the Ceremonies to introduce you to those of the German authors who are best worth knowing, always provided that the General approves of my so doing,” returned Lewis.

“Oh! papa will approve,” replied Annie. “He can care nothing about it one way or another, and whenever that is the case he always lets me do as I like; and as to Aunt Martha—well, there may be some difficulty with her, I confess, but the most ferocious animals are tamed by kindness, and it’s hard if I can’t coax her into submission to my will and pleasure.”

“I flatter myself I have become rather a favourite with Miss Livingstone since the affair of the horses,” observed Lewis. “I have heard her describe me as ‘a young man of unusual abilities and irreproachable moral character’ to three distinct sets of visitors during the last week.”

“You’ve caught her tone exactly,” returned Annie, laughing; “but it’s very abominable of you to deride my venerable aunt.”

And so they chatted on, Lewis forgetting alike his proud reserve and his dependent position in his pleasure in once again meeting with the kindness and sympathy to which he had been so long a stranger, and Annie engrossed by the joy with which she perceived the ice that care and sorrow had frozen round the heart of her young companion melt before the fascination of her look and manner; and when the phaeton drew up before the ample portals of Broadhurst, it would have been hard to decide which of the two felt most sorry that pleasant drive had come so quickly to an end.

Our train still runs along the Railroad of Life, but a most important station has been passed when Lewis first arrived at the conclusion that he had ceased to dislike Annie Grant.

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CHAPTER XXIII.—DE GRANDEVILLE THREATENS A CONFIDENCE AND ELICITS CHARLEY LEICESTER’S IDEAS ON MATRIMONY.

IT was the morning of Twelfth-day, and in Broadhurst’s ancient mansion confusion reigned supreme; for Twelfth-night to be celebrated with high festivities. A grand ball was about to be given to the county, and legions of upholsterers’ men had taken the house by storm, and were zealously employed in turning it out of the windows. Minerva was great upon the occasion; starched to the nth, she rustled through the apartments like an austere whirlwind, striking an icy terror into the hearts of the stoutest workmen, and leading the chief upholsterer himself the life of a convicted felon on the treadmill—solitary confinement, implying separation from Minerva, would have been a boon to that harassed tradesman. Whatever he put up she instantly had taken down; all his suggestions she violently opposed; he never gave an order that she did not contradict; when he was downstairs she required him at the top of the house; if he appeared without his hat, she took him out of doors. Foxe’s Martyrs would seem a mere book of sports beside a faithful chronicle of all that upholsterer suffered on the occasion at the hands of Minerva Livingstone. Had he not been endowed with remarkable tenacity of life, ere he had set that house in order he would have died.

Amongst others of the dispossessed, Charley Leicester, having retreated from room to room before the invaders, at last, fairly driven out, was fain to seek refuge in the garden. In this extremity he betook himself to a certain terrace-walk, where he trusted to find sunshine and quiet. Having, as he fondly imagined, secured these necessary ingredients to his happiness, he was proceeding to recruit exhausted nature with a mild cigar, when a footstep was heard approaching, and immediately afterwards the erect and portly form of the De Grandeville hove in sight and bore down upon him. Now it must be known that these two gentlemen regarded each other with very different feelings—Leicester, albeit by no means given to discovering faults of character in his acquaintances, could not but perceive the absurd self-consequence and pompous pride which were so palpably displayed in De Grandeville’s every look and action, and while this revolted his good taste and produced in him a passive feeling of dislike, the style of conversation usually adopted by the redoubtable Marmaduke, which, however it might begin, invariably ended in some form of self-glorification, actively bored him. Accordingly, it was with anything but a feeling of satisfaction that he now witnessed his approach. De Grandeville, on the other hand, looked up to Leicester on account of his connection with the peerage, and knowing his popularity among the best set of men about town, regarded him as an oracle on all points of etiquette and bienséance. Being, therefore, at that moment in the act of revolving in his anxious mind a most weighty matter on which he required good advice, Charley was the man of all others he most wished to meet with. Marching vigorously onward he soon reached the spot where, half-sitting, half-lying, on the broad top of a low stone balustrade, Leicester was ruminating over his cigar. Having halted immediately in front of his victim, De Grandeville raised his hand to his forehead in a military salute, which manouvre, acquired partly in jest, partly in earnest, had now become habitual to him.

“Ar—enjoying a weed? eh! Mr. Leicester?” he began. “ ’Pon my word, you’ve selected a most picturesque spot for your bivouac. If it’s not against the standing orders to smoke here, I’ll join you in a cigar, for—ar—to tell you the truth, I rather want five minutes’ conversation with you.”

“I’m in for it,” thought Leicester. “Well, what must be, must; the sun will be off here in about half-an-hour, and I suppose I can endure him for that space of time.” He only said, however, holding out his cigar-case languidly, “Can I offer you one?”

“Ar—many thanks, you’re one of the few men whose taste I can, rely on; but—ar—really, the things they sell now, and pretend to call genuine, are such trash, that—ar—I am forced to import my own. I sent out an agent to Cuba express—ar—at least, Robinson, who supplies my club—ar—the Caryatides, you know—sent him on a hint from me, and I can’t match the cigars he brought me anywhere; I’ve never met with anything like them. Ask your brother; he knows them—ar—I let him have half a box as the greatest favour.”

“Bell lives on cigars and gin-and-water when he’s in his native state,” returned Leicester, slightly altering his position so that he could rest his back more conveniently against a statue. “If he’s been going too fast, and gets out of condition, he takes a course of that sort of thing, and it always brings him right again; it’s like turning a screwy horse out to grass.”

De Grandeville, who had appeared somewhat abstracted during this interesting record of the domestic habits of Lord Bellefield, changed the conversation by observing, “Ar—you see, when a man of a certain—ar—position in society gets—ar—towards middle life—ar—say, three or four-and-thirty, it appears to me that it adds very much to his weight to—ar—to——”

“To drink brown stout instead of pale ale,” exclaimed Leicester more eagerly than his wont. “I observed you did so at——, when we were treating the incorruptible electors, and it struck me as a decided mistake.”

“Ar—yes, I believe—that is, of course—you are right; but that was not exactly what I was going to observe,” returned De Grandeville, slightly embarrassed. “In fact, I was going to say that it adds to a man’s weight in society, increases his influence, and improves his general position to be—ar—well married!”

