CHECK.
The day after the winter picnic Sir Charles Mitford sat in that little
snuggery next his dressing-room, which had been so deftly fitted up
for him by Captain Bligh, in the enjoyment of a quiet after-breakfast
pipe. Breakfast was on the table at Redmoor from nine to twelve. Each
guest chose his own time for putting in an appearance; rang for his or
her special teapot, special relay of devilled kidney, ham, kipper,
eggs, or bloater; found his or her letters placed in close proximity
to his or her plate; breakfasted, and then went away to do exactly as
he or she liked until luncheon, which was the real gathering hour of
the day. On the morning in question everybody had been late, except
Major Winton, who, deeply disgusted with the proceedings of the
previous day, had routed up one of the under-keepers at daybreak, and
trudged away to his usual shooting-ground. Sir Charles had turned out
at ten, but had found no one in the breakfast-room save Captain Bligh,
deep in the perusal of the newly-arrived copy of _Bell's Life_. So Sir
Charles read his letters, which were of a prosaic business-like
character, and ate his breakfast, which he rather enjoyed, and then
went up to his room, taking the _Times_ with him. Not, however, for
the purpose of reading it--Charley seldom resorted to that means of
passing time; he never could understand what fellows saw to read in
the papers; for beyond the police intelligence and the sporting-news
and the advertisements of horses to be sold, all that enormous sheet
of news, gathered with such care and expense, was utterly blank to
him. To-day he did not even want to read his usual portion of the
paper; he took it up with him half-unconsciously; he wanted to smoke
and to think--to smoke a little and to think a great deal.
So he sat before the cheerful fire in the cosey little room, the
firelight glancing on the red-flock paper, and illumining the "Racing
Cracks" and the "Coaching Recollections;" pictures which the Messrs.
Fores furnished for the delectation of the sporting men of those days,
and which are never seen in these. They were better and healthier in
tone than the studies of French females now so prevalent, and
infinitely more manly and national. The smoke from his pipe curled
round his head, and as he lay back in his chair and watched it
floating in its blue vapour, his thoughts filled him with inexpressible
pleasure. He was thinking over what had happened the day before, and to
him the picnic was as nothing. He only remembered the ride home. Yes;
his thoughts were very, very pleasant; his vanity had been flattered,
his fur had been stroked the right way. This was his first experience
of flirtation since his marriage; and he stood higher than usual in his
own opinion when he found that he had attracted the notice of--to say
the least of it--a very pretty woman. Very pretty; no doubt about that!
By Jove! she looked perfection in that tight-fitting robe. What a
splendid figure she had,--so round and plump, and yet so graceful; and
her general turn-out was so good--such natty gloves and jolly little
white collars and cuffs, and such a neat riding-whip! And that lovely
chestnut hair, gathered into that gleaming coil of braids under her
chimney-pot hat! How beautifully she rode too! went at those posts and
rails as calmly as though she had been cantering in the Row. He watched
her as the mare rose at them; and but for a little tightening of the
mouth, not a feature of her face was discomposed, while most women
would have turned blue through sheer fright, even if they would have
had pluck to face such a jump at all, which he doubted.
It was uncommonly pleasant to think that such a woman was interested
in him; would look forward to his presence, would regret his absence,
and would associate him with her thoughts and actions. What an
earnest, impulsive, sensitive creature she was! She had seen in an
instant what had annoyed him yesterday! Not like Georgie--he felt a
slight twinge of conscience as he thought of her--not like Georgie,
who had supposed he was vexed at something she had said, poor child!
No; that other woman was really wonderful--so appreciative and
intelligent. How cleverly she had befooled that hard-headed old Winton
for the sake of keeping things square! Winton was like a child in her
hands; and though he could not bear ladies' society, and was supposed
to be never happy except when shooting or smoking, had cantered by her
side and tried to make civil little speeches, and bowed and smiled
like a fellow just fresh from Eton. And how cleverly she had managed
that business about their getting away when she wanted to speak to
him! Poor little thing, how frightened she was too at the idea of his
being angry, as though one could be angry with a creature like that!
