OF TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH.
As Lewis, after the conversation detailed in the last chapter, was
prosecuting his search for Walter through the various apartments he
encountered Annie Grant, who, having escaped the vigilance of Miss
Livingstone, was enjoying, in company with a young lady friend, the
dangerous luxury of standing by an open window. The moment she perceived
Lewis she advanced towards him and began--
“May I detain you one moment, Mr. Arundel? Can you tell me anything of
my cousin Charles? I’m afraid he must be ill, and I wished him to exert
himself so particularly to-night.”
“He is not ill,” returned Lewis. “I left him not two minutes since in
the card-room.”
“In the card-room?” repeated Annie in a tone of annoyance; “what can he
be doing there? Is he playing whist?”
“No,” was the reply; “he did not appear in a humour to enjoy the
dancing, and had gone there for the sake of quiet.”
“A fit of his incorrigible idleness, I suppose,” remarked Annie
pettishly; “really it is too provoking; it must seem so odd his
absenting himself on such an occasion as this. Would you mind
the trouble of returning and telling him I want to speak to him
particularly, and that he will find me here?”
“I shall be most happy; it is no trouble,” began Lewis. He paused,
and then added in a lower tone, “Perhaps you scarcely do Mr. Leicester
justice in attributing his absence to a fit of indolence; I fancied,
from his manner, something had occurred to annoy him.”
“Something to annoy him!” exclaimed Annie, starting and turning pale
as a disagreeable possibility suddenly occurred to her. “Surely he has
not?--she never can have----!” then seeing Lewis’s glance fixed on her
with a look of peculiar intelligence, she paused abruptly, and a most
becoming blush overspread her features. Lewis pitied her confusion, and
hastened to relieve it by observing--
“If I have ventured to guess the direction of your thoughts somewhat too
boldly, Miss Grant, you must pardon me, and believe that did I not think
I might thereby in some slight degree repay the kindness Mr. Leicester
has invariably shown me, I would not have allowed you to perceive it.
If,” he added in a lower tone, “you will permit me to advise you, I
believe you could most effectually serve your cousin’s interests by
explaining to Miss Peyton, at your first opportunity, the nature of the
friendship which exists between Lady Mary Goodwood and Mr. Leicester,
mentioning at the same time the fact that they have known each other
from childhood.”
“That’s the difficulty, is it?” rejoined Annie. “Oh! I can set that
right in five minutes. Thank you very much, Mr. Arundel--how extremely
kind you are; but,” she added with an arch look, “you are most
alarmingly clever; I shall become quite afraid of you.” Then turning to
her companion, she added, “Now, Lucy dear, you will catch your death of
cold standing at that window. You will send Charles Leicester, then, Mr.
Arundel.” So saying, she linked her arm in that of her friend, and the
two girls left the room.
“Leicester’s a lucky dog to have such a zealous advocate in that sweet
cousin of his,” thought Lewis as he retraced his steps towards
the card-room. “She is a great deal too good for that brute, Lord
Bellefield; she had better have chosen Charles, if she must marry either
brother, though he is scarcely her equal in mind or depth of character,
and without that I don’t believe married life can ever progress as it
should do.” On reaching the card-room he found it only tenanted by the
whist players; and rightly imagining that his advice had so far restored
Leicester’s spirits as to induce him again to return to the ball-room,
he resumed his search for Walter, and at length discovered him in the
ice-room, where, under the auspices of a pretty, interesting looking
girl, the daughter of one of the tenantry, called in on the occasion
to assist the female servants, he was regaling himself with unlimited
cakes.
While Lewis was gently insinuating the possibility of his having had
enough, two or three men, amongst whom was Lord Bellefield, lounged into
the room and began eating ices at a table opposite that at which Lewis
and Walter were stationed. One of the party, who was unacquainted with
Lewis, apparently struck by his appearance, addressed Lord Bellefield
in an undertone, evidently inquiring who the young tutor might be; the
answer, though spoken in a low voice, was (whether designedly or not we
will not say) perfectly audible to the person to whom it related.