“About that I scarcely know; it’s not a matter to decide on hastily,” returned Leicester, coolly lighting a fresh cigar, which, being of an obstinate disposition, required much scientific management and considerable hard puffing to induce it to perform properly. “In regard to (puff) marriage, Mr. De Grandeville, looking at it philosophically—and I can assure you it’s a subject on which I’ve expended much (puff, puff) serious thought,—looking at it in a reasonable businesslike point of view, it becomes a mere (puff) affair of debtor and creditor,—a question of what you lose and what you gain. Let us try the matter by various tests and see how the account stands. We’ll begin with the watchwords of the day, for instance: ‘Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality.’ Liberty,—a single man can do as he likes without consulting anybody; a married man can do as he likes only when his wife shares the inclination, which, as no two people ever look at anything in exactly the same point of view, appears a somewhat stringent restriction. Fraternity,—a single man may choose his friends where he feels inclined, male or female, as it may have pleased Providence to create them; a married man dare not, unless he has a taste for domestic misery, and possesses eyes which are nail-proof, cultivate a female friendship, and somehow one feels if one were married one should not exactly wish to have a set of men always dangling about one’s house. Equality,—a single man, if he has received a gentleman’s education, wears a good coat, and has wit enough to keep himself warm, is anybody’s equal; a married man must bear all his wife’s burdens as well as his own, and doesn’t get asked by the Browns because the Smiths have told them her great-grandfather was transported for stealing a pewter pot. Now, let us look at the per contra side. A single man soon gets tired of his unlimited Liberty; there’s no fun in having your own way if you’ve no one to contradict you. A little opposition becomes a positive luxury, and this you’re sure to obtain by matrimony. Then, as to Fraternity, friends are better than acquaintances, certainly, just as a mule is preferable to a jackass, but they’re not much comfort to one after all. My most intimate friend lives in Ceylon and writes to me once in five years about hunting elephants. Now, your wife is part of your goods and chattels, belongs to you as completely as your bootjack, and when in hours of indolence you wish to sit with your soul in slippers, she, if she is worth her salt, is ready to pull off the psychological boots that are pinching your mind, and prevent the dolce far niente from becoming meaningless and insipid. Lastly, there’s no such Equality in the world as between husband and wife when they are really suited to each other, appreciate their relative positions justly, and endeavour to make practice and principle coincide. These are my ideas regarding the marriage state, Mr. De Grandeville; but ’tis no use discussing the matter. Society has long since decided the question in favour of wedlock, and there are only enough exceptions to prove the rule. Byron enunciated a great truth when he declared:

“‘Man was not formed to live alone;’

the animal’s gregarious, sir, and the solitary system is totally opposed to all its tastes and habits.”

So saying, Charley emitted a long puff of smoke, and caressing his whiskers, calmly awaited his companion’s reply; but this demands a fresh chapter.

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CHAPTER XXIV.—RELATES HOW CHARLEY LEICESTER WAS FIRST “SPRIGHTED BY A FOOL,” THEN BESET BY AN AMAZON.

“Ar—really—‘pon my word, you seem to have studied the subject deeply, Mr. Leicester,” returned De Grandeville, who was somewhat astonished at the length and volubility of Charley’s notable “Essay on Matrimony,” with which the last chapter was concluded, and too completely blinded by self-importance to perceive that the other was more or less laughing at him. “However, the drift of your argument appears in favour of marriage, and—ar—in fact—ar—I quite think as you do on the matter. Now, in my position, I consider such an arrangement would be most desirable, always supposing one can meet with—ar—a suitable partner.”

“Ay, there’s the rub,” rejoined Leicester, leisurely flipping the ashes from the end of his cigar.

“I consider that I have a right to look—ar—high,” continued De Grandeville, folding his arms with dignity. “Our family dates from the Conquest; our Original ancestor came over as equerry to William of Normandy. I suppose you are aware how the name arose from an incident in that invasion?”

Leicester professed his ignorance of the anecdote, and De Grandeville proceeded: “My ancestor, who, like most of his descendants, was a remarkably long-sighted individual, was riding near the person of his liege lord some few days after the victory of Hastings, when at the extreme verge of the horizon he descried the city of Canterbury, and in the excitement of the moment he exclaimed, pointing with his mailed hand, ‘Voila! une grande ville.’ William overheard the remark, and fixing his piercing glance upon him, observed sarcastically, ‘Ha! sayest thou so? he who hath been the first to discern yon great city should be the first to enter it.’ ‘By the grace of God, and with your permission, Sire, so I will,’ exclaimed my ancestor. William nodded assent, my ancestor clapped spurs to his horse, and never drew bridle till the standard of Normandy floated on the highest tower of Canterbury. For this gallant exploit he was made governor of the city, and received the name and titles of De Grandeville. It’s—ar—a creditable story.”

“Extremely,” returned Leicester, yawning. “I’ve a vague idea the man we all came from was hanged for horse-stealing.”

“Ar—yes—very good,” rejoined De Grandeville, recognising an excellent jest in his companion’s assertion; “but, as I was about to observe, in my position a man owes as it were a duty to his family; he ought not to marry a nobody.”

“Decidedly, such a connection should be avoided,” returned Charley sententiously, presenting the hot end of his cigar to an inquisitive snail which appeared inclined to join the party.

“Ar—the De Grandevilles have been from time immemorial large landed proprietors,” resumed their grandiloquent descendant; “half the county of—— belongs to them; the estates held by my branch of the family are immense, and though—ar—just at present they are not exactly in my possession, yet if anything were to happen to my cousin Hildebrand and his seven boys, I might be placed in—ar—a very different position; therefore, in looking out for a wife, I hold it incumbent on me to select a lady who would not disgrace a prominent situation, were she called upon to fill one.”

Leicester (whose attention had been thoroughly engrossed by the snail, which, after having made sundry futile attempts to avoid the cigar and continue its onward course, had at length yielded the point, and having turned round, was now crawling off in an opposite direction) somewhat astonished his companion by quoting with great empressement the words of the old nursery ballad—

“Off he set

With his opera hat.”

As, however, he immediately afterwards assumed a look of the deepest attention, De Grandeville set it down as an instance of the eccentricity of genius, and continued—“Ar—this, as you must perceive, renders certain qualifications essential in the object of my choice. I could select no one who by birth and position was not perfectly unexceptionable. I should also require her to possess, in an eminent degree, the manners of society; another great point would be—ar—————”

“Plenty of tin,” suggested Charley, making a face at the retreating snail.

“Ar—yes—in my position it would of course be a matter of prudence, before bringing upon myself the expenses of a family, to ascertain that I can command an income sufficient to enable me to mix in the set to which—ar—in point of fact, I belong.”

“Nothing under £3000 a year would suit my book,” replied Leicester, “£3000 per annum and perfection I might put up with, but £4000 would be better without an actual angel, and beyond that mark I’d bate an attaching quality in the damsel for every additional £500 in the funds.”

“Ar—I have reason to believe that the income of the lady in regard to whom I am about to ask your advice exceeds the sum you first mentioned,” replied De Grandeville.

“Oh, there is then a real bona fide lady in the case—you’ve positively marked down your bird?” exclaimed Leicester. “Pray, have I the honour of her acquaintance?”

“Ar—yes—I have often met her in your society—in fact, she forms one of the party now domesticated at Broadhurst.”

“Staying in the house, eh?” returned Charley, feeling slightly curious. “By Jove! who can it be? you’re not going to try and cut out Bellefield by proposing for my cousin Annie, are you? I wish you would, it would sell Bell so beautifully.”

“Of course—ar—you are joking,” returned De Grandeville proudly. “I would not do such a shabby thing by his lordship upon any consideration.”

Leicester was amused at the cool way in which his companion seemed to take it for granted that he had only to enter the lists against his brother in order to secure the prize. He kept his entertainment to himself, however, merely replying, “Well, if it isn’t Annie, who is it? I can scarcely imagine you have set your affections on Miss Livingstone.”

