FOOL,” THEN BESET BY AN AMAZON.
“Ar--really--‘pon my word, you seem to have studied the subject deeply,
Mr. Leicester,” returned De Grandeville, who was somewhat astonished
at the length and volubility of Charley’s notable “Essay on Matrimony,”
with which the last chapter was concluded, and too completely blinded by
self-importance to perceive that the other was more or less laughing at
him. “However, the drift of your argument appears in favour of marriage,
and--ar--in fact--ar--I quite think as you do on the matter. Now, in my
position, I consider such an arrangement would be most desirable, always
supposing one can meet with--ar--a suitable partner.”
“Ay, there’s the rub,” rejoined Leicester, leisurely flipping the ashes
from the end of his cigar.
“I consider that I have a right to look--ar--high,” continued De
Grandeville, folding his arms with dignity. “Our family dates from
the Conquest; our Original ancestor came over as equerry to William of
Normandy. I suppose you are aware how the name arose from an incident in
that invasion?”
Leicester professed his ignorance of the anecdote, and De Grandeville
proceeded: “My ancestor, who, like most of his descendants, was a
remarkably long-sighted individual, was riding near the person of his
liege lord some few days after the victory of Hastings, when at the
extreme verge of the horizon he descried the city of Canterbury, and
in the excitement of the moment he exclaimed, pointing with his mailed
hand, ‘_Voila! une grande ville._’ William overheard the remark, and
fixing his piercing glance upon him, observed sarcastically, ‘Ha! sayest
thou so? he who hath been the first to discern yon great city should be
the first to enter it.’ ‘By the grace of God, and with your permission,
Sire, so I will,’ exclaimed my ancestor. William nodded assent, my
ancestor clapped spurs to his horse, and never drew bridle till the
standard of Normandy floated on the highest tower of Canterbury. For
this gallant exploit he was made governor of the city, and received the
name and titles of De Grandeville. It’s--ar--a creditable story.”
“Extremely,” returned Leicester, yawning. “I’ve a vague idea the man we
all came from was hanged for horse-stealing.”
“Ar--yes--very good,” rejoined De Grandeville, recognising an excellent
jest in his companion’s assertion; “but, as I was about to observe, in
my position a man owes as it were a duty to his family; he ought not to
marry a nobody.”
“Decidedly, such a connection should be avoided,” returned Charley
sententiously, presenting the hot end of his cigar to an inquisitive
snail which appeared inclined to join the party.
“Ar--the De Grandevilles have been from time immemorial large landed
proprietors,” resumed their grandiloquent descendant; “half the county
of---- belongs to them; the estates held by my branch of the family
are immense, and though--ar--just at present they are not exactly in my
possession, yet if anything were to happen to my cousin Hildebrand and
his seven boys, I might be placed in--ar--a very different position;
therefore, in looking out for a wife, I hold it incumbent on me to
select a lady who would not disgrace a prominent situation, were she
called upon to fill one.”
Leicester (whose attention had been thoroughly engrossed by the snail,
which, after having made sundry futile attempts to avoid the cigar and
continue its onward course, had at length yielded the point, and having
turned round, was now crawling off in an opposite direction) somewhat
astonished his companion by quoting with great _empressement_ the words
of the old nursery ballad--
“Off he set
With his opera hat.”
As, however, he immediately afterwards assumed a look of the deepest
attention, De Grandeville set it down as an instance of the eccentricity
of genius, and continued--“Ar--this, as you must perceive, renders
certain qualifications essential in the object of my choice. I
could select no one who by birth and position was not perfectly
unexceptionable. I should also require her to possess, in an
eminent degree, the manners of society; another great point would
be--ar----------”
“Plenty of tin,” suggested Charley, making a face at the retreating
snail.
“Ar--yes--in my position it would of course be a matter of prudence,
before bringing upon myself the expenses of a family, to ascertain that
I can command an income sufficient to enable me to mix in the set to
which--ar--in point of fact, I belong.”
“Nothing under £3000 a year would suit my book,” replied Leicester,
“£3000 per annum and perfection I might put up with, but £4000 would
be better without an actual angel, and beyond that mark I’d bate an
attaching quality in the damsel for every additional £500 in the funds.”
“Ar--I have reason to believe that the income of the lady in regard to
whom I am about to ask your advice exceeds the sum you first mentioned,”
replied De Grandeville.
