“I don't think his feelings are quite as deep and intense as yours, Harry,” replied I, smiling involuntarily at my reminiscences of the morning; “but I am afraid he will be terribly cut up about it; he was most unfortunately sanguine: I suppose I had better break it to him.”
“Yes, and as soon as possible too,” said Oaklands, “for I'm sure my manner will betray my happiness. I am the worst hand in the world at dissimulation. Walk back with me and tell him, and then stay and dine with us.”
“Agreed,” replied I; “only let me say half a dozen words to my mother; “and, rushing upstairs, I dashed into her room, told her the whole matter on the spot, incoherently, and without the slightest preparation, whereby I set her crying violently, to make up for which I kissed her abruptly (getting very wet in so doing), pulled down the bell-rope in obedience to the dictates of a sudden inspiration that she would be the better for a maid-servant, and left her in one of the most fearful states of confusion on record, flurried into a condition of nerves which set camphor-julep completely at defiance, and rendered trust in sal-volatile a very high act of faith indeed.
While Oaklands and I were walking up to the Hall, we overtook Coleman returning from shooting wild-fowl. As we came up with him, Oaklands seized him by the shoulder, exclaiming:—
“Well, Freddy, what sport, eh?”
“My dear Oaklands,” returned he gravely, removing Harry's hand as he spoke, “that is a very bad habit of yours, and one which I advise you to get rid of as soon as possible; nobody who had ever endured one of your friendly gripes could say with truth that you hadn't a vice about you.”
“For which vile pun it would serve you right to repeat the dose,” replied Oaklands, “only that I am not in a vindictive mood at present.”
“Then you must have passed the afternoon in some very mollifying atmosphere,” returned Freddy, “for when I met you three hours ago, you seemed as if you could have cut anybody's throat with the greatest satisfaction.”
The conscious half-cough, half-laugh, with which Oaklands acknowledged this sally, attracted Coleman's attention, and mimicking the sound, he continued, “A—ha—hem! and what may that mean? I say, there's some mystery going on here from which I'm excluded—that's not fair, though, you know. Come, be a little more transparent; give me a peep into the hidden recesses of your magnanimous mind; unclasp the richly bound volume of your secret soul; elevate me to the altitude of the Indian herb, or, in plain slang—Young England's chosen dialect—make me 'up to snuff'.”
“May I enlighten him?” asked I.