“The Livingstones are a good old family,” returned De Grandeville, “but the representative of the name to whom you allude would have been a more suitable match for my late excellent father than for myself. No, sir, the lady to whom I may probably offer the opportunity of allying herself to the house of De Grandeville is as suitable in age as in all other qualifications—Miss Peyton is in her two-and-twentieth year.”

“Miss how much!” exclaimed Leicester impetuously, sitting bolt upright and flinging the remnant of his cigar after the snail, which was yet striving to make good its retreat.

“Miss Laura Peyton,” returned De Grandeville; “I don’t wonder you are surprised. I am aware, as well as yourself, that her grandfather was in trade. I can assure you that stood in my way for a long time, and it was not till I had gone through the pedigree carefully, with a friend in the Herald’s College, and clearly traced back the family to the time of Richard Cour de Lion, that I ever thought seriously of the thing.”

“And how do you mean to carry on the campaign?” asked Leicester, who had by this time recovered his composure. “Do you intend to lay regular siege to the young lady’s affections, or is it to be a look-and-die, ‘veni vidi, vici’ affair?”

“Ar—really—I am scarcely sanguine enough to hope to carry the citadel by a coup-de-maim,” returned De Grandeville; “but my tactics will be very much regulated by those of my fair enemy at present. If I might judge by one or two slight skirmishes we have had together, the garrison will not hold out to extremity when once the breastworks are taken, and the place properly invested.” At this moment a servant approached De Grandeville with a message from General Grant requesting his presence. “Ar—yes—say I’ll attend the General immediately,” was the reply; then, as the servant departed, De Grandville continued, “Ar—the course of true love never did run smooth, you see, Mr. Leicester. Ar—I shall have an opportunity of speaking to you again on this matter, and hearing your opinion more in full; at present I must wish you good morning.” So saying, he slightly raised his hat in salutation, and marched off in a great state of dignified self-complacency.

Leicester watched him till he was out of sight; then, springing from his seat, he began pacing up and down the terrace with hasty strides, muttering from time to time such uncomplimentary remarks as, “Insufferable puppy!”

“Conceited ass!” all of which evidently bore reference to his late companion. Having let off a little of his extra steam by this means, he gave vent to the following soliloquy: “Well, I’m nicely in for it this time! Because a love affair, with the chance of possible consequences, wasn’t trouble enough, I must have a rival step in—and such a rival—why, the very sight of that man disagrees with me; and then to hear him talk, it’s positively sickening! I’ll be off to London to-morrow morning; and yet I do like the girl,—I know I do, because it is continually occurring to me that I am not half good enough for her. I suppose she looks upon me as a mere fortune-hunter—thinks I only care about her for the sake of her money. I wish she hadn’t a farthing! I wish—eh! what am I talking about? Heigho! that’s another curse of poverty: a poor devil like me can’t even afford the luxury of a disinterested attachment. Then that man—that De Grandeville—to hear an animal like that debating whether she was good enough for him! I declare he’s made me feel quite feverish! I’d no idea it was possible for anything to excite me to such a degree. If the notion were not too preposterous, I should really begin to fancy I must be falling in love! She never can have the bad taste to like him—in fact, there’s nothing to like in him—and yet the fellow seemed confident; but that is the nature of the brute. Though I don’t know, women are such fools sometimes, she might take him at his own price—that military swagger of his might go down with some of the sex. Once let a woman fancy a man to be a hero, or a martyr, or a patriot, or any other uncomfortable celebrity certain to make a bad husband, and she will be ready to throw herself at his head,—just as if such a fellow were not the very last man in the world whom she ought to select! I suppose it’s the additional odds in favour of widowhood that constitute the great attraction—females are naturally capricious. Well, I shall try and take the matter easily, at all events. I dare say it won’t break my heart whichever way it goes. I shall make observations, and if she really has the bad taste to prefer this man, he’s welcome to her—a woman who could love him would never do for my wife; that one fact would argue an amount of incompatibility of temper which would be furnishing work for Doctors’ Commons before the first year’s connubial infelicity was over. I wonder whether there’s any lunch going on; it’s astonishing how thirsty anything of this kind makes me! Pale ale I must have, or mit colum!” And having arrived at this conclusion, he thrust his hands—of whose delicate appearance he was especially careful—into his pockets to preserve them from the cold, and strolled off to put his resolution into practice.

In the meantime, Marmaduke De Grandeville, while listening with his outward ears to General Grant’s dull electioneering details, was inwardly congratulating himself on the favourable impression he had made on that very sensible young man, the Honourable Charles Leicester, and thinking what a useful ally he had secured to assist him in carrying out his matrimonial project.

Verily, there are as many comedies performed off the stage as upon it!

The ball at Broadhurst took place on the evening of the day on which the above conversation had passed, and was a wonderful affair indeed. It was given for a special purpose, and that purpose was to conciliate everybody, and induce everybody to promise General Grant their vote and interest at the ensuing election. Accordingly, everybody was invited—at least everybody who had the slightest pretension to be anybody—and everybody came; and as almost everybody brought somebody else with them, a wife, or a daughter, or the young lady from London who was spending Christmas with them, there was no lack of guests. The object of the entertainment was no secret; and the king of the county, the Marquis of C—————, being in the conservative interest, and consequently anxious to secure the General’s return, not only came himself, but actually brought a real live duke with him to exhibit to the company. This was a great stroke of policy, and told immensely, particularly with the smaller anybodies who were almost nobodies, but who, having associated with a duke, straightway became somebodies, and remained so ever after. Moreover, in all cases of incipient radicalism, chartist tendencies, or socialist symptoms, his Grace was an infallible specific. Depend on it, there is no better remedy for a certain sort of democracy than a decoction of strawberry-leaves; apply that to the sore place and the patient instantly becomes sound in his opinions, and continues a healthy member of the body politic. The particular duke on the occasion in question was a very young one, little more than a boy in fact (if a duke can ever be considered in the light of a boy). This youthful nobleman had a leading idea—though you would hardly have supposed it, to look at him—he believed that he was the best match in England; and so, in the conventional sense of the term, he undoubtedly was, although he would have been very dear at the price to any woman with a head and a heart. His pastors and masters, backed by the maternal anxieties of a duchess unambitious of the dignities of dowagership, had sedulously cultivated this one idea till it had assumed the character of a monomania, under the influence of which this unhappy scion of aristocracy looked upon life as a state of perpetual warfare against the whole race of women, and was haunted by a frightful vision of himself carried off and forcibly married to the chief of a horde of female pirates, with long tongues, longer nails, and an utter absence of creditable ancestry. His outward duke (if we may be allowed the expression) was decidedly prepossessing. He was tall and not ungraceful in figure, and had a bright, round, innocent face, as of a good child. His hair was nicely brushed and parted; whiskers he had none; indeed, the stinginess of nature to him in this particular was so remarkable, that, as the eldest Miss Simpkins afterwards observed to an eager audience of uninvited younger sisters, “So far from whiskers, my dears, now I come to think of it, his Grace had rather the reverse!” However, take him “for all in all,” he was a very creditable young duke, and a perfect godsend on the occasion in question. Then there was a descending scale from his Grace downwards, leading through the aristocracy of birth to the aristocracy of riches, till it reached the élite of the country towns, and the more presentable specimens of yeomen farmers. But let us join a group of people that we know, and hear what they think of the guests who are so rapidly assembling.