“Oh, there is then a real _bona fide_ lady in the case--you’ve
positively marked down your bird?” exclaimed Leicester. “Pray, have I
the honour of her acquaintance?”
“Ar--yes--I have often met her in your society--in fact, she forms one
of the party now domesticated at Broadhurst.”
“Staying in the house, eh?” returned Charley, feeling slightly curious.
“By Jove! who can it be? you’re not going to try and cut out Bellefield
by proposing for my cousin Annie, are you? I wish you would, it would
sell Bell so beautifully.”
“Of course--ar--you are joking,” returned De Grandeville proudly.
“I would not do such a shabby thing by his lordship upon any
consideration.”
Leicester was amused at the cool way in which his companion seemed to
take it for granted that he had only to enter the lists against his
brother in order to secure the prize. He kept his entertainment to
himself, however, merely replying, “Well, if it isn’t Annie, who is
it? I can scarcely imagine you have set your affections on Miss
Livingstone.”
“The Livingstones are a good old family,” returned De Grandeville, “but
the representative of the name to whom you allude would have been a more
suitable match for my late excellent father than for myself. No, sir,
the lady to whom I may probably offer the opportunity of allying herself
to the house of De Grandeville is as suitable in age as in all other
qualifications--Miss Peyton is in her two-and-twentieth year.”
“Miss how much!” exclaimed Leicester impetuously, sitting bolt upright
and flinging the remnant of his cigar after the snail, which was yet
striving to make good its retreat.
“Miss Laura Peyton,” returned De Grandeville; “I don’t wonder you are
surprised. I am aware, as well as yourself, that her grandfather was in
trade. I can assure you that stood in my way for a long time, and it was
not till I had gone through the pedigree carefully, with a friend in
the Herald’s College, and clearly traced back the family to the time of
Richard Cour de Lion, that I ever thought seriously of the thing.”
“And how do you mean to carry on the campaign?” asked Leicester, who
had by this time recovered his composure. “Do you intend to lay regular
siege to the young lady’s affections, or is it to be a look-and-die,
‘_veni vidi, vici_’ affair?”
“Ar--really--I am scarcely sanguine enough to hope to carry the citadel
by a _coup-de-maim_,” returned De Grandeville; “but my tactics will be
very much regulated by those of my fair enemy at present. If I might
judge by one or two slight skirmishes we have had together, the garrison
will not hold out to extremity when once the breastworks are taken, and
the place properly invested.” At this moment a servant approached De
Grandeville with a message from General Grant requesting his presence.
“Ar--yes--say I’ll attend the General immediately,” was the reply; then,
as the servant departed, De Grandville continued, “Ar--the course of
true love never did run smooth, you see, Mr. Leicester. Ar--I shall have
an opportunity of speaking to you again on this matter, and hearing
your opinion more in full; at present I must wish you good morning.” So
saying, he slightly raised his hat in salutation, and marched off in a
great state of dignified self-complacency.
Leicester watched him till he was out of sight; then, springing from
his seat, he began pacing up and down the terrace with hasty
strides, muttering from time to time such uncomplimentary remarks as,
“Insufferable puppy!”
“Conceited ass!” all of which evidently bore reference to his late
companion. Having let off a little of his extra steam by this means, he
gave vent to the following soliloquy: “Well, I’m nicely in for it this
time! Because a love affair, with the chance of possible consequences,
wasn’t trouble enough, I must have a rival step in--and such a
rival--why, the very sight of that man disagrees with me; and then
to hear him talk, it’s positively sickening! I’ll be off to London
to-morrow morning; and yet I do like the girl,--I know I do, because it
is continually occurring to me that I am not half good enough for her.
I suppose she looks upon me as a mere fortune-hunter--thinks I only care
about her for the sake of her money. I wish she hadn’t a farthing!
I wish--eh! what am I talking about? Heigho! that’s another curse
of poverty: a poor devil like me can’t even afford the luxury of a
disinterested attachment. Then that man--that De Grandeville--to hear an
animal like that debating whether she was good enough for him! I declare
he’s made me feel quite feverish! I’d no idea it was possible for
_anything_ to excite me to such a degree. If the notion were not too
preposterous, I should really begin to fancy I must be falling in love!
