Maria Monkton was dressing for dinner when she heard a loud double
knock at the door of her aunt's house. It wanted fully half-an-hour of
the time at which any guest but a lover could be reasonably expected;
and while she herself hurried her toilet, she bade the maid look out
and see who was the visiter.
"It is only your uncle, ma'am," said the abigail; "it is his cab and
servant."
"Is Lady Fleetwood dressed?" demanded Maria, rather anxiously.
"Oh, dear, yes, ma'am! She has been down these ten minutes," replied
the maid, setting hard to work again upon her lady's hair.
Now, if Maria had been anxious to hasten all her proceedings when she
thought that the early guest was Henry Hayley, she was even more
desirous of getting down soon when she found that it was her uncle who
had arrived: not that her love for Mr. Scriven was at all eager; for
heaven knows that, however affectionate a heart might be, it would
have found it a hard task to love him very warmly. Green ivy and
blushing honeysuckle will twine, it is true, round a cold, stiff post;
but it would have required a still more clinging passion than even
love to make any heart attach itself to Mr. Scriven. Avarice perhaps
might do.
No: Maria's haste proceeded from other causes. There was never any
telling what Lady Fleetwood might say or what Lady Fleetwood might do;
and her niece very much wished to prevent her from saying or doing
much with Mr. Scriven that day. Indeed, had she been at all aware that
her aunt had asked him to dinner, Maria would have prepared
accordingly, and gone to dress earlier; but dear Lady Fleetwood had
always her own little secrets; and, as she fully concurred in her
brother's desire that Maria should marry Charles Marston, she had
resolved to invite Mr. Scriven without letting her niece know anything
of the fact, in order that her own efforts, both offensive and
defensive, might be well seconded; for Charles, who she was afraid
would _not_ fall in love with Maria, and Colonel Middleton, who she
was afraid _would_ fall in love with Maria, were both to be there at
dinner.
Perhaps this does not explain very clearly why she kept the invitation
secret from her niece; but the truth is, Lady Fleetwood was afraid
Maria would dissuade her from sending it. Now, Lady Fleetwood, as the
reader knows, was the most persuadable woman in the world; and she had
an internal consciousness of this sort of _persuadability_--I may as
well manufacture another word while I am about it--which made her
reluctant to expose that particular side of her character to the
assault of an antagonist.
As she wished very much to have Mr. Scriven there, and had determined
that it would be quite right and proper so to do; and, moreover, as
she knew that Maria could persuade her not to ask him, and thought it
very likely she would do so, Lady Fleetwood, with a little _ruse_ upon
herself, quietly wrote a note to her brother, sent it off in secret,
and then was afraid to tell her niece what she had done, till Mr.
Scriven was actually in the house.
As I have said, Maria dressed herself with the utmost expedition, and
descended as fast as possible to the drawing-room. She found her aunt
and uncle full tilt, however, in what seemed a very interesting
conversation, for Maria had rarely beheld Mr. Scriven's face so full
of expression before. Her entrance took place with ladylike grace,
just as Lady Fleetwood was finishing a sentence.
"As like as it is possible to conceive," quoth Lady Fleetwood;
"exactly the same person, only taller and older."
Maria saw it all in a moment; and, though she was a good deal agitated
and somewhat alarmed by what she did see, she composed herself as best
she might, and gallantly hurried forward to the scene of combat.
"Ah, Maria! good evening," said her uncle. "Your aunt has just been
telling me who are to be her guests to-night. Amongst them is a
Colonel Middleton, I find--a friend of yours."
"He brought me a letter from Charles," replied Maria, struggling
desperately against emotion. "Do you know him, sir?"
That would have been scarcely fair of Maria, if it had not been that
Mr. Scriven had spoken in a tone which might very fairly be
interpreted to imply that he had some acquaintance with the gentleman
of whom he spoke.
"No, I don't know him at all," replied Mr. Scriven. "Pray, do
you see this extraordinary likeness between him and young Henry
Hayley?--though perhaps you do not recollect the lad, for you were but
a child when he ran away."
"Oh, yes! I remember him perfectly," replied Maria, in as indifferent
a tone as she could assume. "You forget, my dear uncle, I was between
thirteen and fourteen when he went. There is a likeness certainly,
though Colonel Middleton is darker in complexion, and has darker hair.
There are various other differences, too; but still I can see the
likeness which my aunt has discovered."
"I always doubted the story of that boy's death," said Mr. Scriven,
drily, looking first at his niece and then at his sister.
"Oh, dear me! how can you fancy such a thing?" exclaimed Lady
Fleetwood. "Why, the officer saw him lying dead."
"The officer never saw him alive," said Mr. Scriven.
"But you don't suppose that Colonel Middleton is the same?" exclaimed
his sister, who saw that she had excited suspicions which she had not
the slightest wish in the world to arouse. "Why, this gentleman has
been all his life in Spain and Mexico, and his mother, I hear, was a
Spanish lady."