In a snug corner of the reception-room, not far from a door leading into the large drawing-room, stands one of those mysterious innovations of modern upholstery, a species of the genus ottoman, which resembles a Brobdignagian mushroom, with a thimble made to match stuck in the middle of it. Seated at her ease upon this nondescript, half-buried by the yielding cushions, appeared the pretty figure of Laura Peyton; by her side, attired in much white muslin, crinolined to a balloon-like rotundity, but which apparently had shrunk abominably at the wash in the region round about its wearer’s neck and shoulders, sat another—well, from the juvenility of her dress and manners we suppose we must say young lady, though it was a historical fact that she had been at school with Annie Grant’s mother; but then poor Mrs. Grant married when she was quite a child, and died before she was thirty, and of course Miss Singleton must know her own age best, and she had declared herself eight-and-twenty for the last five years. This lady possessed one peculiarity—she always had a passion for somebody; whether the object was of the gentler or the sterner sex was all a matter of chance; but as she was in the habit of observing, “there existed in her nature a necessity for passionately loving.” and it has become proverbial that necessity has no law. The object of her adoration just at present was “that darling girl,” Laura Peyton; and really that young lady was in herself so lovable, that to endeavour to account for Miss Singleton’s devotion by insinuating that the heiress was usually surrounded by all the most desirable young men in the room would be the height of ill-nature.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Miss Singleton, whose troublesome nature had another necessity for liking to hear its own voice as often as possible. “Dear me! I wish I knew who all the people were! Dearest Miss Peyton, do not you sympathise? Ah, that tell-tale smile! We girls certainly are sadly curious, though I believe the men are just as bad, only they’re too proud to own it. But really, we must contrive to catch somebody who will tell us who everybody is. There’s that handsome, grave, clever Mr. Arundel: I shall make him a sign to come here—ah! he saw me directly—he is so clever. Mr. Arundel, do tell me, who are all these people?”

“Rather a comprehensive question,” returned Lewis, smiling; “moreover, you could scarcely have applied to any one less able to answer it, for beyond our immediate neighbours I really do not know a dozen people in the room.”

“Mr. Arundel’s acquaintance lies rather among illustrious foreigners,” observed Miss Peyton demurely. “Were any members of the royal family of Persia present, for instance, his intimate knowledge of the language, manners, and habits of that interesting nation would be invaluable to us.”

“As you are strong, be merciful,” returned Lewis, in a tone of voice only to be heard by the young lady to whom he spoke.

“Dear me! How very delightful! What a thing it is to be so clever!” exclaimed Miss Singleton, arranging her bracelet and rounding her arm (which was now one of her best points) with an action that expressed, as plainly as words could have done, “There, look at that—there’s grace for you!”

“Here comes some one who can tell us everything,” she continued; “that good-natured, fascinating Mr. Leicester, with his loves of whiskers all in dear little curls. Tiresome man! he won’t look this way. Would you be so very good, Mr. Arundel, as to follow him and bring him here? Say that Miss Peyton and I want him particularly.”

“I beg you’ll say nothing of the kind, Mr. Arundel,” interposed Laura quickly, with a very becoming blush. “Really, Miss Singleton, you run on so that——”

“I will deliver your message verbatim, Miss Singleton,” returned Lewis with the same demure tone and manner in which Miss Peyton had referred to the Persian prince; and without waiting to mark the effect of his words, he mingled with the crowd, and almost immediately returned with the gentleman in pursuit of whom he had been despatched. Charles Leicester, who was most elaborately got up for the occasion, though his good taste prevented him from running into any absurd extremes in dress, looked remarkably handsome, and being flattered by the summons he had just received, particularly happy. Both these facts Miss Peyton discovered at a glance, but whether urged by some secret consciousness, or annoyed by an indescribable look of intelligence which lurked in the corners of Lewis’s dark eyes and revealed itself through the sternness of his compressed lips, she received him with marked coldness, and observed, in reply to his offer to play showman to the collection of strange animals there assembled, that she had no taste for zoology, and that it was Miss Singleton’s curiosity he had been summoned to satisfy.

“Yes, indeed, Mr. Leicester,” exclaimed that mature damsel, in no way daunted by a shade of discontent which, despite his endeavours to the contrary, overspread the countenance of the gentleman she was addressing; “yes, indeed, I’m dying to know all sorts of things. In the first place, who’s that tall, stout gentleman in the wonderful waistcoat?”

“That,” replied Leicester, coolly examining the person indicated, “that is—no, it isn’t! Yes, surely!—I thought I was right—that is the Marquis of Carabbas.” Then seeing from her manner she did not recognise the name, he continued, “He has enormous estates situated in——”

“Where?” asked Miss Singleton earnestly, thinking she had lost the name.

“That interesting tract of country yclept, by John Parry, the Realms of Infantine Romance,” continued Leicester.

“Oh, Mr. Leicester, you’re laughing at me. How wicked of you—the Marquis of Carabbas! Let me see: hadn’t he something to do with Whittington and his Cat?”

“With the cat, possibly,” replied Leicester; “for if my memory fail not, the fortunes of the noble Marquis, like those of the ever-to-be-lamented Lord Mayor of London town, were the result of feline sagacity, and it’s not likely there existed two such talented cats—even Puss in Boots may only be another episode in the career of the same gifted individual.”

“Another of its nine lives, in fact,” suggested Lewis.

“Yes, of course,” rejoined Leicester. “I dare say it was the original ‘cat of nine tales,’ only, like the sibylline leaves, several of the manuscripts have been lost to posterity through the carelessness of some elfin Master of the Rolls.”

“I beg your pardon, but I really must interrupt you,” exclaimed Miss Singleton. “Can you tell me, soberly and seriously, who that very strange-looking person may be who has just seized the General’s hand and nearly shaken his arm out of the socket?”

Seeing that Laura Peyton’s eyes asked the same question, though her lips were silent, Leicester glanced in the direction indicated, and immediately replied, “That energetic female rejoices in the name of Lady Mary—but is more commonly known among her intimates as Jack—Goodwood. In person she is what you behold her; in character, she presents a most unmitigated specimen of the genus Amazon; for the rest, she is a very good woman at heart, but my especial torment; she always calls me Charley, and her usual salutation is a slap on the back. She hunts, shoots, breaks in her own horses, has ridden a hurdle race, in which she came in a good second, and is reported to have dragooned her husband into popping the question by the threat of a sound horse-whipping. And now, Miss Singleton, you’ll have an opportunity of judging for yourself, for she has caught sight of me, and is bearing down upon us in full sail.”

“Well, but is she really a lady?” inquired the astonished Miss Singleton, who, in her philosophy, had most assuredly never dreamt of such a possibility as Jack Goodwood.

“She is second daughter of Lord Oaks,” was the reply, “and Goodwood is one of the Goodwoods, and is worth some £8000 a year; but here she is.”