She never can have the bad taste to like him--in fact, there’s nothing
to like in him--and yet the fellow seemed confident; but that is
the nature of the brute. Though I don’t know, women are such fools
sometimes, she might take him at his own price--that military swagger of
his might go down with some of the sex. Once let a woman fancy a man
to be a hero, or a martyr, or a patriot, or any other uncomfortable
celebrity certain to make a bad husband, and she will be ready to throw
herself at his head,--just as if such a fellow were not the very last
man in the world whom she ought to select! I suppose it’s the
additional odds in favour of widowhood that constitute the great
attraction--females are naturally capricious. Well, I shall try and take
the matter easily, at all events. I dare say it won’t break my heart
whichever way it goes. I shall make observations, and if she really has
the bad taste to prefer this man, he’s welcome to her--a woman who could
love him would never do for my wife; that one fact would argue an amount
of incompatibility of temper which would be furnishing work for Doctors’
Commons before the first year’s connubial infelicity was over. I
wonder whether there’s any lunch going on; it’s astonishing how thirsty
anything of this kind makes me! Pale ale I must have, or _mit colum!_”
And having arrived at this conclusion, he thrust his hands--of whose
delicate appearance he was especially careful--into his pockets to
preserve them from the cold, and strolled off to put his resolution into
practice.
In the meantime, Marmaduke De Grandeville, while listening with his
outward ears to General Grant’s dull electioneering details, was
inwardly congratulating himself on the favourable impression he had made
on that very sensible young man, the Honourable Charles Leicester, and
thinking what a useful ally he had secured to assist him in carrying out
his matrimonial project.
Verily, there are as many comedies performed off the stage as upon it!
The ball at Broadhurst took place on the evening of the day on which the
above conversation had passed, and was a wonderful affair indeed. It
was given for a special purpose, and that purpose was to conciliate
everybody, and induce everybody to promise General Grant their vote and
interest at the ensuing election. Accordingly, everybody was invited--at
least everybody who had the slightest pretension to be anybody--and
everybody came; and as almost everybody brought somebody else with them,
a wife, or a daughter, or the young lady from London who was spending
Christmas with them, there was no lack of guests. The object of the
entertainment was no secret; and the king of the county, the Marquis
of C----------, being in the conservative interest, and consequently
anxious to secure the General’s return, not only came himself, but
actually brought a real live duke with him to exhibit to the company.
This was a great stroke of policy, and told immensely, particularly
with the smaller anybodies who were almost nobodies, but who, having
associated with a duke, straightway became somebodies, and remained so
ever after. Moreover, in all cases of incipient radicalism, chartist
tendencies, or socialist symptoms, his Grace was an infallible specific.
Depend on it, there is no better remedy for a certain sort of democracy
than a decoction of strawberry-leaves; apply that to the sore place and
the patient instantly becomes sound in his opinions, and continues a
healthy member of the body politic. The particular duke on the occasion
in question was a very young one, little more than a boy in fact (if
a duke can ever be considered in the light of a boy). This youthful
nobleman had a leading idea--though you would hardly have supposed it,
to look at him--he believed that he was the best match in England; and
so, in the conventional sense of the term, he undoubtedly was, although
he would have been very dear at the price to any woman with a head and
a heart. His pastors and masters, backed by the maternal anxieties of
a duchess unambitious of the dignities of dowagership, had sedulously
cultivated this one idea till it had assumed the character of
a monomania, under the influence of which this unhappy scion of
aristocracy looked upon life as a state of perpetual warfare against the
whole race of women, and was haunted by a frightful vision of himself
carried off and forcibly married to the chief of a horde of female
pirates, with long tongues, longer nails, and an utter absence of
creditable ancestry. His outward duke (if we may be allowed the
expression) was decidedly prepossessing. He was tall and not ungraceful
in figure, and had a bright, round, innocent face, as of a good child.
His hair was nicely brushed and parted; whiskers he had none; indeed,
the stinginess of nature to him in this particular was so remarkable,
that, as the eldest Miss Simpkins afterwards observed to an eager
audience of uninvited younger sisters, “So far from whiskers, my dears,
now I come to think of it, his Grace had _rather the reverse!_” However,
take him “for all in all,” he was a very creditable young duke, and a
perfect godsend on the occasion in question. Then there was a descending
scale from his Grace downwards, leading through the aristocracy of birth
to the aristocracy of riches, till it reached the _élite_ of the country
towns, and the more presentable specimens of yeomen farmers. But let
us join a group of people that we know, and hear what they think of the
guests who are so rapidly assembling.