"I suppose nothing at all," replied Mr. Scriven; "I never suppose
anything. But if it were Henry Hayley, he would of course take a
different name and fabricate some history for himself: such a one as
you have just told is as likely as any other. We will soon find out,
however; for if he be a Spaniard, or half a Spaniard, he must be known
to Spaniards."
Maria smiled, for there she felt herself upon strong ground, in
consequence of what Henry had told her.
"You seem pleased or amused, Maria," said her uncle.
"A little amused," she answered; "for poor Henry Hayley seems to be
what the French would call your _bête noire_, my dear uncle. You see
him in every bush. However, Colonel Middleton, in conversation the
other day, mentioned the names of a great number of Spanish gentlemen
with whom he is acquainted, and amongst the rest that of the Conde de
Fraga, the secretary of the Duke of San Carlos, the ambassador. As my
aunt knows the young conde, she has invited him here to-night to meet
Colonel Middleton, so you will soon see if they are acquainted."
Mr. Scriven had just time to say "Humph!" before Charles Marston was
announced. Then came Lady Anne Mellent, and she was succeeded by
Colonel Middleton himself. Henry's eye, as he entered the room, fell
at once upon Mr. Scriven; but he took not the slightest notice, and
betrayed no knowledge of him even by a change of expression. He paid
his compliments to Lady Fleetwood gracefully and easily spoke for a
moment to Lady Anne in a gay and laughing tone, and then took a chair
by Maria, who, though standing before he entered, had seated herself
immediately, feeling her heart beat so violently that she feared she
should fall.
During the whole of this time, and while Charles Marston crossed over
and shook hands with his friend, Mr. Scriven continued to examine his
sister's guest with a keen, scrutinizing stare. There he was before
him--tall, handsome, commanding, graceful, dressed with the most
perfect taste, and having a star and a smaller order on his left
breast, but still very, very like what he should have expected to see
in Henry Hayley, had there not been good reason for believing him
dead. Still there was some slight difference; and perhaps a
discoloured mark upon the forehead, left by the blow he had so lately
received, made him less like his former self than he otherwise would
have been.
The young officer did not seem to perceive the rude examination he was
undergoing, and was giving a sketch of the attack which had been made
upon him the night before to Charles and Maria, when Mr. Scriven
touched his nephew's arm, saying--
"Charles, you have not introduced me to your friend."
With perfect ease, which showed that he at least was unconscious of
even a likeness between Colonel Middleton and Henry Hayley, Charles
Marston presented his uncle to his aunt's guest. Henry rose and bowed,
looking slightly at Mr. Scriven, without even a glance of recognition,
and then proceeded with his tale.
Mr. Scriven stood by and listened; but it was less the words than the
tones he attended to, and they produced a very strong effect. Henry's
voice, as I have said, was very peculiar--rich, full, and exceedingly
melodious; and the merchant felt almost sure that he had heard those
sounds before.
"Upon my word, Marston," said Henry, in conclusion, "you, who boast
yourselves to be, and probably are, the most civilized people in the
world, should look a little better to your police. In my country such
things are expected, torn and divided as it has been by factions; but
in England they should not take place."
"I am very sorry to find you do not count yourself an Englishman,
Colonel Middleton," said Mr. Scriven; "and yet you speak our language
with a purity, both in accent and grammar, which I never yet heard in
a foreigner."
Henry made him a low bow, as if he supposed that a compliment was
intended. He replied, however, at the same time--
"My father's language was the first I learnt; and I have always taken
care to keep it up by seeking the society and conversation of
Englishmen, of whom plenty are to be found both in Spain and Mexico."
"Oh! you have been in Mexico?" said Mr. Scriven. "Pray, did you ever
meet with my friend Mr. Odel there?"
"Yes," replied Henry: "he was a great friend of my uncle's, Don
Balthazar Xamorça; but he has been dead for many years."
Now, Mr. Odel had been dead so long that Mr. Scriven had great
difficulty in reconciling his suspicion that Henry Hayley and Colonel
Middleton were the same person, with the knowledge which the latter
seemed to have had of him. He resolved to inquire further.
"Poor Odel had a very beautiful place, I believe, in the city of
Mexico," he said; "quite a palace, I have been told."
"Not exactly in the city," replied Henry: "he had only a
counting-house in the town. But about three miles in the country,
towards the foot of the mountains, he had one of the most beautiful
villas I ever saw, with magnificent gardens, quite in your English
style. It was called Casilla, and was in fact a palace. His
hospitality was unbounded; I have passed many a pleasant day there."
Now, the assertion was perfectly true, for the Casilla had for some
years belonged to Mr. Odel's son, after his father's death; and during
Henry's stay in Mexico, the greater part of the young gentleman's time
had been spent there.