As he spoke the lady in question joined the group. Her age might be eight or nine-and-thirty; she was tall and decidedly handsome, though her features were too large; she had magnificent black eyes and very white teeth, which prevented the width of her mouth from interfering with her pretensions to beauty; her complexion was brilliant in the extreme, nature having bestowed on her a clear brown skin, which withstood the combined effects of exposure to sun and wind, and softened the high colour induced by the boisterous character of her ladyship’s favourite pursuits. But if her personal gifts were striking, the style or costume she saw fit to adopt rendered her still more remarkable. As it will be necessary to describe her dress minutely in order to convey any idea of her appearance, we throw ourselves on the mercy of our lady readers, and beg them to pardon all errors of description, seeing that mantua-making is a science in which we have never graduated, and of which our knowledge is derived solely from oral traditions picked up during desultory conversations among our female friends, usually held (if our memory fail us not) on their way home from church.

Her dress consisted, then, of a gown of exceedingly rich white silk, made half-high in the body and remarkably full in the skirt, over which she wore a polka of bright scarlet Cashmere lined and trimmed with white silk, and adorned with a double row of the hunt buttons. Her head was attired in a Spanish hat of black velvet, while a single white feather, secured by a valuable diamond clasp, was allowed to droop over the brim and mingle with the rich masses of her raven hair, which was picturesquely arranged in a complication of braids and ringlets. She leaned on the arm of a gentleman double her age, whose good-humoured heavy face afforded a marked contrast to the ever-varying expression that lit the animated features of her who was, in every sense of the word, his better half. Leicester’s description had but slightly enhanced the vigour of her mode of salutation, for as she reached the spot where he stood she clapped him on the shoulder with a small, white-gloved hand, exclaiming in a deep but not unmusical voice—

“Bravo, Charley! run you to earth at last, you see. Where have you hidden yourself all this age? Now, Goody,” she continued, turning to her husband, “you may go. Charley Leicester will take care of me—don’t lose your temper at whist, don’t drink too much champagne, and mind you’re forthcoming when I want you.”

“There’s a life to lead,” returned her spouse, appealing to Leicester. “Did you ever see such a tyrant?”

“Be off, Goody, and don’t talk nonsense,” was his lady-wife’s rejoinder.

“How is it we never see you at the Manor-House now?” began the master of that establishment in a hospitable tone of voice, but his lady cut him short in his speech by exclaiming—

“Why? because he found you such a bore he could not stand you any longer; nobody can except me, and even my powers of endurance are limited, so,” she continued, taking him by the shoulders and turning him round, “right about face—heads up—march. Voilà,” she added, turning to Leicester, “he’s famously under command, isn’t he, Charley? all my good breaking in—he was as obstinate as a mule before I married him, nobody could do anything with him. He’s in splendid condition, too, for a man of sixty. I’ll back him to walk, ride, hunt, shoot, or play at billiards with any man of his age and weight in the three kingdoms. I’ve been obliged to dock his corn, though; there was seldom a day that he didn’t finish his second bottle of port. He only drinks one now. But I say, Charley, about this election of Governor Grant’s, how is he going the pace? You must tell me all about it; I’ve been in Paris for the last two months, and I’m quite in the dark.”

“’Pon my word, I take so little interest in the matter that I can scarcely enlighten you, Lady Mary,” returned Leicester, glancing uneasily at Miss Peyton, who was talking with much apparent empressement to Miss Singleton, though her quick ears drank in every word spoken by the others.

“Who’s that girl?” resumed Lady Mary, lowering her voice a little (very little) as she perceived the direction of Leicester’s glance. “Miss Peyton, eh?” she continued, “You shall introduce me; but first tell me who’s that man by her side, like an old picture.”

“Mr. Arundel,” was the reply; “tutor to poor young Desborough.”

“He’s too good for the work,” returned Jack; “he’s too near thoroughbred to take to collar and keep his traces tight with such an uphill pull as that must be. I say, Charley,” she continued in a half whisper, “he’s handsomer than you are. If you don’t mind your play, he’ll bowl you out and win with the favourite—there, it’s no use getting up the steam or looking sulky with me,” she added, as Leicester uttered an exclamation of annoyance. “I can see it all with half an eye; you’re as thoroughly what Goody calls ‘spoony’ as a man need to be; but now, Charley, don’t go putting your foot in it, you know: is it all right with the tin? that’s the main question.”

“Ask me to dance, for pity’s sake, and let me get out of that creature’s way,” murmured Laura Peyton to Lewis; “I never had a taste for seeing monsters.”

Lewis smiled and offered her his arm. At the same moment De Grandcville, gaudily ornate, marched up and requested the honour of Miss Peyton’s hand for the set then forming.

“I am engaged to Mr. Arundel for the next quadrille,” returned Miss Peyton.

“For the following one, then—ar?”

“I shall have much pleasure,” was the reply. “In the meantime allow me to introduce you to my friend Miss Singleton, who is at present without a partner.”

De Grandeville, charmed to have the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton, acted on the hint, and the two couples hastened to take their places in the quadrille then forming. Leicester’s volatile companion still continued chattering, heedless of his evident annoyance, until she had worried him into a state of mind bordering on distraction, when some fresh fancy seizing her, she fastened herself on to a new victim and left him to his meditations. These were by no means of an agreeable character; and after wandering listlessly through the suite of rooms and watching Laura Peyton, as during the intervals of the dance she talked and laughed gaily with De Grandeville (an occupation which did not tend greatly to raise Leicester’s spirits or soothe his ruffled temper), he strolled into a card-room tenanted only by four elderly gentlemen immersed in a rubber of whist, and flinging himself on a vacant sofa in a remote corner of the apartment, gave himself up to gloomy retrospection.

He had not remained there long when Lewis entered and glanced round as if in search of some one; then approaching Leicester, he began—

“You’ve not seen Walter lately, have you? Your amusing friend, Lady Mary Goodwood” (“confound the jade,” muttered Leicester, sotto voce) “introduced herself to me just now, and having captivated Walter by her bright smile and scarlet jacket, carried him off, to tease me, I believe, and I can’t tell what she has done with him. But,” he continued, for the first time observing his companion’s dejected manner and appearance, “is anything the matter; you’re not ill, I hope?”

“I wish I was,” was the unexpected reply; “ill—dead—anything rather than the miserable fool I am——”

“Why, what has occurred?” asked Lewis anxiously. “Can I be of any use?”

