| [BEATRICE BOVILLE.] | |
| I.—Of Earlscourt's Fiancee. | [9] |
| II.—The First Shadow. | [13] |
| III.—How Pride Sowed and Reaped. | [23] |
| IV.—Where I saw Beatrice Boville again. | [33] |
| V.—How in Perfect Innocence I played the part of a Rival. | [44] |
| VI.—How Pride Bowed and Fell. | [51] |
| [A LINE IN THE "DAILY."] | |
| WHO DID IT, AND WHO WAS DONE BY IT. | [65] |
| [HOLLY WREATHS AND ROSE CHAINS.] | |
| I.—The Colonel of the "White Favors" and Cecil St. Aubyn. | [109] |
| II.—The Canadian's Cold Bath warms up the Colonel. | [119] |
| III.—Showing that Love-making on Holy Ground doesn't Prosper. | [132] |
| IV.—The Colonel kills his Fox, but loses his Head after other Game. | [146] |
| [SILVER CHIMES AND GOLDEN FETTERS.] | |
| I.—Waldemar Falkenstein and Valérie L'Estrange. | [161] |
| II.—Falkenstein breaks Lances with "Longs Yeux Bleus." | [174] |
| III.—"Scarlet and White" makes a Hit, and Falkenstein feels the Weight of the Golden Fetters. | [188] |
| IV.—The Golden Fetters are shaken off and Others are put on. | [202] |
| V.—The Silver Chimes ring in a Happy New Year. | [215] |
| [SLANDER AND SILLERY.] | |
| I.—The Lion of the Chaussée d'Antin. | [225] |
| II.—Nina Gordon. | [233] |
| III.—Le Lion Amoureux. | [242] |
| IV.—Mischief. | [252] |
| V.—More Mischief, and an End. | [263] |
| [SIR GALAHAD'S RAID.] | |
| AN ADVENTURE ON THE SWEET WATERS. | [285] |
| ["REDEEMED."] | |
| AN EPISODE WITH THE CONFEDERATE HORSE. | [307] |
| [OUR WAGER; OR, HOW THE MAJOR LOST AND WON.] | |
| I.—Introduces Major Telfer of the 50th Dashaway Hussars. | [333] |
| II.—Violet Tressillian. | [339] |
| III.—From which it would appear, that it is sometimes well to begin with a Little Aversion. | [346] |
| IV.—In which the Major provokes a Quarrel in Behalf Of the Fair Tressillian. | [353] |
| V.—The Duel, and its Consequences. | [367] |
| [OUR COUNTRY QUARTERS.] | [379] |
BEATRICE BOVILLE.
I
OF EARLSCOURT'S FIANCEE.
"To compass her with sweet observances,
To dress her beautifully and keep her true."
That, according to Mr. Tennyson's lately-published opinion, is the devoir of that deeply-to-be-pitied individual, l'homme marié. Possibly in the times of which the Idyls treat, Launcelot and Gunevere might have been the sole, exceptional mauvais sujets in the land, and woad, being the chief ingredient in the toilet-dress, mightn't come quite so expensive. But nowadays "sweet observances," rendered, I presume, by gifts from Hunt and Roskell's and boxes in the grand tier, tell on a cheque-book so severely; "keeping her true" is such an exceedingly problematical performance, to judge by Sir C. C.'s breathless work, and "dressing her beautifully" comes so awfully expensive, with crinoline and cashmeres, pink pearls, and Mechlin, and the beau sexe's scornful repudiation, not alone of a faded silk, like poor Enid's, but of the handsomest dress going, if it's damned by being "seen twice," that I have ever vowed that, plaise à Dieu, I will never marry, and with heaven's help will keep the vow better than I might most probably keep the matrimonial ones if I took them. Yet if ever I saw a woman for whom I could have fancied a man's committing that semisuicidal act, that woman was Beatrice Boville. Not for her beauty, for, except one of the loveliest figures and a pair of the most glorious eyes, she did not claim much; not for her money, for she had none; not for her birth, for on one side that was somewhat obscure; but for herself; and had I ever tried the herculean task of dressing anybody beautifully and keeping anybody true, it should have been she, but for the fact that when I knew her first she was engaged to my cousin Earlscourt. We had none of us ever dreamt he would marry, for he had been sworn to political life so long, given over so utterly to the battle-ground of St. Stephen's and the intrigues of Downing Street, that the ladies of our house were sorely wrathful when they heard that he had at last fallen in love and proposed to Beatrice Boville, who, though she was Lady Mechlin's niece, was the daughter of a West Indian who had married her mother, broken her heart, spent her money, deserted her, and never been heard of since; the more wrathful as they had no help for themselves, and were obliged to be contented with distinguishing her with refreshing appellations of a "very clever schemer," evidently a "perfect intrigante," and similar epithets with which their sex is driven for consolation under such trying circumstances. It's a certain amount of relief to us to call a man who has cut us down in a race "a stupid owl; very little in him!" but it is mild gratification to that enjoyed by ladies when they retaliate for injury done them by that delightful bonbon of a sentence, "No doubt a most artful person!" You see it conveys so much and proves three things in one—their own artlessness, their enemy's worthlessness, and their victim's folly. Being with Earlscourt at the time of his "singularly unwise, step," as they phrased it, I knew that he wasn't trapped in any way, and that he was loved irrespectively of his social rank; but where was the good of telling that to deeply-injured and perforce silenced ladies? "They knew better;" and when a woman says that, always bow to her superior judgment, my good fellow, even when she knows better than you what you did with yourself last evening, and informs you positively you were at that odious Mrs. Vanille's opera supper, though, to the best of your belief, you never stirred from the U. S. card-room; or you will be voted a Goth, and make an enemy for the rest of your natural life.