Mr. Scriven was becoming more and more puzzled; but further questions
were prevented by the entrance of the Conde de Fraga and his young
countess. His compliments were first, of course, paid to Lady
Fleetwood, who proceeded to introduce him and his wife, who could
speak but very, few words of English, to the rest of her guests; and
this operation was proceeding when the young lady's eyes lighted upon
Henry, and her whole face beamed with pleasure at seeing one whom she
knew well, and who could converse with her in her own language. The
warm and friendly recognition which then took place between the young
Spanish nobleman and the object of suspicion did not escape the eyes
of Mr. Scriven; and it would undoubtedly have removed all his
prepossessions, had it been possible ever perfectly to eradicate an
idea which had once taken possession of his mind.
The expected guests had now all arrived, and Lady Fleetwood had
ordered dinner to be served; but before it was announced, Mr. Scriven,
who was slightly acquainted with the conde, took an opportunity of
drawing him aside and questioning him in regard to Colonel Middleton.
Henry saw the man[oe]uvre; and it must be acknowledged that, even
while carrying on a gay conversation with the young countess, he
listened to what was passing behind him with a good deal of interest.
He could not exactly catch Mr. Scriven's first question; but he heard
the young count reply, in very tolerable English--
"Oh! a most respectable person, of a very high family in my
country--by the mother's side, related to all the Xamorças, and
grand-nephew to Don Balthazar, who left him a very handsome fortune."
"Have you known him long?" asked Mr. Scriven.
"Yes," answered the count--"from my boyhood; we were at school
together, and in the same regiment afterwards: indeed, we are
distantly related, for my grandmother's niece married Don Balthazar's
brother's son, who likewise inherited a part of his large fortune."
Mr. Scriven seemed satisfied, but he was not; and very shortly after
the whole party went down to the dinner-room.
Now, in her arrangements in regard to that very difficult but yet
important process, the pairing of her guests, Lady Fleetwood, with the
strongest possible desire to make everybody happy, usually contrived,
with that ill-luck which frequently attended her best efforts, to part
all those who would have liked to be together, and to put those
together who were least likely to suit each other. Thus, on the
present occasion, there was only one person well satisfied.
The conde, of course, as highest in rank, took her down to dinner; but
Maria was bestowed upon Charles Marston, Mr. Scriven gave his arm to
Lady Anne, who hated him mortally, and Henry was put in charge of the
young Spanish lady, with which part of the arrangement she was better
contented than himself.
The dinner would, nevertheless, have passed off very quietly,
notwithstanding the inconvenient manner in which the guests were
planted; for there was only one person there who was not fully aware
that in society, be it great or small--let it consist of two or of
thousands--at a dinner-table or in the great scene of the world--every
one must sacrifice something for the happiness of the whole, and that
to make the best of our own position is the condition of our own
felicity as well as that of all who surround us;--the dinner would
have passed off very pleasantly, I say, if Mr. Scriven could have
rested satisfied and left Henry at peace. He was certainly shaken in
his belief that Colonel Middleton and Henry Hayley were one; but yet
he was displeased with his great resemblance to the object of his
persevering dislike. I do not call it hate, for hate almost implies
emotions of a stronger kind than Mr. Scriven usually gave way to. He
would have taken a great deal of trouble, he would have spent a
considerable portion of time, he would even have devoted no
inconsiderable sum of money, to prosecute Henry Hayley and to hang
him; but yet he would have done it all coolly, deliberately,
systematically, without any of the _fortes émotions_. I do not know
that this can be called hate; but perhaps the secret of the passion,
or whatever it was, being so perdurable, was the absence of all
emotion. As machines which are much shaken in their operation wear out
soon, so feelings accompanied by much agitation are generally of short
duration.
On the present occasion, however, Mr. Scriven could not be content to
let the young officer alone. He was not what can be called uncivil;
for the words were all perfectly polite, and, as addressed to a
perfect stranger, only gave the idea of his being what is called in
England a _bore_. He asked him a multitude of questions about Spain,
about his own private history, about things which had happened
fourteen, fifteen, sixteen years before. He cut across his
conversation with the fair Spaniard at his side some six or seven
times; and though, as I have said, perfectly civil, there was a sort
of cool superciliousness in his tone which annoyed Henry and aroused
him to resist.
On the young officer's other side sat Lady Anne Mellent; and just at
the period when the fish was being removed, she took advantage of the
butler's body being thrust between her and Mr. Scriven to say a few
words to Henry, in a low tone and a foreign language. They were only
two or three, and what they were did not transpire, but they seemed to
work a great change upon her left-hand companion; for from that moment
his demeanour became more free and unconstrained; his manner,
especially towards Mr. Scriven, not exactly supercilious, but
ironical. There was a sort of playful, but yet rather bitter, mockery
in his replies, which grew even more acerb as dinner went on.