“No, it’s past mending,” returned Leicester in an accent of deep dejection. He paused, then turning to Lewis he resumed almost fiercely: “The tale is soon told, if you want to hear it. I met that girl—Laura Peyton, I mean—in town about a year ago; in fact—for my affairs are no secret—every fool knows that I am a beggar, or thereabouts. I was introduced to her because she was a great heiress, and dangled after her through the whole of a London season for the sake of her three per cents. Well, last autumn I met her again down in Scotland; we were staying together for three weeks in the same house. Of course we saw a good deal of each other, and I soon found I liked her better for herself than I had ever done for her money; but somehow, as soon as this feeling arose, I lost all nerve, and could not get on a bit. The idea of the meanness of marrying a woman for the sake of her fortune haunted me day and night, and the more I cared for her the less was I able to show it. My cousin Annie perceived what was going on, it seems, and without saying a word to me of her intention, struck up a friendship with Laura, and invited her here; and somehow—the thing’s very absurd in a man like myself, who has seen everything and done everything, and found out what humbug it all is—but the fact of the matter is, that I’m just as foolishly and romantically and deeply in love with that girl as any raw boy of seventeen could be; and I don’t believe she cares one sous about me in return. She thinks, as she has a good right to do, that I am hunting her for her money, like the rest of them, I dare say; and—stop a minute,” he continued, seeing Lewis was about to speak—“you have not heard the worst yet: because all I’ve told you was not enough, that conceited ass, De Grandeville, must needs come and consult me this morning as to whether Miss Peyton was worthy of being honoured with his hand, hinting pretty plainly that he did not anticipate much difficulty on the lady’s part; and by Jove, from the way in which she is going on with him this evening, I believe that for once he wasn’t lying: then that mad-headed Mary Goodwood coming and bothering with her confounded ‘Charley’ this and ‘Charley’ that, and her absurd plan of monopolising one—of course she means no harm; she has known me from a boy, and it’s her way; besides, she really is attached to old Goodwood. But how is Laura Peyton to know all that?”

“Why, rouse up, and go and tell her yourself, to be sure,” replied Lewis.

“No, not I!” returned Leicester moodily. “I’ll have no more trouble about it. I’ll leave this house to-morrow morning, and be off to Baden, or Naples, or Timbuctoo, or some place where there are no women, if such a Paradise exists—and she may marry De Grandeville, or whom she pleases, for me. You see, it would be different if she cared at all for me, but to worry one’s heart out about a girl who does not even like one——”

“Halte là!” interrupted Lewis; “lookers-on see most of the game; and if I know anything of woman’s nature”—he paused and bit his lip as the recollection of Gretchen crossed his mind—“depend upon it, Miss Peyton is not as indifferent to you as you imagine.”

“Did you see how coldly she received me to-night?” urged Leicester.

“Yes; and her so doing only confirmed my previous opinion. That chattering Miss Singleton had annoyed her by bidding me summon you in Miss Peyton’s name; but the very fact of her annoyance showed consciousness; had she been indifferent to you she would not have cared. Then her irritation at Lady Mary’s familiarity proves the same thing.”

“You really think so?” returned Leicester, brightening up. “My dear fellow, you’ve quite put new life into me. It’s very odd now, I never saw it in that light before. What would you have me do, then?”

“If, as you say, you really and truly love her,” returned Lewis gravely, “lay aside—excuse my plain speaking—lay aside your fashionable airs, which disguise your true nature, and tell her of your affection in a simple, manly way, and if she is the girl I take her to be, your trouble will not be wasted.” So saying, he rose and quitted the room, leaving Leicester to reflect on his advice.

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CHAPTER XXV.—CONTAINS A MYSTERIOUS INCIDENT, AND SHOWS HOW THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH.

As Lewis, after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, was prosecuting his search for Walter through the various apartments he encountered Annie Grant, who, having escaped the vigilance of Miss Livingstone, was enjoying, in company with a young lady friend, the dangerous luxury of standing by an open window. The moment she perceived Lewis she advanced towards him and began—

“May I detain you one moment, Mr. Arundel? Can you tell me anything of my cousin Charles? I’m afraid he must be ill, and I wished him to exert himself so particularly to-night.”

“He is not ill,” returned Lewis. “I left him not two minutes since in the card-room.”

“In the card-room?” repeated Annie in a tone of annoyance; “what can he be doing there? Is he playing whist?”

“No,” was the reply; “he did not appear in a humour to enjoy the dancing, and had gone there for the sake of quiet.”

“A fit of his incorrigible idleness, I suppose,” remarked Annie pettishly; “really it is too provoking; it must seem so odd his absenting himself on such an occasion as this. Would you mind the trouble of returning and telling him I want to speak to him particularly, and that he will find me here?”

“I shall be most happy; it is no trouble,” began Lewis. He paused, and then added in a lower tone, “Perhaps you scarcely do Mr. Leicester justice in attributing his absence to a fit of indolence; I fancied, from his manner, something had occurred to annoy him.”

“Something to annoy him!” exclaimed Annie, starting and turning pale as a disagreeable possibility suddenly occurred to her. “Surely he has not?—she never can have——!” then seeing Lewis’s glance fixed on her with a look of peculiar intelligence, she paused abruptly, and a most becoming blush overspread her features. Lewis pitied her confusion, and hastened to relieve it by observing—

“If I have ventured to guess the direction of your thoughts somewhat too boldly, Miss Grant, you must pardon me, and believe that did I not think I might thereby in some slight degree repay the kindness Mr. Leicester has invariably shown me, I would not have allowed you to perceive it. If,” he added in a lower tone, “you will permit me to advise you, I believe you could most effectually serve your cousin’s interests by explaining to Miss Peyton, at your first opportunity, the nature of the friendship which exists between Lady Mary Goodwood and Mr. Leicester, mentioning at the same time the fact that they have known each other from childhood.”

“That’s the difficulty, is it?” rejoined Annie. “Oh! I can set that right in five minutes. Thank you very much, Mr. Arundel—how extremely kind you are; but,” she added with an arch look, “you are most alarmingly clever; I shall become quite afraid of you.” Then turning to her companion, she added, “Now, Lucy dear, you will catch your death of cold standing at that window. You will send Charles Leicester, then, Mr. Arundel.” So saying, she linked her arm in that of her friend, and the two girls left the room.

“Leicester’s a lucky dog to have such a zealous advocate in that sweet cousin of his,” thought Lewis as he retraced his steps towards the card-room. “She is a great deal too good for that brute, Lord Bellefield; she had better have chosen Charles, if she must marry either brother, though he is scarcely her equal in mind or depth of character, and without that I don’t believe married life can ever progress as it should do.” On reaching the card-room he found it only tenanted by the whist players; and rightly imagining that his advice had so far restored Leicester’s spirits as to induce him again to return to the ball-room, he resumed his search for Walter, and at length discovered him in the ice-room, where, under the auspices of a pretty, interesting looking girl, the daughter of one of the tenantry, called in on the occasion to assist the female servants, he was regaling himself with unlimited cakes.

While Lewis was gently insinuating the possibility of his having had enough, two or three men, amongst whom was Lord Bellefield, lounged into the room and began eating ices at a table opposite that at which Lewis and Walter were stationed. One of the party, who was unacquainted with Lewis, apparently struck by his appearance, addressed Lord Bellefield in an undertone, evidently inquiring who the young tutor might be; the answer, though spoken in a low voice, was (whether designedly or not we will not say) perfectly audible to the person to whom it related.

“That? oh, some poor devil old Grant has picked up cheap as dry-nurse to his pet idiot; a kind of male bonne, as the French term it; a sort of upper servant, half valet, half tutor. You need not notice him.”