In a snug corner of the reception-room, not far from a door leading into
the large drawing-room, stands one of those mysterious innovations of
modern upholstery, a species of the genus ottoman, which resembles a
Brobdignagian mushroom, with a thimble made to match stuck in the middle
of it. Seated at her ease upon this nondescript, half-buried by the
yielding cushions, appeared the pretty figure of Laura Peyton; by
her side, attired in much white muslin, crinolined to a balloon-like
rotundity, but which apparently had shrunk abominably at the wash in the
region round about its wearer’s neck and shoulders, sat another--well,
from the juvenility of her dress and manners we suppose we must say
_young_ lady, though it was a historical fact that she had been at
school with Annie Grant’s mother; but then poor Mrs. Grant married when
she was quite a child, and died before she was thirty, and of course
Miss Singleton must know her own age best, and she had declared herself
eight-and-twenty for the last five years. This lady possessed one
peculiarity--she always had a passion for somebody; whether the _object_
was of the gentler or the sterner sex was all a matter of chance; but
as she was in the habit of observing, “there existed in her nature a
necessity for passionately loving.” and it has become proverbial that
necessity has no law. The object of her adoration just at present was
“that darling girl,” Laura Peyton; and really that young lady was in
herself so lovable, that to endeavour to account for Miss Singleton’s
devotion by insinuating that the heiress was usually surrounded by
all the most desirable young men in the room would be the height of
ill-nature.
“Dear me!” exclaimed Miss Singleton, whose troublesome nature had
another necessity for liking to hear its own voice as often as possible.
“Dear me! I wish I knew who all the people were! Dearest Miss Peyton,
do not you sympathise? Ah, that tell-tale smile! We girls certainly are
sadly curious, though I believe the men are just as bad, only they’re
too proud to own it. But really, we must contrive to catch somebody who
will tell us who everybody is. There’s that handsome, grave, clever
Mr. Arundel: I shall make him a sign to come here--ah! he saw me
directly--he _is_ so clever. Mr. Arundel, do tell me, who _are_ all
these people?”
“Rather a comprehensive question,” returned Lewis, smiling; “moreover,
you could scarcely have applied to any one less able to answer it, for
beyond our immediate neighbours I really do not know a dozen people in
the room.”
“Mr. Arundel’s acquaintance lies rather among illustrious foreigners,”
observed Miss Peyton demurely. “Were any members of the royal family of
Persia present, for instance, his intimate knowledge of the language,
manners, and habits of that interesting nation would be invaluable to
us.”
“As you are strong, be merciful,” returned Lewis, in a tone of voice
only to be heard by the young lady to whom he spoke.
“Dear me! How very delightful! What a thing it is to be so clever!”
exclaimed Miss Singleton, arranging her bracelet and rounding her arm
(which was now one of her best points) with an action that expressed,
as plainly as words could have done, “There, look at that--there’s
grace for you!”
“Here comes some one who can tell us everything,” she continued; “that
good-natured, fascinating Mr. Leicester, with his loves of whiskers all
in dear little curls. Tiresome man! he won’t look this way. Would you be
so very good, Mr. Arundel, as to follow him and bring him here? Say that
Miss Peyton and I want him particularly.”
“I beg you’ll say nothing of the kind, Mr. Arundel,” interposed Laura
quickly, with a very becoming blush. “Really, Miss Singleton, you run on
so that----”
“I will deliver your message verbatim, Miss Singleton,” returned Lewis
with the same demure tone and manner in which Miss Peyton had referred
to the Persian prince; and without waiting to mark the effect of his
words, he mingled with the crowd, and almost immediately returned
with the gentleman in pursuit of whom he had been despatched. Charles
Leicester, who was most elaborately got up for the occasion, though his
good taste prevented him from running into any absurd extremes in dress,
looked remarkably handsome, and being flattered by the summons he
had just received, particularly happy. Both these facts Miss Peyton
discovered at a glance, but whether urged by some secret consciousness,
or annoyed by an indescribable look of intelligence which lurked in the
corners of Lewis’s dark eyes and revealed itself through the sternness
of his compressed lips, she received him with marked coldness, and
observed, in reply to his offer to play showman to the collection of
strange animals there assembled, that she had no taste for zoology, and
that it was Miss Singleton’s curiosity he had been summoned to satisfy.
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Leicester,” exclaimed that mature damsel, in no way
daunted by a shade of discontent which, despite his endeavours to
the contrary, overspread the countenance of the gentleman she was
addressing; “yes, indeed, I’m dying to know all sorts of things. In
the first place, who’s that tall, stout gentleman in the wonderful
waistcoat?”
