“Tarley,” however, by no means approving of this arrangement, and insisting strenuously upon a prolongation of his ride, his father, who it must be confessed rather spoiled him than otherwise, complied with his demand for “Gee-gee more!” by again dashing round the room with him, and continuing his headlong course till he had deposited his rider within the august precincts of the nursery, where the precocious Ducrow, falling under the baleful glance of an autocratic nurse, subsided into a state of infantine depression, and was heard no more.
Leicester, having returned to the apartment in which he had left his wife, flung himself, in a state of apparent exhaustion, upon the sofa he had lately jumped over, exclaiming, “That child will be the death of me, I’m certain of it; where he can get all this dreadful energy of character from I can’t conceive. It must come from the Peyton side, for I’m certain that even at his early age I had a much more clearly defined idea of the dolce far niente than that unnatural little essence of quicksilver possesses. By Jove, if he should turn out as fast when he grows up as he appears now before he has begun growing at all, it will be an awful look out for our grey hairs.”
“Nonsense, Charley, you’ve energy enough when you care to exert it; in fact it is all your own doing, you know you delight to excite the child. But now be sensible, and sit up and listen to me, for I really want to consult you about this letter.”
“As to listening to you, my love, I’m only too happy to do so at all times and seasons, and I’ll promise to be as sensible as is compatible with my general mental capacity, but in regard to the sitting up, you really must excuse me. I have a strong idea I sprained something in jumping over this sofa just now, my back or my shin, I forget the precise spot, but I can assure you it requires rest.”
“Oh, you idle man,” was the laughing answer, “how incorrigible you are!” and as Laura pronounced this condemnation she seated herself on a footstool by her husband’s side, drew out the letter, and handing it to him, said, “They have consented to my plan, and are coming here in the course of the next fortnight; but I do not like the tone of Annie’s note, she must be much more really ill than I was at all aware of, and there appears throughout a spirit of depression, which is completely foreign to her nature—I cannot understand it.”
“I have a despatch from the General,” began Leicester, leisurely breaking the seal; “perhaps that may tend to elucidate the mystery. What a fist the old fellow writes! the letters all hold up their heads as if they were a regiment of soldiers, and his signature bristles like a stand of bayonets. Oh! he ‘hopes to be in Venice by Friday week, if his daughter’s health, which has given him some little uneasiness lately, should permit them to travel with the degree of swiftness and punctuality which has appeared to him expedient in laying out their intended route.’ I’m very sorry dear Annie is ill; what can be the matter with her, think you?”
“Who is your other letter from?” inquired Laura, avoiding his last question.
“From Bellefield,” returned Leicester, opening it; “he can’t come with the Grants, but he’ll follow them before long. He has backed the Dodona colt for the Derby, and has got a heavier book on the race than he likes; he was hit hard at the last Newmarket meeting, and if anything were to go wrong with the colt, and he not on the spot to hedge on the first hint, the consequences might be more unpleasant than people in general are aware of. Well! thank heaven, with all my follies, I always contrived to keep clear of the betting-ring. I don’t like that note of Belle’s; he’ll get into some awful scrape if he does not take care.”
“For which I shall not pity him one bit,” rejoined Laura. “Born to a high position, gifted with a princely fortune; if he chooses to disgrace the one, and squander the other by gambling with a set of blacklegs, he deserves whatever he may meet with. I hope I have not pained you, Charley dearest,” she continued, observing a slight shade of annoyance on her husband’s good-humoured face; “but truth is truth; I cannot like that man; I wish he were not your brother, and oh! how I wish he were not to be the husband of our darling Annie. I say, Charley, how came it you never fell in love with her yourself? Do you know—don’t be conceited now—I think I was very lucky to get you under the circumstances?”
A gay laughing answer rose to the lips of Charles Leicester, and then the memory of the empty, heartless life he had led before his marriage, and the deep, true happiness he had enjoyed since, came across him, and drawing his wife towards him, he imprinted a kiss on her smooth forehead as he replied, “If I am, indeed, worthy of your affection, darling, it is you alone who have rendered me so, for before I knew you I was a mere conceited, idle, frivolous butterfly, spoiled by the world, and with just sense enough (like most spoilt children) to despise my spoiler, without sufficient manliness of nature to free myself from its trammels by any unassisted efforts of my own.”