There was a degree of littleness in this speech which completely robbed it of its sting. It was such a mean attempt at an insult that Lewis saw it would be letting himself down even to feel angry about it; and merely allowing his lip to curl slightly with a contemptuous smile, he folded his arms and patiently awaited the conclusion of Walter’s repast. After Lord Bellefield and his friends had devoured as many ices as seemed good to them, they prepared to leave the room, and just as they passed the spot where Lewis stood, Lord Bellefield, in drawing out his handkerchief, accidentally dropped a glove. Not perceiving his loss, he was still walking on, when Lewis, after a moment’s hesitation, resolved to adhere to his determination of treating Lord Bellefield as he would any other man his superior in rank, and perhaps inwardly rejoiced at the opportunity of returning good for evil, or at least civility for insult, stooped and picked up the glove, then advancing a step or two, he presented it to its owner, saying—

“Excuse my interrupting your lordship, but you have dropped your glove.”

Now it so happened that the moment before Lewis had removed his own glove to render some assistance to Walter, and had not replaced it when he extended his hand to Lord Bellefield, who, without making any reply, signed to his French valet, then assisting in the champagne department, and when he approached, said—

“Tenez, Antoine! Take the glove from this gentleman, and bring me a clean pair.”

The insolence of his look and the affected drawl in which he spoke rendered his meaning so unmistakable, that, after a slight attempt to repress the inclination, one of his companions burst into a laugh, while the other, who had sufficient good feeling to be disgusted at such an unprovoked insult, turned on his heel and walked away. Lewis stood for a moment as if stunned; then, flushing crimson, he actually quivered with suppressed anger; still it was evident that he was striving to master his passion, and apparently he was in great measure successful, for when he spoke it was in a low, calm voice.

“Am I to understand,” he said, “that your lordship, considering this glove polluted by the accident of my having touched it, will never wear it again?”

“Ya—as,” was the reply; “you may very safely come to that conclusion without any fear of misinterpreting my intentions.”

“In that case,” continued Lewis, in the same low, clear voice, though his eyes, which were fixed on Lord Bellefield’s, actually glowed with the intensity of his emotion, “I will crave your permission to retain it as a memorial of this evening. Your lordship will observe it is a right hand glove. I may, on some future occasion, have the pleasure of calling your attention to the care with which I have preserved the relic.”

So saying, he bowed coldly, and still holding the glove with a vice-like grasp, as though he feared to have it wrested from him, he turned away without waiting a reply.

“What on earth does the fellow want with that glove?” inquired Lord Bellefield’s companion, who, not being a particularly intellectual young gentleman, had been greatly mystified by the whole proceeding. “And what in the world is the matter with you?” he added, observing for the first time that his friend was looking strangely pale and shuddering slightly.

“Eh—come along—we’re standing in a confounded draught, and I’ve never rightly recovered that ague I picked up at Ancona,” was the reply; and taking his companion’s arm, Lord Bellefield hastily left the room.

So engrossed had Lewis been with his own share of the transaction that he had not observed the breathless interest with which the whole scene had been watched by the girl before alluded to. She now approached him under the excuse of offering some cakes, and, as he somewhat impatiently refused them, said in a hurried whisper—

“I beg your pardon, sir, but what is it you intend to do with that glove?”

Surprised alike at the question and the quarter from whence it proceeded, Lewis looked at the girl more attentively than he had yet done. She was above the middle height, and of a singularly graceful figure; her features were characterised by a degree of refinement and intelligence not usually to be found amongst persons of her class; she was very pale, and though she endeavoured to repress all outward signs of emotion, he could perceive she was fearfully agitated.

“Do with the glove!” returned Lewis. “What makes you ask such an odd question?”

“You cannot deceive me, sir,” she replied in the same eager whisper. “I witnessed all that passed between you and—that gentleman just now.”

“And what is it you fear?” asked Lewis.

“That you are going to challenge him to fight a duel to-morrow morning—and—and perhaps mean to wear that glove on the hand you shoot him with.”

As she uttered these last words a strange expression flitted across Lewis’s face; it had passed, however, ere he replied—

“You are mistaken. As long as I remain under this roof I shall avoid any collision with that gentleman. Nay, more; should he repeat his insult (though I scarcely think he will), I shall not attempt to resent it. So,” he continued with a smile, “as I am living here, I think he is tolerably safe from me. Stay,” he added, as, after glancing anxiously at his features, as though she strove to read his very soul, she was about to turn away, satisfied that he was not attempting to deceive her, “stay; do not mention what you have observed amongst the servants; and here is something to buy you some new ribbon for your cap.”

“I will not accept your money, sir,” she replied somewhat haughtily; “but your secret is safe with me as in the grave.” Then taking Walter’s plate, which was by this time empty, she crossed the room and mingled with the other servants.

It was later in the evening; much dancing had been accomplished, many civil speeches and some rude ones made, mild flirtations began to assume a serious character, and one or two aggravated cases appeared likely to end in business. The hearts of match-making mammas beat high with hope, marriageable daughters were looking up, and eligible young men, apparently bent on becoming tremendous sacrifices, were evidently to be had cheap. The real live Duke was in unusually high spirits; he had hitherto been mercifully preserved from dangerous young ladies, and had passed a very pleasant evening. Lady Mary Goodwood, who was equal to a duke or any other emergency, had been introduced to him, and had taken upon herself the task of entertaining him; and his Grace, being slightly acquainted with Mr. Goodwood, and fortified by an unshakable faith in that gentleman’s powers of longevity, had yielded himself unresistingly to the fascinations of the fair Amazon, and allowed himself to be amused with the most amiable condescension. Charles Leicester, in some degree reassured by his conversation with Lewis, returned to the dancing-room and secured Miss Peyton for a waltz; but his success did not tend greatly to improve his position, as the young lady continued strangely silent, or only opened her mouth to say cutting things. The last polka before supper she danced with De Grandeville; on that gentleman’s arm she entered the room in which the repast was laid out, and he it was who, seated by her side during the meal, forestalled her every wish with most lover-like devotion. Lord Belle-field, after the rencontre with Lewis, had consoled himself by taking possession of Annie, whose side he never quitted for a moment, and who he thereby prevented from holding any private communication with her friend Miss Peyton, her acquaintance with the domestic economy of her uncle’s family leading her to divine that his brother would be about the last person to whom Charles Leicester would wish his hopes and fears confided.

Seeing that things thus continued steadily to “improve for the worse,” and that the tide which Shakespeare discovered in the affairs of men appeared to have set dead against him, the unfortunate “Charley” having, in a spirit of self-mortification, repudiated supper and rejected offers of champagne with the virulence of a red-hot teetotaller, betook himself to the solitude of the music-room in a state of mind bordering on distraction, which fever of the soul Lady Mary Goodwood had not tended to allay, by remarking, with a significant glance towards Miss Peyton and De Grandeville—

“I say, Charley, cast your eye up the course a minute; the heavyweight’s making play with the favourite at a killing pace. I’d bet long odds he pops and she says ‘Done’ before the meeting’s over; so if that don’t suit your book, Charley, my boy, the sooner you hedge on the double event the better.”

