The Death of Learmont.
It was well Learmont’s face was partially concealed by a mask, or even the Honourable Georgiana Brereton might have had her fine aristocratic nerves shocked by the death-like hue of his features, as he gasped,—
“Damnation!”
A slight scream burst from her ladyship’s lips, and then a general clapping of hands caused Learmont to look around, when he saw Britton attired in his garments as a smith, and wearing an enormous nose, executing a grotesque dance with Bond the butcher, who had disdained all concealment, and came in his usual, not very elegant, costume.
Up the centre of the saloon, the guests making way for them, they came like two bears at play, stamping, waving, whirling round, treading on each other’s toes, and then cuffing each other with boisterous mirth, till they reached the place where Learmont stood, when, rushing forward with a shriek of rage, the squire clutched Britton by the throat with desperate energy, and said—
“Villain—wretch! How dare you?”
“Hands off, squire,” cried Britton.
“And eyes on,” added the butcher, recollecting that these were the words of an announcement he used to append to the fattest meat.
“Bravo! Bravo!—Capital!” cried many of the guests, thinking that the whole affair was got up as part of the evening’s amusement. Even the minister smiled, and wondered to a mask who stood next him, if the two strange creatures had votes.
“Andrew Britton,” growled Learmont, in the smith’s ear, “are you mad?”