“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——”