And how pretty she looked when her eyes filled with tears and her
voice trembled! Gad! she must feel something stronger than interest in
him for her to show all that. Yes, by Jove!--there was no use in
denying it to himself any longer,--this little woman was thoroughly
fascinated. He recalled the events of that homeward ride--the talk,
the looks, the long, long hand-clasp, the passionate manner in which,
just before they reached the house, she had implored him to remember
that she counted on him, and on him alone, for advice and aid in the
troubles of her life. By the way what were the troubles of her life?
She had dwelt very much upon them generally, but had never thought it
necessary to go into detail. She spoke frequently of being tied to an
invalid husband, of having been intended originally for something
better than a sick man's nurse; but that could not prey upon her mind
very much, as she was scarcely ever with her husband, or if it did, it
was not a case in which any advice or any aid of his would be of much
use to her. No; the advice and aid, and the intimate friendship, were
devices by which she was endeavouring to blind herself and him to the
real state of the case, to the fact that she was deeply, madly in love
with him, and that he--well, he--What was that? a rustle of a dress in
the passage outside, a low tap at the door. Can it be she?
The door opened, and a woman entered--not Mrs. Hammond, but Miss
Gillespie. Sir Charles Mitford's heart had beat high with expectation;
its palpitation continued when he recognized his visitor, though from
a different cause. He had risen, and remained standing before the
fire; but Miss Gillespie made herself comfortable in a velvet
_causeuse_ on the other side of the snug fireplace, and pointing to
his chair, said:
"You had better sit down again. I shall be some time here."
As though involuntarily, Mitford re-seated himself. He had scarcely
done so when she said:
"You did not expect me? You don't seem glad to see me?"
"Are you surprised at that?" he sneered. "I should be glad never to
set eyes on you again."
"Exactly; as we used to say in the old days, 'them's my sentiments.' I
reciprocate your cordial feelings entirely. And I can't conceive what
adverse fate drove you to come with a pack of swaggering, sporting,
vulgar people, into a part of the country where I happened to be
quietly and comfortably settled; for, as I pointed out to you at our
last interview, I was the original settler, and it is you who have
intruded yourself into my territory."
"You did not come here to repeat that, I suppose?"
"Of course not; and that's exactly a point I want to impress upon
you--that I never repeat. I hint, I suggest, I command, or I
warn--once; after that I act."
"You act now, you're always acting, you perpetually fancy yourself on
the boards. But it does not amuse me, nor suit me either, and I won't
have it. What did you come here for?"
"Not to amuse you, Sir Charles Mitford, you may be certain, nor to be
amused myself; for a heavier specimen of our landed gentry than
yourself is not, I should hope for the credit of the country, to be
found. You were never much fun; and it was only your good looks, and a
certain soft manner that you had, that made you get on at all in our
_camaraderie_. No; I came here on business."
"On business! Ah, it's not very difficult to imagine what kind of
business. You want money, of course, like the rest of them."
"I want money, and come to _you_ for it! No, Charles Mitford; you
ought to know me better than that. You ought to know that if I were
starving, I would steal a loaf from a child, or rob a church, rather
than take, much more ask for, a single penny from you. Like the rest
of them, did you say? So they have found you out and begun to bleed
you!--the pitiful curs!"
"Well, what do you want, then? My time's precious."
"It is indeed, my friend; if you did but know all, you'd find it very
precious indeed. But never mind that; now for my business. I want you
to do something."
"And that is--"
"To give up making love to Mrs. Hammond. Now, be quiet; don't put
yourself in a rage, and don't try those uplifted eyebrows, and that
general expression of injured astonishment, on me, because it won't
do. I was not born last week, and my capacity for gauging such matters
is by no means small. Besides, I happened yesterday to be taking my
walks abroad in a meadow not far from the western lodge of Redmoor
Park, the seat of Sir Charles Mitford, Bart., and I happened to
witness an interview of a very tender and touching kind, which took
place between a lady and a gentleman both on horseback. I imagined
something of the kind was going on. I saw something when you were
leaving the house that night at Torquay which would have surprised any
one who had not learned as much of Mrs. Hammond as I had during the
time I had been with her. But since we have been here my suspicions
have been confirmed, and yesterday's proceedings left no doubt upon my
mind So I determined to speak to you at once, and to tell you that
this must not and shall not be!"
