"Thou art not steeped in golden languors;
No tranced summer calm is thine,
Ever-varying Madeline."
It was a woodland meet, a long way off, the morning after we arrived, so
we staid at home; and, after breakfast, Guy having to give audience to
keepers and other retainers, I strolled out with Forrester to smoke in
the stables. I have seldom seen a lot which united so perfectly bone and
blood. Livingstone gave any price for his horses; the only thing he was
not particular about was their temper; more than one looked eminently
unsuited to a nervous rider, and a swinging bar behind them warned the
stranger against incautious approach.
After duly discussing and admiring the stud, we established ourselves on
the sunniest stone bench in the garden, and I asked my companion to tell
me something of what Guy had been doing during my absence.
"Well, it's rather hard to say," answered Charley. "He never takes the
trouble to conceal any thing; but then, you see, he never tells one any
thing either; so it's only guess work, after all. He lives very much
like other men in the Household Brigade; plays heavily, though not
regularly; but he always has two _affaires de coeur_, at least, on
hand at once; that's his stint."
"So he still persecutes the weaker sex unremittingly?" I asked,
laughing.
"In a way peculiar to himself," said Forrester; "he is always strictly
courteous, but decidedly sarcastic. Poor things, they are easily imposed
upon; he very soon has them well in hand, and they can never get their
heads up afterward. I suppose they like it, for it seems to answer
admirably. Last season he divided himself pretty equally between
Constance Brandon and Flora Bellasys--quite the two best things out,
though as opposite to each other in every way as the poles. To do Miss
Brandon justice, I don't think she knew much of the other flirtation;
she always went away early, and he used to take up her rival for the
rest of the evening."
"But the said rival--how did she like the divided homage?"
"Not at all at first; at least, she used to look revolvers at Guy from
time to time--(ah! you should see the Bellasys' eyes when they begin to
lighten)--but he always brought her back to the lure, and at last she
seemed to take it quite as a matter of course, keeping all her
after-supper waltzes for him religiously, though half the men in town
were trying to cut in. I can't make out how he does it. Do you think his
size and sinews can have any thing to do with it?" He said this gravely
and reflectively.
"Not unlikely," I replied; "the _fortiter in re_ goes a long way with
women apparently, even where there is not a tongue like his to back it.
Don't you remember Juvenal's strong-minded heroine, who left husband and
home to follow the scarred, maimed gladiator? I doubt if the Mirmillo
was a pleasant or intellectual companion. Now I want you to tell me
something about Guy's cousin and her father; they are coming here
to-day, and I have never met them."
"Mr. Raymond is very like most calm, comfortable old men with a life
interest in £2000 a year," Charley said; "rather more cold and
impassible than the generality, perhaps. He _must_ be clever, for he
plays whist better than any one I know; but not brilliant, certainly.
His daughter is"--the color deepened on his cheek perceptibly--"very
charming, most people think; but I hate describing people. I always
caricature the likeness. You'll form your own judgment at dinner. Shall
we go in? We shoot an outlying cover after luncheon, and the blackthorns
involve gaiters."
We had very fair sport, and were returning across the park, picking up a
stray rabbit every now and then in the tufts of long grass and patches
of brake. One had just started before Forrester, and he was in the act
of pulling the trigger, when Livingstone said suddenly,
"There's my uncle's carriage coming down the north avenue."
It was an easy shot in the open, but Charley missed it clean.
"What eyes you have, Guy," he said, pettishly; "but I wish you wouldn't
speak to a man on his shot."
Guy's great Lancaster rang out with the roar of a small field-piece, and
the rabbit was rolling over, riddled through the head, before he
answered,
"Yea, my eyes _are_ good, and I see a good many things, but I _don't_
see why you should have muffled that shot, particularly as my
intelligence was meant for the world in general, and it was not such an
astounding remark, after all."
Charley did not seem ready with a reply, so he retained his look of
injured innocence, and walked on, sucking silently at his cigar. The
Raymonds reached the house before us; but, not being in a presentable
state, I did not see them before dinner.
Forrester was right; there was nothing startling about Mr. Raymond. He
had one of those thin, high-bred looking faces that one always fancies
would have suited admirably the powder and ruffles of the last century.