“That? oh, some poor devil old Grant has picked up cheap as dry-nurse to
his pet idiot; a kind of male _bonne_, as the French term it; a sort of
upper servant, half valet, half tutor. You need not notice him.”
There was a degree of littleness in this speech which completely robbed
it of its sting. It was such a mean attempt at an insult that Lewis saw
it would be letting himself down even to feel angry about it; and merely
allowing his lip to curl slightly with a contemptuous smile, he folded
his arms and patiently awaited the conclusion of Walter’s repast. After
Lord Bellefield and his friends had devoured as many ices as seemed good
to them, they prepared to leave the room, and just as they passed
the spot where Lewis stood, Lord Bellefield, in drawing out his
handkerchief, accidentally dropped a glove. Not perceiving his loss, he
was still walking on, when Lewis, after a moment’s hesitation, resolved
to adhere to his determination of treating Lord Bellefield as he would
any other man his superior in rank, and perhaps inwardly rejoiced at the
opportunity of returning good for evil, or at least civility for insult,
stooped and picked up the glove, then advancing a step or two, he
presented it to its owner, saying--
“Excuse my interrupting your lordship, but you have dropped your glove.”
Now it so happened that the moment before Lewis had removed his own
glove to render some assistance to Walter, and had not replaced it when
he extended his hand to Lord Bellefield, who, without making any reply,
signed to his French valet, then assisting in the champagne department,
and when he approached, said--
“_Tenez, Antoine!_ Take the glove from this gentleman, and bring me a
clean pair.”
The insolence of his look and the affected drawl in which he spoke
rendered his meaning so unmistakable, that, after a slight attempt to
repress the inclination, one of his companions burst into a laugh, while
the other, who had sufficient good feeling to be disgusted at such an
unprovoked insult, turned on his heel and walked away. Lewis stood for a
moment as if stunned; then, flushing crimson, he actually quivered with
suppressed anger; still it was evident that he was striving to master
his passion, and apparently he was in great measure successful, for when
he spoke it was in a low, calm voice.
“Am I to understand,” he said, “that your lordship, considering this
glove polluted by the accident of my having touched it, will never wear
it again?”
“Ya--as,” was the reply; “you may very safely come to that conclusion
without any fear of misinterpreting my intentions.”
“In that case,” continued Lewis, in the same low, clear voice, though
his eyes, which were fixed on Lord Bellefield’s, actually glowed with
the intensity of his emotion, “I will crave your permission to retain it
as a memorial of this evening. Your lordship will observe it is a
_right hand_ glove. I may, on some future occasion, have the pleasure
of calling your attention to the care with which I have preserved the
relic.”
So saying, he bowed coldly, and still holding the glove with a vice-like
grasp, as though he feared to have it wrested from him, he turned away
without waiting a reply.
“What on earth does the fellow want with that glove?” inquired Lord
Bellefield’s companion, who, not being a particularly intellectual young
gentleman, had been greatly mystified by the whole proceeding. “And what
in the world is the matter with you?” he added, observing for the first
time that his friend was looking strangely pale and shuddering slightly.
“Eh--come along--we’re standing in a confounded draught, and I’ve never
rightly recovered that ague I picked up at Ancona,” was the reply; and
taking his companion’s arm, Lord Bellefield hastily left the room.
So engrossed had Lewis been with his own share of the transaction that
he had not observed the breathless interest with which the whole scene
had been watched by the girl before alluded to. She now approached him
under the excuse of offering some cakes, and, as he somewhat impatiently
refused them, said in a hurried whisper--
“I beg your pardon, sir, but what is it you intend to do with that
glove?”
Surprised alike at the question and the quarter from whence it
proceeded, Lewis looked at the girl more attentively than he had yet
done. She was above the middle height, and of a singularly graceful
figure; her features were characterised by a degree of refinement and
intelligence not usually to be found amongst persons of her class; she
was very pale, and though she endeavoured to repress all outward signs
of emotion, he could perceive she was fearfully agitated.
