But however ill our “captain bold” of the present day may behave to “the girl he leaves behind him,” the lady in his front has small cause to complain of remissness or inattention. The mess-room at Hounslow is fitted up with an especial view to the approbation of the fair sex. The band outside ravishes their ears with its enchanting harmony; the officers and male guests dispose themselves in groups with those whose society they most affect; and Blanche finds herself the centre of attraction to sundry dashing warriors, not one of whom would hesitate for an instant to abandon his visions of military distinction, and link himself, his debts, and his moustaches, to the fortunes of the pretty heiress.
Now, Sir Ascot Uppercrust has resolved this day to do or die—“to be a man or a mouse,” as he calls it. Of this young gentleman we have as yet said but little, inasmuch as he is one of that modern school which, abounding in specimens through the higher ranks of society, is best described by a series of negatives. He was not good-looking—he was not clever—he was not well-educated; but, on the other hand, he was not to be intimidated—not to be excited—and not to be taken in. Coolness of mind and body were his principal characteristics; no one ever saw “Uppy” in a hurry, or a dilemma, or what is called “taken aback”; he would have gone into the ring and laid the odds to an archbishop without a vestige of astonishment, and with a carelessness of demeanour bordering upon contempt; or he would have addressed the House of Commons, had he thought fit to honour that formidable assemblage by his presence, with an equanimity and insouciance but little removed from impertinence. A quaint boy at Eton, cool hand at Oxford, a deep card in the regiment, man or woman never yet had the best of “Uppy”; but to-day he felt, for once, nervous and dispirited, and wished “the thing was over,” and settled one way or the other. He was an only son, and not used to be contradicted. His mother had confided to him her own opinion of his attractions, and striven hard to persuade her darling that he had but to see and conquer; nevertheless, the young gentleman was not at all sanguine of success. Accustomed to view things with an impartial and by no means a charitable eye, he formed a dispassionate idea of his own attractions, and extended no more indulgence to himself than to his friends. “Plain, but neat,” he soliloquised that very morning, as he thought over his proceedings whilst dressing; “not much of a talker, but a devil to think—good position—certain rank—she’ll be a lady, though rather a Brummagem one—house in Lowndes Street—place in the West—family diamonds—and a fairish rent-roll (when the mortgages are paid)—that’s what she would get. Now, what should I get? Nice girl—’gad, she is a nice girl, with her ‘sun-bright hair’ as some fellow says—good temper—good action—and three hundred thousand pounds. The exchange is rather in my favour; but then all girls want to be married, and that squares it, perhaps. If she says ‘Yes,’ sell out—give up hunting—drive her about in a phaeton, and buy a yacht. If she says ‘No,’ get second leave—go to Melton in November—and hang on with the regiment, which ain’t a bad sort of life, after all. So it’s hedged both ways. Six to one and half-a-dozen to the other. Very well; to-day we’ll settle it.”
With these sentiments it is needless to remark that Sir Ascot was none of your sighing, despairing, fire-eating adorers, whose violence frightens a woman into a not unwilling consent; but a cautious, quiet lover, on whom perhaps a civil refusal might be the greatest favour she could confer. Nevertheless, he liked Blanche, too, in his own way.
Well, the band played, and the luncheon was discussed, and the room was cleared for an impromptu dance (meditated for a fortnight); and some waltzed, and some flirted, and some walked about and peeped into the troop-stables and inspected the riding-school, and Blanche found herself, rather to her surprise, walking tête-à-tête with Sir Ascot from the latter dusty emporium, lingering a little behind the rest of the party, and separated altogether from the General and Mary Delaval. Sir Ascot having skilfully detached Lacquers, by informing him that he had made a fatal impression on Miss Spanker, who was searching everywhere for the credulous hussar; and having thus possessed himself of Blanche’s ear, now stopped dead-short, looked the astonished girl full in the face, and without moving a muscle of his own countenance, carelessly remarked, “Miss Kettering, would you like to marry me?” Blanche thought he was joking, and although it struck her as an ill-timed piece of pleasantry, she strove to keep up the jest, and replied, with a laugh and low curtsey, “Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.”
“No, but will you, Miss Kettering?” said Sir Ascot, getting quite warm (for him). “Plain fellow—do what I can—make you happy—and all that.”
“‘Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.’”
Poor Blanche blushed crimson up to her eyes. Good heavens! then the man was in earnest after all! What had she done—she, the pet of “Cousin Charlie,” and the protégée of Frank Hardingstone—that such a creature as this should presume to ask her such a question? She hesitated—felt very angry—half inclined to laugh and half inclined to cry; and Sir Ascot went on, “Silence gives consent, Miss Kettering—’pon my soul, I’m immensely flattered—can’t express what I feel—no poet, and that sort of thing—but I really am—eh!—very—eh!” It was getting too absurd; if she did not take some decisive step, here was a dandy quite prepared to affiance her against her will, and what to say or how to say it, poor little Blanche, who was totally unused to this sort of thing, and tormented, moreover, with an invincible desire to laugh, knew no more than the man in the moon.
“You misunderstand, Sir Ascot,” at last she stammered out; “I didn’t mean—that is—I meant, or rather I intended—to—to—to—decline—or, I should say—in short, I couldn’t for the world!” With which unequivocal declaration Blanche blushed once more up to her eyes, and to her inexpressible relief, put her arm within Major D’Orville’s, that officer coming up opportunely at that moment; and seeing the girl’s obvious confusion and annoyance, extricating her, as he seemed always to do, from her unpleasant dilemma and her matter-of-fact swain.