It expressed little except perfect repose, and when he spoke, which was
but seldom, no additional light came into his hard blue eyes. His
daughter was his absolute contrast--a lovely, delicate little creature,
with silky dark-brown hair, and eyes _en suite_, and color that deepened
and faded twenty times in an hour, without ever losing the softness of
its tints. She had the ways of a child petted all its life through, that
a harsh word would frighten to annihilation. She seemed very fond of
Guy, though evidently rather afraid of him at times.
Nothing passed at dinner worth mentioning; but soon after the ladies
left us, Mr. Raymond turned lazily to his nephew to inquire,
"If he would mind asking Bruce to come and stay at Kerton, as he was to
be in the neighborhood soon after Christmas."
He did not seem to feel the faintest interest in the reply.
"I shall be too glad, Uncle Henry," answered Guy (he did not look
particularly charmed though), "if it will give you or Bella any
pleasure. Need he be written to immediately?"
"Thank you very much," said Raymond, languidly. "I know he bores you,
and I am sure I don't wonder at it; but one must be civil to one's
son-in-law that is to be. No, you need not trouble yourself to invite
him yet. Bella can do it when she writes. I suppose she _does_ write to
him sometimes."
I looked across the table at Forrester. This was the first time I had
heard of Miss Raymond's engagement. He met my eye quite unconcernedly,
pursuing with great interest his occupation of peeling walnuts and
dropping them into Sherry. It did not often happen to him to blush
_twice_ in the twenty-four hours. Directly afterward we began to talk
about pheasants and other things.
After coffee in the drawing-room Guy sat down to piquet with his uncle.
Raymond liked to utilize his evenings, and never played for nominal
stakes. He was the _beau ideal_ of a card-player, certainly; no
revolution or persistence of luck could ruffle the dead calm of his
courteous face. He would win the money of his nearest and dearest
friend, or lose his own to an utter stranger with the same placidity. To
be sure, to a certain extent, he had enslaved Fortune; though he always
played most loyally, and sometimes would forego an advantage he might
fairly have claimed, his rare science made ultimate success scarcely
doubtful. He never touched a game of mere chance.
I heard a good story of him in Paris. They were playing a game like
Brag; the principle being that the players increase the stakes without
seeing each other's cards, till one refuses to go on and throws up, or
shows his point. Raymond was left in at last with one adversary; the
stakes had mounted up to a sum that was fearful, and it was his choice
to double or _abattre_. Of course, it was of the last importance to
discover whether the antagonist was strong or not; but the Frenchman's
face gave not the slightest sign. He was _beau joueur s'il en fût_, and
had lost two fair fortunes at play. Raymond hesitated, looking steadily
into his opponent's eyes. All at once he smiled and doubled instantly.
The other dared not go on; he showed his point, and lost. They asked
Raymond afterward how he could have detected any want of confidence to
guide him in a face that looked like marble.
"I saw three drops of perspiration on his forehead," he said; "and I
knew my own hand was strong."
Lady Catharine was resting on a sofa: she looked tired and paler than
usual, not in the least available for conversation. Miss Raymond had
nestled herself into the recesses of a huge arm-chair close to the
fire--she was as fond of warmth, when she could not get sunshine, as a
tropical bird--and Forrester was lounging on an ottoman behind her, so
that his head almost touched her elbow. When I caught scraps of their
conversation it seemed to be turning on the most ordinary subjects; but
even in these I should have felt lost--I had been so long away from
England--so I contented myself with watching them, and wondering why
discussions as to the merits of operas and inquiries after mutual
acquaintances should make the fair cheeks hang out signals of distress
so often as they did that evening.
I lingered in the smoking-room about midnight for a moment after
Forrester left us.
"So your cousin is really engaged?" I asked Guy.
"_Tout ce qu'il y a du plus fiancé_," was the answer. "It was one of the
last affairs of state that my poor aunt concluded before she died. Bruce
is a very good match. I don't think Bella worships him, though I have
scarcely ever seen them together, and I am sure he is not a favorite
with Uncle Henry; but nothing on earth would make him break it off;
indeed, I know no one who would propose such a thing to him--not his
daughter, certainly. There's no such hopeless obstacle as the passive
resistance of a thoroughly lazy man. Good-night, Frank. I've sent the
Baron on for you to-morrow. We must start about nine, mind, for we've
fifteen miles to go to cover."
I went to bed, and dreamed that Raymond was playing _ecarté_ with
Forrester for his daughter, who stood by blushing beautifully--and never
held a trump!