CHAPTER XXXVIII.
During Lord Oldborough’s absence, his faithful secretary had been active in his service. Mr. Temple went immediately to his friend Alfred Percy. Alfred had just returned fatigued from the courts, and was resting himself, in conversation with his wife and Caroline.
“I am sorry to disturb you, Alfred,” said Mr. Temple, “but I must take you away from these ladies to consult you on particular business.”
“Oh! let the particular business wait till he has rested himself,” said Mrs. Percy, “unless it be a matter of life and death.”
“Life and death!” cried Lady Frances Arlington, running in at the open door—“Yes, it is a matter of life and death!—Stay, Mr. Temple! Mr. Percy! going the moment I come into the room—Impossible!”
“Impossible it would be,” said Mr. Temple, “in any other case; but—”
“‘When a lady’s in the case,
You know all other things give place,’”
cried Lady Frances. “So, positively, gentlemen, I stop the way. But, Mr. Temple, to comfort you—for I never saw a man, gallant or ungallant, look so impatient—I shall not be able to stay above a moment—Thank you, Mrs. Percy, I can’t sit down—Mrs. Crabstock, the crossest of Crabstocks and stiffest of pattern-women, is in the carriage waiting for me. Give me joy—I have accomplished my purpose, and without Lady Jane Granville’s assistance—obtained a permit to go with Lady Trant, and made her take me to Lady Angelica’s last night. Grand conversazione!—Saw the German baron! Caught both the profiles—have ‘em here—defy you not to smile. Look,” cried her ladyship, drawing out of her reticule a caricature, which she put into Caroline’s hand; and, whilst she was looking at it, Lady Frances went on speaking rapidly. “Only a sketch, a scrawl in pencil, while they thought I was copying a Sonnet to Wisdom—on the worst bit of paper, too, in the world—old cover of a letter I stole from Lady Trant’s reticule while she was at cards. Mr. Temple, you shall see my chef-d’oeuvre by and by; don’t look at the reverse of the medal, pray. Did not I tell you, you were the most impatient man in the world?”
It was true that Mr. Temple was at this instant most impatient to get possession of the paper, for on the back of that cover of the letter, on which the caricature was drawn, the hand-writing of the direction appeared to him—He dared scarcely believe his eyes—his hopes.
“Mrs. Crabstock, my lady,” said the footman, “is waiting.”