“That,” replied Leicester, coolly examining the person indicated, “that
is--no, it isn’t! Yes, surely!--I thought I was right--that is the
Marquis of Carabbas.” Then seeing from her manner she did not recognise
the name, he continued, “He has enormous estates situated in----”
“Where?” asked Miss Singleton earnestly, thinking she had lost the name.
“That interesting tract of country yclept, by John Parry, the Realms of
Infantine Romance,” continued Leicester.
“Oh, Mr. Leicester, you’re laughing at me. How wicked of you--the
Marquis of Carabbas! Let me see: hadn’t he something to do with
Whittington and his Cat?”
“With the cat, possibly,” replied Leicester; “for if my memory fail not,
the fortunes of the noble Marquis, like those of the ever-to-be-lamented
Lord Mayor of London town, were the result of feline sagacity, and it’s
not likely there existed two such talented cats--even Puss in Boots may
only be another episode in the career of the same gifted individual.”
“Another of its nine lives, in fact,” suggested Lewis.
“Yes, of course,” rejoined Leicester. “I dare say it was the original
‘cat of nine tales,’ only, like the sibylline leaves, several of the
manuscripts have been lost to posterity through the carelessness of some
elfin Master of the Rolls.”
“I beg your pardon, but I really must interrupt you,” exclaimed Miss
Singleton. “Can you tell me, soberly and seriously, who that very
strange-looking person may be who has just seized the General’s hand and
nearly shaken his arm out of the socket?”
Seeing that Laura Peyton’s eyes asked the same question, though her
lips were silent, Leicester glanced in the direction indicated, and
immediately replied, “That energetic female rejoices in the name of
Lady Mary--but is more commonly known among her intimates as
_Jack_--Goodwood. In person she is what you behold her; in character,
she presents a most unmitigated specimen of the _genus_ Amazon; for the
rest, she is a very good woman at heart, but my especial torment; she
always calls me Charley, and her usual salutation is a slap on the back.
She hunts, shoots, breaks in her own horses, has ridden a hurdle race,
in which she came in a good second, and is reported to have dragooned
her husband into popping the question by the threat of a sound
horse-whipping. And now, Miss Singleton, you’ll have an opportunity of
judging for yourself, for she has caught sight of me, and is bearing
down upon us in full sail.”
“Well, but is she really a lady?” inquired the astonished Miss
Singleton, who, in her philosophy, had most assuredly never dreamt of
such a possibility as Jack Goodwood.
“She is second daughter of Lord Oaks,” was the reply, “and Goodwood is
one of _the_ Goodwoods, and is worth some £8000 a year; but here she
is.”
As he spoke the lady in question joined the group. Her age might be
eight or nine-and-thirty; she was tall and decidedly handsome, though
her features were too large; she had magnificent black eyes and very
white teeth, which prevented the width of her mouth from interfering
with her pretensions to beauty; her complexion was brilliant in the
extreme, nature having bestowed on her a clear brown skin, which
withstood the combined effects of exposure to sun and wind, and softened
the high colour induced by the boisterous character of her ladyship’s
favourite pursuits. But if her personal gifts were striking, the style
or costume she saw fit to adopt rendered her still more remarkable. As
it will be necessary to describe her dress minutely in order to convey
any idea of her appearance, we throw ourselves on the mercy of our lady
readers, and beg them to pardon all errors of description, seeing that
mantua-making is a science in which we have never graduated, and of
which our knowledge is derived solely from oral traditions picked up
during desultory conversations among our female friends, usually held
(if our memory fail us not) on their way home from church.
Her dress consisted, then, of a gown of exceedingly rich white silk,
made half-high in the body and remarkably full in the skirt, over which
she wore a polka of bright scarlet Cashmere lined and trimmed with white
silk, and adorned with a double row of the hunt buttons. Her head was
attired in a Spanish hat of black velvet, while a single white feather,
secured by a valuable diamond clasp, was allowed to droop over the
brim and mingle with the rich masses of her raven hair, which was
picturesquely arranged in a complication of braids and ringlets. She
leaned on the arm of a gentleman double her age, whose good-humoured
heavy face afforded a marked contrast to the ever-varying expression
that lit the animated features of her who was, in every sense of the
word, his better half. Leicester’s description had but slightly enhanced
the vigour of her mode of salutation, for as she reached the spot where
he stood she clapped him on the shoulder with a small, white-gloved
hand, exclaiming in a deep but not unmusical voice--
“Bravo, Charley! run you to earth at last, you see. Where have you
hidden yourself all this age? Now, Goody,” she continued, turning to her
husband, “you may go. Charley Leicester will take care of me--don’t lose
your temper at whist, don’t drink too much champagne, and mind you’re
forthcoming when I want you.”
