[CHAPTER XIV]
TO PERSONS ABOUT TO MARRY
A LOUNGE IN THE PARK—THE NOON OF FASHION—THE FAIR EQUESTRIAN—A LOVER ON FOOT—BOUNCE’S COMFORTERS—THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER—A FRIEND’S ADVICE
It was high noon in the great world of London—that is to say, it was about half-past five p.m.—and the children of Mammon were in full dress. In the streets, gay, glittering, well-appointed carriages were bowling smoothly along, with sleek horses stepping proudly together, and turning, as coachmen say, on a sixpence, guided by skilful pilots who could drive to an inch. Inside, shaded by parasols of the most gorgeous hues, sat fair delicate women, dressed to the utmost perfection of the art, with aërial bonnets at the very back of their glossy hair and dainty heads, bent down as they reclined upon their cushions till every upward glance shot from beneath those sweeping eyelashes bore a tenfold shaft of conquest against the world. Anon taper fingers in white kid gloves were kissed to a dandy on the pavement, and the fortunate dandy bowed, and sprang erect again, a taller man by an inch. ’Tis always judicious to appear on the best of terms with smart ladies in coroneted carriages. Bond Street was in a state of siege—“Redmayne’s” looked like a beehive—“Hunt and Roskell’s” resembled a flower-show—country cousins were bewildered and overcome—quiet old gentlemen like ourselves were pining for their strawberries and their roses—wearied servants meditated on the charms of beer—the narrow strip of sky overhead smiled blue as the Mediterranean, and the tide of carriages in Piccadilly was like the roar of the ocean. In the Park, though the space was greater, yet did the crowd appear no less—double lines of carriages blocked up the drive by the Serpentine, and unassuming broughams with provokingly pretty faces inside halted perforce amongst the matronage of England, defiant in the liveries and escutcheons of their lawful lords. In the Ride the plot was thickening still, and half a country seemed to be gathering on “the broad road”—we speak literally, not metaphorically—mounted on steeds worth a prince’s ransom, we ought to say, but here our conscientious regard for verity compels us to stop short, and to remark that although every now and then our eye may be gladdened by that most beautiful of all spectacles, a handsome woman on a fine horse, yet in many sorry instances the gentlemen of England, who “sit at home at ease,” effectually prevent their wives and daughters from enjoying a like sedentary composure, by mounting them on the veriest “rips” that ever disgraced a side-saddle. “He’ll do to carry a lady,” they say of some wretch that has neither pace nor strength nor action for themselves, and forthwith gentle woman, blest in her ignorance, tittups along, nothing doubting, upon this tottering skeleton. Fortune favours her own sex, but if anything happens a woman is almost sure to be hurt. No—to carry a lady a horse ought to be as near perfection as it is possible for that animal to arrive—strong, fast, well-shaped, handsome, and fine-tempered, his good qualities and his value should correspond with the treasure and the charms which are confided to his charge. But we have said there are exceptions, and Blanche’s bay horse, “Water King,” was a bright particular star among his equine fellows. Humble pedestrians stopped to gaze open-mouthed on that shapely form—the marble crest, the silky mane, the small quivering ear, the wide proud nostril, and the game wild eye—the round powerful frame, hard and smooth and well-defined as sculptured marble, showing on the “off-side” its whole lengthy proportions uninterrupted save by girth and saddle-flap, and the little edge of cambric handkerchief peeping from the latter. High-couraged as he was gentle, few horses could canter up the Ride like “Water King,” and as he bent himself to his mistress’s hand, snorting in his pride, his thin black tail swishing in the air, and his glossy skin flecked with foam, many a smart philosopher of the “nil admirari” school turned upon his saddle to approve, and drawled to his brother idler, “’Gad, that’s a monstrous clever horse, and rather a pretty girl riding him.” Major D’Orville thought they were a charming couple as he accompanied Miss Kettering and her steed with the careful air of proprietorship seldom assumed save by an accepted suitor. The Major was a delightful companion for the Park. He knew everybody, and everybody knew him. He had the knack of making that sort of quiet disjointed conversation which accords so well with an equestrian tête-à-tête. Defend us at all times from a long story, but especially on horse-back! The Major’s remarks, however, were seldom too diffuse. “You see that man on the cream-coloured horse,” he would say; “that’s Discount, the famous money-lender. He gave a dinner yesterday to ten people that cost a hundred pounds, and he is telling everybody to-day all the particulars of the ‘carte’ and the ‘bill.’ Do you know that lady with the dark eyes and a netting all over her horse?—that’s Lady Legerdemain—she keeps a legion of spirits, as she says, and will raise the dead for you any night you like to go to her house in Tyburnia proper.” “How shocking!” Blanche replies, with a look of incredulity. “Fact, I assure you,” returns the Major. “Sir Roger Rearsby asked to see an old brother-officer who was killed at Toulouse, and they showed him his own French cook! but Lady Legerdemain says the spirits are fallible, just like ourselves. Who is this in uniform?—why, it’s ‘Uppy’—he don’t look very disconsolate, does he, Miss Kettering?” and the Major smiled a meaning smile, and Blanche looked down and blushed. “Some men would not ‘wear the willow’ so contentedly,” proceeded D’Orville, lowering his voice to half-melancholy tone—“it’s setting too much upon a cast to ask a question when a negative is to swamp one’s happiness for life. I honour the man that has the courage to do it, but for my part I confess I have not.” “I never knew you were deficient in that particular,” replied Blanche, looking down again, and blushing deeper than before. Blanche! Blanche! you little coquette, you are indeed coming on in the atmosphere of London—you like the Major very much, but you do not like him well enough to marry him—yet you would be unhappy to lose him, you spoilt child!—and so you lead him on like this, and look more bewitching than ever with those downcast eyes and long, silky lashes. Notwithstanding their difference of years, our pair are playing a game very common in society, called “Diamond cut diamond.” “I am a thorough coward in some things,” returned D’Orville, not without a flush of conscious pride, as he remembered how his spirit used to rise with the tide of battle; “like all other cowards, nothing would make me bold but the certainty of success.” He pressed closer to “Water King’s” side, and sank his voice almost to a whisper as he added—“Could I but hope for that, I could dare anything. Could I but think that my devotion, my idolatry, was not entirely thrown away, I should be——” The Major stopped short, for Blanche turned pale as death, and her head drooped as if she must have fallen from her horse.
