I am not ashamed to confess my weakness. Any woman, who thinks it worth her while, can put her foot upon my neck. It is for this reason that I fight shy of the sex, that I am considered a bear and a bore by the majority of my female acquaintances, and that my pretty cousins call me The Woman-hater. There are certain allurements I cannot resist, certain encroachments I cannot withstand. I see the net, and walk into it open-eyed. Other men can emerge scathless from the ordeal of Christmas games and Twelfth-night festivities; can play at blind-man’s-buff without finding their mental vision dazzled and darkened by the game; can hunt the slipper or the ring, round and round the charmed circle, nor find the charm too potent for their peace of mind; nay, can even take a base advantage of the pendent mistletoe, with a forehead of brass, a check of marble, and a lip of stone. I envy them their insensibility, their moral courage, and their physical daring; but for my own part I think it wiser to leave these “little games” alone. Need I say I am a bachelor? Need I say I came to the Haycock in order to enjoy my favourite pastime, unmolested by the presence of the dominant sex? Even Miss Lushington I had considered an unnecessary addition to the establishment, a snare to be avoided and an enemy to be defied: but I had been somewhat reassured by the mild and motherly interest that lady took in my welfare, and the impartiality with which she shed her attractions on all alike. But now, if I was to be exposed to the insidious attacks of this mounted Delilah, beset by Miss Merlin, not only in the free intercourse of the hunting-field, but also when “taking mine ease in mine inn,” why I had better retire in disorder at once, and obviate the possibility of battle and defeat alike, by a tumultuous flight.
Revolving these weighty matters in my mind, I retraced my steps into the Haycock, and ordered a glass of sherry and a biscuit in the bar.
Miss Lushington filled out my liquor to the brim without a word, slamming down before me at the same time that biscuit, peculiar to the British hostelry, of which, to judge by its flavour, the ingredients are soda and sawdust, with a dash of gravel. I munched in silence for awhile, observing cautiously the clouds that gathered on the barmaid’s brow. At last I ventured an observation.
“A fresh arrival, I understand, Miss Lushington. The Haycock will be getting quite gay now, I presume.”
Miss Lushington’s only reply was a toss of her black head. “Do you expect any more visitors?” I proceeded, like a timid bather trying his depth. “This will be somewhat lonely for a lady all by herself, when she isn’t out hunting, I should say.”
Miss Lushington’s bright eyes flashed. “Ladies are very different in their tastes,” said she, laying a withering stress of sarcasm on this general and incontestable position. “Some women, Mr. Softly” (I have omitted to mention that my address is Cyrus Softly, Esq., Hat and Umbrella Club, London)—“some women seem to me more like men than women. In course every one to her liking. For my part, I say nothing; but this I will say: for a lady to come down to a out-o’-the-way corner like this—no friends, no followers; nothing but that highty-tighty maid (and if ever I catch her put her saucy face inside my bar, I’ll give her a piece of my mind, see if I don’t,) and hunt, hunt, hunt, day after day, and when it’s a frost or what not, read, read, read, from morning till night, and never out of a riding-habit, or else a plain dark gownd with no more trimming than on the back of my ’and” (Miss Lushington, when excited, had a habit of catching her breath, and in so doing let go a certain number of aspirates, and added a few elegant superfluities of language). “Why, I say it isn’t natural, and if it isn’t natural, there must be something in it, don’t you think so, Mr. Softly? And to see a maid dressed out like that flaunting miss, in flounces and fal-lals, with a velvet net to her ’air, and hear-rings like any lady of the land! In course it ain’t my place to make remarks, Mr. Softly; but you can’t prevent my thinking it a pity and a shame, not if you was to hang me alive for it the very next minute, there!”
Foreseeing no advantageous result from a continuance of the discussion with Miss Lushington, and surmising also that the strong opinion she had formed of the new arrivals was partly owing to Justine’s attractions, I left the barmaid in her own department, placing her hand to her side for “occasional spasms,” and catching her breath loudly at intervals, as is the habit of the sex when stimulated by any unusual excitement, and proceeded up the staircase and along the dark passage that led to my dormitory, pondering deeply on all that I had heard and seen.
My curiosity—more, my interest, was strongly aroused. Miss Merlin was evidently no common character. Brave, reserved, studious, and simple in her attire, she must be a lusus naturæ, a flower like the aloe, blooming but once in a century; and here she was at Soakington;—how to obtain an introduction was the difficulty. Had I been sound again, nothing, I thought, could be easier: a large fence out hunting; an appropriate compliment to her horse, and implied flattering of herself; a gate opened at the right moment, and then a bow out-of-doors, which could not but ripen to a familiar greeting within. After that, it would be all plain-sailing. When I got thus far, I was perfectly astonished at myself. “Softly,” said I, “is it possible—you, who have been a shy man and a diffident all your life; who have never been willing to burn your fingers at the shrine of Cupid, much less scorch yourself up, body and bones and all; you, who have had warnings innumerable among your friends, and beacons untold in your own family—can you be such an ass? Did not your cousin Harry, helping a comparative stranger to put on her goloshes at a picnic, become involved in a series of dilemmas which came eventually under the notice of Sir Cresswell Cresswell, in reviewing whose decision a weekly paper was good enough to remark that the co-respondent, meaning Cousin Harry, had behaved with the blackest villainy throughout? Was not your brother John, accidentally offering an unknown damsel his umbrella in the street, compelled by an Amazonian mother to marry her within six weeks? Has not the Amazonion taken up her abode with him for life, and has not Mrs. John Softly borne twins to her lord on two successive occasions? Are these hideous examples insufficient, and must you in your own person furnish another deplorable instance of the inevitable result when—
“‘Fools rush in where angels fear to tread’?”
“Let it alone,” cried Caution. “But may I not at least take a look at my danger?” whispered Curiosity. “Better bandage your eyes,” answered Caution. “Perhaps she is not good-looking after all,” urged Curiosity. “Don’t go near her for your life!” threatened Cau. “I’ll be d—d if I don’t!” thundered Q.