“There’s a life to lead,” returned her spouse, appealing to Leicester.
“Did you ever see such a tyrant?”
“Be off, Goody, and don’t talk nonsense,” was his lady-wife’s rejoinder.
[Illustration: 0178]
“How is it we never see you at the Manor-House now?” began the master of
that establishment in a hospitable tone of voice, but his lady cut him
short in his speech by exclaiming--
“Why? because he found you such a bore he could not stand you any
longer; nobody can except me, and even my powers of endurance are
limited, so,” she continued, taking him by the shoulders and turning him
round, “right about face--heads up--march. _Voilà_,” she added, turning
to Leicester, “he’s famously under command, isn’t he, Charley? all my
good breaking in--he was as obstinate as a mule before I married him,
nobody could do anything with him. He’s in splendid condition, too, for
a man of sixty. I’ll back him to walk, ride, hunt, shoot, or play at
billiards with any man of his age and weight in the three kingdoms. I’ve
been obliged to dock his corn, though; there was seldom a day that he
didn’t finish his second bottle of port. He only drinks one now. But I
say, Charley, about this election of Governor Grant’s, how is he going
the pace? You must tell me all about it; I’ve been in Paris for the last
two months, and I’m quite in the dark.”
“’Pon my word, I take so little interest in the matter that I can
scarcely enlighten you, Lady Mary,” returned Leicester, glancing
uneasily at Miss Peyton, who was talking with much apparent
_empressement_ to Miss Singleton, though her quick ears drank in every
word spoken by the others.
“Who’s that girl?” resumed Lady Mary, lowering her voice a little
(_very_ little) as she perceived the direction of Leicester’s glance.
“Miss Peyton, eh?” she continued, “You shall introduce me; but first
tell me who’s that man by her side, like an old picture.”
“Mr. Arundel,” was the reply; “tutor to poor young Desborough.”
“He’s too good for the work,” returned Jack; “he’s too near thoroughbred
to take to collar and keep his traces tight with such an uphill pull as
that must be. I say, Charley,” she continued in a half whisper, “he’s
handsomer than you are. If you don’t mind your play, he’ll bowl you out
and win with the favourite--there, it’s no use getting up the steam or
looking sulky with me,” she added, as Leicester uttered an exclamation
of annoyance. “I can see it all with half an eye; you’re as thoroughly
what Goody calls ‘spoony’ as a man need to be; but now, Charley, don’t
go putting your foot in it, you know: is it all right with the tin?
that’s the main question.”
“Ask me to dance, for pity’s sake, and let me get out of that creature’s
way,” murmured Laura Peyton to Lewis; “I never had a taste for seeing
monsters.”
Lewis smiled and offered her his arm. At the same moment De Grandcville,
gaudily ornate, marched up and requested the honour of Miss Peyton’s
hand for the set then forming.
“I am engaged to Mr. Arundel for the next quadrille,” returned Miss
Peyton.
“For the following one, then--ar?”
“I shall have much pleasure,” was the reply. “In the meantime allow me
to introduce you to my friend Miss Singleton, who is at present without
a partner.”
De Grandeville, charmed to have the opportunity of obliging Miss Peyton,
acted on the hint, and the two couples hastened to take their places
in the quadrille then forming. Leicester’s volatile companion still
continued chattering, heedless of his evident annoyance, until she had
worried him into a state of mind bordering on distraction, when some
fresh fancy seizing her, she fastened herself on to a new victim and
left him to his meditations. These were by no means of an agreeable
character; and after wandering listlessly through the suite of rooms and
watching Laura Peyton, as during the intervals of the dance she talked
and laughed gaily with De Grandeville (an occupation which did not tend
greatly to raise Leicester’s spirits or soothe his ruffled temper),
he strolled into a card-room tenanted only by four elderly gentlemen
immersed in a rubber of whist, and flinging himself on a vacant sofa
in a remote corner of the apartment, gave himself up to gloomy
retrospection.