“Do with the glove!” returned Lewis. “What makes you ask such an odd
question?”
“You cannot deceive me, sir,” she replied in the same eager whisper. “I
witnessed all that passed between you and--that gentleman just now.”
“And what is it you fear?” asked Lewis.
“That you are going to challenge him to fight a duel to-morrow
morning--and--and perhaps mean to wear that glove on the hand you shoot
him with.”
As she uttered these last words a strange expression flitted across
Lewis’s face; it had passed, however, ere he replied--
“You are mistaken. As long as I remain under this roof I shall avoid any
collision with that gentleman. Nay, more; should he repeat his insult
(though I scarcely think he will), I shall not attempt to resent it.
So,” he continued with a smile, “as I am living here, I think he is
tolerably safe from me. Stay,” he added, as, after glancing anxiously at
his features, as though she strove to read his very soul, she was about
to turn away, satisfied that he was not attempting to deceive her,
“stay; do not mention what you have observed amongst the servants; and
here is something to buy you some new ribbon for your cap.”
“I will not accept your money, sir,” she replied somewhat haughtily;
“but your secret is safe with me as in the grave.” Then taking Walter’s
plate, which was by this time empty, she crossed the room and mingled
with the other servants.
It was later in the evening; much dancing had been accomplished, many
civil speeches and some rude ones made, mild flirtations began to assume
a serious character, and one or two aggravated cases appeared likely to
end in business. The hearts of match-making mammas beat high with
hope, marriageable daughters were looking up, and eligible young men,
apparently bent on becoming tremendous sacrifices, were evidently to
be had cheap. The real live Duke was in unusually high spirits; he had
hitherto been mercifully preserved from dangerous young ladies, and had
passed a very pleasant evening. Lady Mary Goodwood, who was equal to a
duke or any other emergency, had been introduced to him, and had taken
upon herself the task of entertaining him; and his Grace, being slightly
acquainted with Mr. Goodwood, and fortified by an unshakable faith in
that gentleman’s powers of longevity, had yielded himself unresistingly
to the fascinations of the fair Amazon, and allowed himself to be amused
with the most amiable condescension. Charles Leicester, in some degree
reassured by his conversation with Lewis, returned to the dancing-room
and secured Miss Peyton for a waltz; but his success did not tend
greatly to improve his position, as the young lady continued strangely
silent, or only opened her mouth to say cutting things. The last polka
before supper she danced with De Grandeville; on that gentleman’s arm
she entered the room in which the repast was laid out, and he it was
who, seated by her side during the meal, forestalled her every wish with
most lover-like devotion. Lord Belle-field, after the _rencontre_ with
Lewis, had consoled himself by taking possession of Annie, whose side
he never quitted for a moment, and who he thereby prevented from holding
any private communication with her friend Miss Peyton, her acquaintance
with the domestic economy of her uncle’s family leading her to divine
that his brother would be about the last person to whom Charles
Leicester would wish his hopes and fears confided.
Seeing that things thus continued steadily to “improve for the worse,”
and that the tide which Shakespeare discovered in the affairs of men
appeared to have set dead against him, the unfortunate “Charley” having,
in a spirit of self-mortification, repudiated supper and rejected offers
of champagne with the virulence of a red-hot teetotaller, betook himself
to the solitude of the music-room in a state of mind bordering on
distraction, which fever of the soul Lady Mary Goodwood had not tended
to allay, by remarking, with a significant glance towards Miss Peyton
and De Grandeville--
“I say, Charley, cast your eye up the course a minute; the heavyweight’s
making play with the favourite at a killing pace. I’d bet long odds he
pops and she says ‘Done’ before the meeting’s over; so if that don’t
suit your book, Charley, my boy, the sooner you hedge on the double
event the better.”
