Well, if not “half good enough for Charlie,” we mistake much whether, even at the very moment of condemnation, our philosopher did not consider her quite “good enough for Frank”; and could he but have known the young girl’s thoughts while he judged her so harshly, he would have been much more in charity with the world in general, and looked upon the rational amusement of dancing in a light more becoming a sensible man—which, to do him justice, he generally was.
Blanche, even as she wound and threaded through the mazes of a crowded polka, skilfully steered by Cousin Charlie, who was a beautiful dancer, and one of whose little feet would scarcely have served to “ride a fairy,” was wondering in her own mind why Mr. Hardingstone had not asked her to dance, and why he had been so distant at the steeple-chase, and speculating whether it was possible he could be married. How she hoped Mrs. Hardingstone, if there should be one, was a nice person, and how fond she would be of her, and yet few people were worthy of him. How noble and manly he looked to-night amongst all the dandies. She would rather see Mr. Hardingstone frown than any one else smile—there was nobody like him, except, perhaps, Major D’Orville; he had the same quiet voice, the same self-reliant manner; but then the Major was much older. Oh no—there was nothing equal to Frank—and how she liked him, he was such a friend of Charlie; and just as Blanche arrived at this conclusion, the skirt of her dress got entangled in Cornet Capon’s spur, and Charlie laughed so (the provoking boy!) that he could not set her free, and the Cornet’s apologies were so absurd, and everybody stared so, it was quite disagreeable! But a tall, manly figure interposed between her and the crowd, and Major D’Orville released her in an instant; and that deep, winning voice engaged her for the next dance, and she could not but comply, though she had rather it had been some one else. Frank saw it all, still with his arms folded, and misjudged her again, as men do those of whom they are fondest. “How well she does it, the little coquette,” he thought; “it’s a good piece of acting all through—now she’ll flirt with D’Orville because he happens to be a great man here, and then she’ll throw him over for some one else; and so they ‘keep the game alive.’” Frank! Frank! you ought to be ashamed of yourself!
In the meantime, Lord Mount Helicon must not neglect a very important part of the business which has brought him to Guyville. In the pocket of his lordship’s morning coat is a letter which Straps, who has taken that garment down to brush, in the natural course of things, is even now perusing. As its contents may somewhat enlighten us as well as the valet, we will take the liberty of peeping over that trusty domestic’s shoulder, and joining him in his pursuit of knowledge, premising that the epistle is dated Brook Street, and is a fair specimen of maternal advice to a son. After the usual gossip regarding Mrs. Bolter’s elopement, and Lady Susan Stiffneck’s marriage, with the indispensable conjectures about “ministers,” a body in whose precarious position ladies of a certain age take an unaccountable interest, the letter goes on to demonstrate that
“it is needless to point out, my dear Mount, the advantages you would obtain under your peculiar circumstances by settling early in life. When I was at Bubbleton last autumn (and Globus says I have never been so well since he attended me when you were born—in fact, the spasms left me altogether), I made the acquaintance of a General Bounce, an odious, vulgar man, who had been all his life somewhere in India, but who had a niece, a quiet, amiable girl, by name Kettering, with whom I was much pleased. They have a nice place, though damp, somewhere in the neighbourhood of your borough, and I dined there once or twice before I left Bubbleton. Everything looked like maison montée; and from information I can rely on, I understand the girl is a great heiress. Between ourselves, Lady Champfront told me she would have from three to four hundred thousand pounds. Now, although I should be the last person to hint at your selling yourself for money, particularly with your talents and your position, yet if you should happen to see this young lady, and take a fancy to her, it would be a very nice thing, and would make you quite independent. She is prettyish in the ‘Jeannette and Jeannot’ style, and although her manner is not the least formed, she has no prononcé vulgarity, and would soon acquire our ‘ways’ when she came to live amongst us. Of course we should drop the General immediately; and, my dear boy, I trust you would give up that horrid racing—young Cubbington, who has hardly left school, is already nearly ruined by it, and Lady Looby is in despair—such a mother too as she has been to him! By the by, there is a cousin in our way, but he is young enough to be in love only with himself, and appeared to me to be rather making up to the governess! Think of this, my dear Mount, and believe me,
“Your most affectionate mother,
“M. Mt. Helicon.
“P.S.—Your book is much admired. Trifles raves about it, and your old friend Mrs. Blacklamb assures me that it made her quite ill.”
Primed with such sage counsel, his lordship determined to lose no time in “opening the trenches.” After enacting sundry duty-dances, by which he had gained at least one prospective “plumper,” he accordingly “completed the first parallel” by obtaining an introduction to General Bounce, which ceremony Captain Lacquers performed in his usual easy off-hand style—the introducer shouting into each man’s ear his listener’s own name, and suppressing altogether that of his new acquaintance, an ingenious method of presenting people to each other without furthering their intimacy to any great extent. The General, however, and the member had known each other previously by sight as well as by name, the former having voted and spoken against the latter at the past election, with his peculiar abruptness and energy; but Mount Helicon was the last man in the world to owe an antagonist a grudge, and being keenly alive to the ridiculous, was prepared to be delighted with his political opponent, in whom he saw a fund of absurdity, out of which he promised himself much amusement.
“Glad to make your acquaintance, my Lud,” said the General, standing well behind his orders and decorations, which showed to great advantage on a coat tightly buttoned across his somewhat corpulent frame—“Don’t like your politics—what? never did—progress and all that, sir, not worth a row of gingerbread—don’t tell me—why, what did Lord Hindostan say to me at Government House, when they threatened to report me at home for exceeding my orders? ‘Bounce,’ says his Excellency—‘Bounce, I’ll see you through it’—what? nothing like a big stick for a nigger. Stick! how d’ye mean?”—and the speaker, who was beginning to foam at the mouth, suddenly changed his tone to one of the sweetest politeness, as he introduced ‘My niece, Miss Kettering; Lord Mount Helicon.’ A second time was Frank Hardingstone forestalled; he had just made up his mind that he would dance with Blanche only once, sun himself yet once again in her sweet smile, and then think of her no more—a sensible resolution, but not very easy to carry out. Of course he laid the blame on her. “First she makes a fool of D’Orville,” thought he, “a man old enough to be her father—and now she whisks away with this red-bearded radical—to make a fool of him too, unless she means to throw over Charlie; and who is the greatest fool of the three? Why, you, Frank Hardingstone, who ought to know better. I shall go home, smoke a cigar, and go to bed; the dream is over; I had no idea it would be so unpleasant to wake from it.” So Frank selected his hat, pulled out his cigar-case, and trudged off, by no means in a philosophical or even a charitable frame of mind.
There was a light twinkling in the window of his lodgings over the Saddlers, some three hours afterwards, when a carriage drove rapidly by, bearing a freight of pleasure-seekers home from the ball. Inside were the General and Blanche, the former fast asleep, wrapped in the dreamless slumbers which those enjoy who have reached that time of life when the soundness of the stomach is far more attended to than that of the heart—when sentiment is of small account, but digestion of paramount importance. Age, as it widens the circle of our affections, weakens their intensity, and although proverbially “there is no fool like an old one,” we question if in the present day there are many Anacreons who—
“When they behold the festive train
Of dancing youth, are young again;”