He had not remained there long when Lewis entered and glanced round as
if in search of some one; then approaching Leicester, he began--
“You’ve not seen Walter lately, have you? Your amusing friend, Lady
Mary Goodwood” (“confound the jade,” muttered Leicester, _sotto voce_)
“introduced herself to me just now, and having captivated Walter by
her bright smile and scarlet jacket, carried him off, to tease me,
I believe, and I can’t tell what she has done with him. But,” he
continued, for the first time observing his companion’s dejected manner
and appearance, “is anything the matter; you’re not ill, I hope?”
“I wish I was,” was the unexpected reply; “ill--dead--anything rather
than the miserable fool I am----”
“Why, what has occurred?” asked Lewis anxiously. “Can I be of any use?”
“No, it’s past mending,” returned Leicester in an accent of deep
dejection. He paused, then turning to Lewis he resumed almost fiercely:
“The tale is soon told, if you want to hear it. I met that girl--Laura
Peyton, I mean--in town about a year ago; in fact--for my affairs are
no secret--every fool knows that I am a beggar, or thereabouts. I was
introduced to her because she was a great heiress, and dangled after
her through the whole of a London season for the sake of her three
per cents. Well, last autumn I met her again down in Scotland; we were
staying together for three weeks in the same house. Of course we saw a
good deal of each other, and I soon found I liked her better for herself
than I had ever done for her money; but somehow, as soon as this feeling
arose, I lost all nerve, and could not get on a bit. The idea of the
meanness of marrying a woman for the sake of her fortune haunted me day
and night, and the more I cared for her the less was I able to show
it. My cousin Annie perceived what was going on, it seems, and without
saying a word to me of her intention, struck up a friendship with Laura,
and invited her here; and somehow--the thing’s very absurd in a man like
myself, who has seen everything and done everything, and found out
what humbug it all is--but the fact of the matter is, that I’m just as
foolishly and romantically and deeply in love with that girl as any
raw boy of seventeen could be; and I don’t believe she cares one _sous_
about me in return. She thinks, as she has a good right to do, that I am
hunting her for her money, like the rest of them, I dare say; and--stop
a minute,” he continued, seeing Lewis was about to speak--“you have
not heard the worst yet: because all I’ve told you was not enough,
that conceited ass, De Grandeville, must needs come and consult me this
morning as to whether Miss Peyton was worthy of being honoured with his
hand, hinting pretty plainly that he did not anticipate much difficulty
on the lady’s part; and by Jove, from the way in which she is going on
with him this evening, I believe that for once he wasn’t lying: then
that mad-headed Mary Goodwood coming and bothering with her confounded
‘Charley’ this and ‘Charley’ that, and her absurd plan of monopolising
one--of course she means no harm; she has known me from a boy, and it’s
her way; besides, she really is attached to old Goodwood. But how is
Laura Peyton to know all that?”
“Why, rouse up, and go and tell her yourself, to be sure,” replied
Lewis.
“No, not I!” returned Leicester moodily. “I’ll have no more trouble
about it. I’ll leave this house to-morrow morning, and be off to Baden,
or Naples, or Timbuctoo, or some place where there are no women, if
such a Paradise exists--and she may marry De Grandeville, or whom she
pleases, for me. You see, it would be different if she cared at all for
me, but to worry one’s heart out about a girl who does not even like
one----”
“_Halte là!_” interrupted Lewis; “lookers-on see most of the game; and
if I know anything of woman’s nature”--he paused and bit his lip as the
recollection of Gretchen crossed his mind--“depend upon it, Miss Peyton
is not as indifferent to you as you imagine.”
“Did you see how coldly she received me to-night?” urged Leicester.
“Yes; and her so doing only confirmed my previous opinion. That
chattering Miss Singleton had annoyed her by bidding me summon you
in Miss Peyton’s name; but the very fact of her annoyance showed
consciousness; had she been indifferent to you she would not have cared.
Then her irritation at Lady Mary’s familiarity proves the same thing.”
“You really think so?” returned Leicester, brightening up. “My dear
fellow, you’ve quite put new life into me. It’s very odd now, I never
saw it in that light before. What would you have me do, then?”
“If, as you say, you really and truly love her,” returned Lewis gravely,
“lay aside--excuse my plain speaking--lay aside your fashionable airs,
which disguise your true nature, and tell her of your affection in a
simple, manly way, and if she is the girl I take her to be, your trouble
will not be wasted.” So saying, he rose and quitted the room, leaving
Leicester to reflect on his advice.