The music-room at Broadhurst was a spacious apartment, with a coved
ceiling and deep bay windows hung with rich crimson damask curtains,
and containing ottomans of the same material in the recesses. On one of
these Leicester flung himself, and half hidden by the voluminous folds
of the drapery, sketched out a gloomy future, in which he depicted
himself quarrelling with De Grandeville, shooting him in a consequent
duel, and residing ever after in the least desirable part of the
backwoods of America, a prey to remorse, without cigars, and cut off
from kid gloves and pale ale in the flower of his youth. Occupied with
these dreary thoughts, he scarcely noticed the entrance of various
seceders from the supper-table; nor was it until the sound of the
pianoforte aroused his attention that he perceived the room to be
tenanted by some twenty or thirty people scattered in small coteries
throughout the apartment. At the moment when he became alive to external
impressions Miss Singleton was about to favour the company with a song,
having secured a mild young man to turn over the music, who knew
not life and believed in her to the fullest extent with a touching
simplicity. Before this interesting performance could commence, however,
sundry preliminary arrangements analogous to the nautical ceremony of
“clearing for action” appeared indispensable. First, a necessity existed
for taking off her gloves, which was not accomplished without much
rounding of arms, display of rings, and rattling of bracelets, one of
which, in particular, would catch in everything, and was so incorrigible
that it was forced to be unclasped in disgrace and committed to the
custody of the mild young man, who blushed at it and held it as if it
were alive. Then Miss Singleton drew up her head, elongated her neck to
a giraffe-like extent, raised her eyes, simpered, cast them down again,
glanced out of their corners at the “mild one” till he trembled in his
polished boots and jingled the wicked bracelet like a baby’s rattle
in the excess of his agitation, and finally commenced her song by an
energetic appeal to her mother (who had been dead and buried for the
last fifteen years) to “wake her early” on the ensuing first of May.
Just as she was assuring the company that “she had been wild and
wayward, but she was not wayward now,” a couple entered the room, and
apparently wishing not to disturb the melody, seated themselves on a
sofa in a retired corner which chanced to be nearly opposite to the
recess of which Leicester had taken possession; thus, although the whole
length of the music-room intervened, he could (himself unseen) catch
occasional glimpses of this sofa as the ever-changing groups of loungers
formed and dispersed themselves.
The occupants of the seat were Miss Peyton and De Grandeville; and could
Charles Leicester have overheard the following conversation the passive
annoyance with which he observed the colloquy might have given place to
a more active sentiment.
“Ar--really,” remarked De Grandeville, “that is a very--ar--touching,
pathetic song----”
“Murdered,” observed Miss Peyton, quietly finishing his sentence for
him.
“Ar--eh--yes, of course, I was going to--ar--that is, your exquisite
taste has--ar--in fact--ar--beyond a doubt the woman is committing
murder.”
“Recollect, the ‘woman,’ as you are pleased to call her, is my
particular friend, Mr. De Grandeville,” returned his companion with a
slight degree of hauteur in her tone.
“Ar--yes, of course, that speaks volumes in her favour,” was the
rejoinder; “and although it is not every one who is gifted with
the--ar--talent of vocalisation, yet the estimable qualities which
one seeks in the--ar--endearing relation of friendship may be
found--ar--that is, may exist--ar----”
“What did you think of the champagne at supper?” interrupted Miss Peyton
abruptly.
“Really--ar--’pon my word I did not particularly notice it!
was--ar--so agreeably situated that I could not devote much attention to
the--ar--commissariat department.”
“Surely it was unusually strong,” persisted Laura.
“Ar--yes, of course you are right, it is no doubt owing to its agreeably
exhilarating qualities that it is so universally popular with the fair
sex. Were I--ar--so fortunate as to be--ar--a married man, I should
always have champagne at my table.”
“What a temptation!” returned Miss Peyton, smiling ironically. “Your
wife will be an enviable woman, if you mean to indulge her in such
luxuries.”