What made the girl start and sicken as though an adder had stung her to the quick? What made her lean her little hand for support on “Water King’s” strong, firm neck? Because her brain was reeling, and everything—joy—sunshine—existence—seemed to be passing away. Was it for the mute reproach conveyed by that pale face amongst the crowd—was it for the calm, broad eye, bent on her “more in sorrow than in anger,” and seeming, as it gazed, to bid her an eternal farewell?
Frank Hardingstone had seen it all. Unobserved himself among the pedestrians that thronged the footway, he had marked Blanche and her cavalier as they paced slowly down the Ride, had marked the girl’s flush of triumph as her admirer drew closer and closer to her side, had marked that nameless “something” between the pair which people can never entirely conceal when they “understand each other,” and had drawn his own conclusions from the sight. But the decencies of society must be preserved, though the heart is breaking, and Frank drew himself up and took his hat off with a bow that did honour to his qualities as an actor. The old gentleman in gaiters and the tall boy from Eton on either side of him never guessed the amount of mental agony undergone by a fellow-creature whom they actually touched! Civilisation has its tortures as well as barbarism. Blanche, too, returned the courtly gesture, but her weaker nature was scarcely equal to the effort, and had it not been that Uncle Baldwin had fidgeted up, on the instant, in more than his usual hurry to get home, she was conscious that her strength must have given way, and—feel for her, beautiful and daring Amazons who frequent the Ride!—that she must have burst into tears, and made a scene in the Park!
Now old Bounce, albeit a gentleman of extremely punctual habits, as is often the case with those who have nothing to do, and, moreover, a man of healthy appetite and a strong regard for the dinner-hour, had never before betrayed such a morbid anxiety to get home and dress as on the occasion in question. The fact is, he, too, was restless and excited, although the sensation had its own peculiar charms for the veteran, who entertained at sixty a spice of that romance which is often erroneously considered peculiar to sixteen. Yes, “the boy with the bow” no more disdained to take a shot at Bounce than at Falstaff, and our old friend was even now balancing on the brink of that eventful plunge which, if not made before “the grand climacteric,” it is generally thought advisable to postpone sine die. Mary Delaval had made an unconscious conquest. The feeling had been gradually but surely developed, and the constant presence of such a woman had been too much, even for a heart hardened by more than forty years of soldiering, baked by an Indian sun, and further defended by triple plies of flannel, worn for chronic rheumatism, and usually esteemed as effective a rampart against the assaults of love as the “æs triplex” of Horace itself. First the General thought, “This Mrs. Delaval was a very nice creature. Zounds! it’s lucky for her I’m not a younger man!” then he arrived at “Beautiful woman, begad. Zounds! it’s lucky for me she’s not half aware of her attractions!” and from that the transition was easy and natural to “Sensible person; such manners, such dignity; fit for any position in the world. Zounds! I’ll make her Mrs. Bounce—do as I like—my own commanding-officer, nobody else to consult—of course she won’t throw such a chance away.” This latter consideration, however, although he repeated it to himself twenty times a day, had hitherto prevented the General from making any decided attack. When a man, even an old one, really cares for a woman, he is always somewhat diffident of success, and Mary’s sexagenarian suitor, though bold as brass in theory, was like any other lover in practice. But the breakfast at the barracks had wonderfully encouraged the General. He found Mrs. Delaval constantly at his side. He knew nothing of her previous acquaintance with D’Orville, still less could he guess at the secret which lay buried in her heart, and which was fading her beauty and deepening her expression day by day. How could he tell whose tears they were that blistered the newspaper on that “African Mail” column?—so the natural conclusion at which he arrived was, that the same charms which had done such execution in India, and had driven the Cheltenham widow to the verge of despair, were again at their old tricks; and that, having succeeded in attaching the most adorable of her sex, it only remained for him, in common humanity, to present her with all that was left of his fascinating self. And now began in earnest the General’s qualms and misgivings. It was a tremendous step; he had never done it before; though often on the brink, he had always drawn back in time, and yet many of his old friends had got through it. Mulligatawney had married a widow—by the by, was Mrs. Delaval a widow? he never thought of asking—perhaps her husband was alive! At any rate this state of uncertainty was not to be borne, and after consulting one or two of his old cronies, and getting their opinions, he would take some decided step—that he would—ask the question, and stand the shot like a man. The General agreed with Montrose—
“He either fears his fate too much,
Or his deserts are small,
Who dares not put it to the touch,