The music-room at Broadhurst was a spacious apartment, with a coved ceiling and deep bay windows hung with rich crimson damask curtains, and containing ottomans of the same material in the recesses. On one of these Leicester flung himself, and half hidden by the voluminous folds of the drapery, sketched out a gloomy future, in which he depicted himself quarrelling with De Grandeville, shooting him in a consequent duel, and residing ever after in the least desirable part of the backwoods of America, a prey to remorse, without cigars, and cut off from kid gloves and pale ale in the flower of his youth. Occupied with these dreary thoughts, he scarcely noticed the entrance of various seceders from the supper-table; nor was it until the sound of the pianoforte aroused his attention that he perceived the room to be tenanted by some twenty or thirty people scattered in small coteries throughout the apartment. At the moment when he became alive to external impressions Miss Singleton was about to favour the company with a song, having secured a mild young man to turn over the music, who knew not life and believed in her to the fullest extent with a touching simplicity. Before this interesting performance could commence, however, sundry preliminary arrangements analogous to the nautical ceremony of “clearing for action” appeared indispensable. First, a necessity existed for taking off her gloves, which was not accomplished without much rounding of arms, display of rings, and rattling of bracelets, one of which, in particular, would catch in everything, and was so incorrigible that it was forced to be unclasped in disgrace and committed to the custody of the mild young man, who blushed at it and held it as if it were alive. Then Miss Singleton drew up her head, elongated her neck to a giraffe-like extent, raised her eyes, simpered, cast them down again, glanced out of their corners at the “mild one” till he trembled in his polished boots and jingled the wicked bracelet like a baby’s rattle in the excess of his agitation, and finally commenced her song by an energetic appeal to her mother (who had been dead and buried for the last fifteen years) to “wake her early” on the ensuing first of May. Just as she was assuring the company that “she had been wild and wayward, but she was not wayward now,” a couple entered the room, and apparently wishing not to disturb the melody, seated themselves on a sofa in a retired corner which chanced to be nearly opposite to the recess of which Leicester had taken possession; thus, although the whole length of the music-room intervened, he could (himself unseen) catch occasional glimpses of this sofa as the ever-changing groups of loungers formed and dispersed themselves.

The occupants of the seat were Miss Peyton and De Grandeville; and could Charles Leicester have overheard the following conversation the passive annoyance with which he observed the colloquy might have given place to a more active sentiment.

“Ar—really,” remarked De Grandeville, “that is a very—ar—touching, pathetic song——”

“Murdered,” observed Miss Peyton, quietly finishing his sentence for him.

“Ar—eh—yes, of course, I was going to—ar—that is, your exquisite taste has—ar—in fact—ar—beyond a doubt the woman is committing murder.”

“Recollect, the ‘woman,’ as you are pleased to call her, is my particular friend, Mr. De Grandeville,” returned his companion with a slight degree of hauteur in her tone.

“Ar—yes, of course, that speaks volumes in her favour,” was the rejoinder; “and although it is not every one who is gifted with the—ar—talent of vocalisation, yet the estimable qualities which one seeks in the—ar—endearing relation of friendship may be found—ar—that is, may exist—ar——”

“What did you think of the champagne at supper?” interrupted Miss Peyton abruptly.

“Really—ar—’pon my word I did not particularly notice it! was—ar—so agreeably situated that I could not devote much attention to the—ar—commissariat department.”

“Surely it was unusually strong,” persisted Laura.

“Ar—yes, of course you are right, it is no doubt owing to its agreeably exhilarating qualities that it is so universally popular with the fair sex. Were I—ar—so fortunate as to be—ar—a married man, I should always have champagne at my table.”

“What a temptation!” returned Miss Peyton, smiling ironically. “Your wife will be an enviable woman, if you mean to indulge her in such luxuries.”

“It delights me to hear you say so,” exclaimed De Grandeville eagerly. “If such is your opinion, I am indeed a fortunate man. I had not intended,” he continued in a lower tone, “to speak to you at this early period of our acquaintance on the subject nearest to my heart, but the—ar—very flattering encouragement——”

“Sir!” exclaimed Miss Peyton in a tone of indignant surprise.

“Which you have deigned to bestow upon me,” continued De Grandeville, not heeding the interruption, “leads me to unfold my intentions without further delay. I am now arrived at an age when, in the prime of life, and with judgment so matured that I consider I may safely act in obedience to its dictates without the risk of making any great mistake, it appears to me, and to those of my highly born and influential friends whom I have consulted on the subject, that I might greatly improve my general position in society by a judicious matrimonial alliance. Now, without being in the slightest degree actuated by—ar—anything approaching to a spirit of boasting, I may venture to say that in the selection of a partner for life I have a right to look—ar—high. My family may be traced back beyond the Norman conquest, and the immense estates in our possession—ar—my cousin Hildebrand holds them at present—but in the event of anything happening to his seven—ar—however, I need not now trouble you with such family details, suffice it to say that we are of ancient descent, enormous landed proprietors, and that my own position in society is by no means an unimportant one. Now, although I am aware that by birth you are scarcely—ar—that is—that the Peyton family cannot trace back their origin—ar—I have made up my mind to waive that point in consideration of——”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Miss Peyton. “Doubtless your mature judgment has led you to discover many, in fact so? some thousands of good and weighty reasons why you should overlook the humble origin of the poor Peytons; but there is one point which appears to have escaped even your sagacity, namely, whether this unworthy descendant of an ignoble family desires the honour of such an alliance as you propose. That you may no longer be in doubt on the subject, allow me to thank you for the sacrifice you propose to make in my favour, and most unequivocally to decline it.”

No one could be in De Grandeville’s company for ten minutes without perceiving that on the one subject of his own importance he was more or less mad; but with this exception he was a clear-headed, quick-sighted man, used to society and accustomed to deal with the world. Laura Peyton, in her indignation at the inflated style of the preamble of his discourse, had committed the indiscretion of refusing his hand before he had distinctly offered it. De Grande-ville perceived the mistake, and hastened to avail himself of it by replying—

“Excuse me, Miss Peyton, but you jump rather hastily to conclusions. Had you heard me to the end you might have learned that there were equally strong reasons why in my present position I dare not yield to the impulse of my feelings—for that I greatly admire and respect you I frankly own. Should these reasons disappear under a change of circumstances, I shall hope to have the honour of again addressing you on this subject with a more favourable result. In the meantime, to assure you that I entertain no unfriendly recollection of this interview, permit me the honour——”

So saying, ere she was aware of his intention, he raised her hand to his lips, bowed respectfully, and rising, quitted the apartment. Miss Peyton, equally surprised and provoked at the turn De Grande-ville had given to the conversation, remained for a minute or so pondering the matter, with her eyes fixed on the ground; as she raised them they encountered those of a gentleman who was passing down the room at the time. Charles Leicester (for he it was) returned her gaze haughtily, and as their eyes met a contemptuous smile curled his lip, and bowing coldly, he passed on without a word. Well might he despise her, for he had witnessed the parting salute, and not unnaturally deemed her the affianced bride of Marmaduke De Grandeville. Ere he retired for the night his servant had received orders to pack up his clothes and to procure post-horses by eight o’clock on the following morning. Annie Grant, who, when the latest guests had departed, sought her friend Laura’s dressing-room to explain to her the old friendship which had existed between her cousin Charles and Lady Mary Goodwood was equally surprised and distressed to find her communication received with a hysterical burst of tears.

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