“It delights me to hear you say so,” exclaimed De Grandeville eagerly.
“If such is your opinion, I am indeed a fortunate man. I had not
intended,” he continued in a lower tone, “to speak to you at this early
period of our acquaintance on the subject nearest to my heart, but
the--ar--very flattering encouragement----”
“Sir!” exclaimed Miss Peyton in a tone of indignant surprise.
“Which you have deigned to bestow upon me,” continued De Grandeville,
not heeding the interruption, “leads me to unfold my intentions without
further delay. I am now arrived at an age when, in the prime of life,
and with judgment so matured that I consider I may safely act in
obedience to its dictates without the risk of making any great mistake,
it appears to me, and to those of my highly born and influential friends
whom I have consulted on the subject, that I might greatly improve my
general position in society by a judicious matrimonial alliance.
Now, without being in the slightest degree actuated by--ar--anything
approaching to a spirit of boasting, I may venture to say that in the
selection of a partner for life I have a right to look--ar--high. My
family may be traced back beyond the Norman conquest, and the immense
estates in our possession--ar--my cousin Hildebrand holds them
at present--but in the event of anything happening to his
seven--ar--however, I need not now trouble you with such family details,
suffice it to say that we are of ancient descent, enormous landed
proprietors, and that my own position in society is by no means
an unimportant one. Now, although I am aware that by birth you are
scarcely--ar--that is--that the Peyton family cannot trace back their
origin--ar--I have made up my mind to waive that point in consideration
of----”
“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Miss Peyton. “Doubtless your mature
judgment has led you to discover many, in fact so? _some thousands_ of
good and weighty reasons why you should overlook the humble origin of
the poor Peytons; but there is one point which appears to have escaped
even your sagacity, namely, whether this unworthy descendant of an
ignoble family desires the honour of such an alliance as you propose.
That you may no longer be in doubt on the subject, allow me to thank
you for the sacrifice you propose to make in my favour, and most
unequivocally to decline it.”
No one could be in De Grandeville’s company for ten minutes without
perceiving that on the one subject of his own importance he was more or
less mad; but with this exception he was a clear-headed, quick-sighted
man, used to society and accustomed to deal with the world. Laura
Peyton, in her indignation at the inflated style of the preamble of his
discourse, had committed the indiscretion of refusing his hand before
he had distinctly offered it. De Grande-ville perceived the mistake, and
hastened to avail himself of it by replying--
“Excuse me, Miss Peyton, but you jump rather hastily to conclusions. Had
you heard me to the end you might have learned that there were equally
strong reasons why in my present position I dare not yield to the
impulse of my feelings--for that I greatly admire and respect you
I frankly own. Should these reasons disappear under a change of
circumstances, I shall hope to have the honour of again addressing
you on this subject with a more favourable result. In the meantime,
to assure you that I entertain no unfriendly recollection of this
interview, permit me the honour----”
So saying, ere she was aware of his intention, he raised her hand to
his lips, bowed respectfully, and rising, quitted the apartment. Miss
Peyton, equally surprised and provoked at the turn De Grande-ville had
given to the conversation, remained for a minute or so pondering the
matter, with her eyes fixed on the ground; as she raised them they
encountered those of a gentleman who was passing down the room at the
time. Charles Leicester (for he it was) returned her gaze haughtily,
and as their eyes met a contemptuous smile curled his lip, and bowing
coldly, he passed on without a word. Well might he despise her, for he
had witnessed the parting salute, and not unnaturally deemed her the
affianced bride of Marmaduke De Grandeville. Ere he retired for the
night his servant had received orders to pack up his clothes and to
procure post-horses by eight o’clock on the following morning. Annie
Grant, who, when the latest guests had departed, sought her friend
Laura’s dressing-room to explain to her the old friendship which had
existed between her cousin Charles and Lady Mary Goodwood was equally
surprised and distressed to find her communication received with a
hysterical burst of tears.