Mitford's face grew very dark as he said:
"And suppose I were to ask you how the flirtation which you allege
exists between me and--and the lady you have named,--which I utterly
and entirely deny,--suppose I were to ask how this flirtation affects
you, and, in short, what the devil business it is of yours?"
"How it affects me? Why--no, but that's too preposterous. Not even
you, with all your vanity, could possibly imagine that I have in my
own mind consented to forget the past, that I have buried the hatchet,
that I have returned to my _premier amour_, and am consequently
jealous of your attentions to Mrs. Hammond."
"I don't suppose that. But I can't see what other motive you can
possibly have."
"You can't, and you never shall. I don't choose to tell you; perhaps I
have taken compassion on your wife, who is very pretty--of her
style--and seems very good and all that, and very fond of you, poor
silly thing! and I don't choose her to be tormented by you. Perhaps I
want that poor wretched invalid to die in peace, and not to have his
life suddenly snuffed out by the scandal which is sure to arise if
this goes on. Perhaps--but no matter! I don't intend to give my
reasons, and I've told you what I want."
"And suppose I tell you--as I do tell you--I won't do what you want,
and I defy you! What then?"
"Then I will compel you."
"Will you? Do you think I don't know the screw which you would put on
me? You'd proclaim all about my former life, my connection with that
rascally crew, of whom you were one--"
"Who brought me into it?"
"No matter;--of whom you were one! You'd rake up that story of the
bill with my uncle's name to it. Well, suppose you did. What then? It
would be news to nobody here--they all know of it."
"No, they don't all know of it. Lord Dollamore does, and so does that
good-looking man with the beard, Colonel Alsager, and perhaps Captain
Bligh. But I doubt if one of the others ever heard of it: these things
blow over, and are so soon forgotten. And it would be very awkward to
have the story revived here. Why, the county families who have called,
and are inclined to be civil--I heard you boasting of it the other
day--would drop you a like red-hot coal. The officers quartered in the
barracks would cut you dead; the out-going regiment would tell the
story to the in-coming regiment; you would never get a soul over here
to dinner or to stop with you, and you would be bored to death. That's
not a pleasant lookout, is it?"
He sat doggedly silent until she spoke again.
"But that is not nearly all. I have it in my power to injure your
position as well as your reputation; to compel you to change that
pretty velvet lounging-coat for a suit of hodden gray, that
meerschaum-bowl for a lump of oakum, this very cheery room for--But
there's no need to dilate on the difference: you'll do what I ask?"
"And suppose I were to deny all your story."
"Ah, now you're descending to mere childishness. How could you deny
what all the men I have mentioned know thoroughly well? They are
content to forget all about it now, and to receive you as a reclaimed
man; but if they were asked as men of honour whether or not there had
been such a scandal, of course they would tell the truth. Come, you'll
do what I ask?"
She had won the day; there was no doubt about that. Any bystander, had
one been there, could have told it in a moment; could have read it in
his sullen dogged look of defeat, in her bright airy glance of
triumph.
"You'll do what I ask?"
"You have me in your hands," he said in a low voice.
"I knew you would see it in the right light," she said, "You see,
after all, it's very little to give up; the flirtation is only just
commencing, so that even you, with your keen susceptibility, cannot be
hard hit yet. And you have such a very nice wife, and it will be
altogether so much better for you now you are _rangé_, as they say.
You'll have to go to the village-church regularly when you're down
here, and to become a magistrate, and to go through all sorts of other
respectabilities with which this style of thing would not fit at all.
Now, goodbye;" and she turned to go.
"Stay!" he called out; "when may I expect a repetition of this threat
for some new demand?"
"That rests entirely with yourself. As I have said from the first, I
did not seek you; you intruded yourself into my circle. I like my
present mode of life--for the present--and don't want to change it.
Keep clear of me, and we shall never clash. Again, goodbye."
She made a pretty little bow and, undulating all over, left the room
as quietly as she had entered it.
When she had closed the door Mitford rose from his chair with a long
sigh of relief, loosened his cravat, and shook his fist.
"Yours to-day, my lady--yours to-day; but my chance will come, and
when it does, look out for yourself."