"Pray, Colonel Middleton, were you at the taking of the Trocadero?"
demanded Mr. Scriven, after a very brief pause.
"If I had been there at all," replied Henry, "I should have been at
its defence; but I happened then to be at school. Boys are not
admitted into the Spanish army, Mr. Scriven."
"I should suppose not," replied the merchant; "but boys do strange
things sometimes."
"Very true, and men too," answered Henry, "otherwise the French would
never have been there, and the English would never have let them;" and
he resumed his conversation in Spanish with the lady by his side.
"I am afraid, from what I have heard," said Mr. Scriven, "that the
improvements introduced by Florida Blanca into the commercial and
financial regulations of Spain have not had any permanent effect."
"I am ashamed to say," replied Henry, "that I know as little of the
subject, Mr. Scriven, as you would probably know of a regiment of
dragoons."
"Perhaps I may know more of military matters than you suppose,"
answered Mr. Scriven.
"Of the city light-horse," replied the other, with a slight smile;
"but I certainly shall not catechise you on the subject, and you must
grant me the same indulgence with respect to commerce. I know nothing
about it, though I have a very great respect for it in the abstract,
as you probably have for the army."
"Oh, dear, no!" replied Mr. Scriven with the utmost coolness. "I have
no respect at all for the army, I can assure you. I look upon it as a
necessary evil, which should be diminished as soon as possible and as
far as possible, and the navy too."
"You should have a little gratitude for the navy, at all events," said
Henry, laughing, "as, if it had not been for the navy, many rich ships
filled with English merchandise would have found their way into French
and American ports during the late wars."
"Gratitude is altogether out of the question," answered Mr. Scriven;
"in fact, it is a mere name. Soldiers fight and sailors fight because
they are paid to fight. Why should I be grateful to them for doing
what they receive my money to do? If they don't do their duty, they
are broke or shot, as they ought to be; and if they do, they are paid
for it. The account is balanced, and there is nothing more to be
settled on either part."
"A very commercial view of the subject, indeed," replied Henry; "but I
cannot help thinking, Mr. Scriven, that if soldiers and sailors fought
upon such principles, neither merchants nor others would receive much
effectual protection; and that if all British merchants acted upon
such principles, they would find very few soldiers or sailors to fight
for them. Silk, cotton, molasses, iron-ware, broadcloth, machinery,
corn, wine, and oil, are not the only things to be considered in life,
it seems to me; neither are gold and silver. We have heard of such
things as honour and glory--which can only be worth having when
obtained in a just cause--and generosity, and benevolence, and even
gratitude; and if these things are all to be swept away as mere names,
I see not why honesty and integrity should not go too. There are moral
as well as material goods; and high principles of action, national
honour and national glory, love, are in my mind not only compatible
with, but inseparable from, a due consideration of the material
interests of a country."
"Oh, doubtless," answered Mr. Scriven; "though the notions that we
attach to such names are very vague and fallacious--derived from the
rhodomontade ages of chivalry and feudality, and only serving to
mislead imaginative boys."
"You are in no fear, then, of their influence," replied Henry. "Lady
Anne, may I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?"
"With a great deal of pleasure," replied Lady Anne, "for the
conversation has been so heavy that I certainly do want something to
enliven me; and in pity, you two gentlemen, forbear, recollecting that
I neither send forth ships nor command armies--am neither a merchant
nor a field-marshal."
The conversation now took another turn. Lady Anne spoke in French to
the fair Spaniard; Lady Fleetwood did her best to effect the same;
Charles Marston talked to her in bad Spanish and good Italian; and
till dinner was over and the ladies retired, all went on gaily and
cheerfully.
The sole person left out was Mr. Scriven, who, though he wrote several
languages with sufficient facility, was but little accustomed to speak
any tongue but his own. He was not well pleased, indeed--not so much
because he was excluded a good deal from the conversation, for he was
usually as economical of his words as of his money, but because he
clearly saw that those around him had recourse to another tongue in
order to put an end to discussions which were pleasant to nobody but
himself.
His first attack after dinner was upon his nephew, to whom he said, in
a low tone--
"Why, Charles, you seem peculiarly lively to-night. How is that? I was
afraid the news I gave you yesterday might have somewhat depressed
your spirits."
"Not at all, dear sir--thank you for your good intentions," said
Charles Marston. "I never was more cheerful in my life; and as to the
'How is that?' I have many reasons for being cheerful. A little
misfortune sometimes, rightly viewed, changes to a benefit. In the
first place, I have an opportunity of proving to my dear father how
grateful I am for all his past kindnesses, which I never should have
had if he had gone on in perfect prosperity; and then, again, I have
had proofs of the sincerity and disinterestedness of several very dear
friends, whose generosity I might never have known to its full extent
had not this reverse occurred."
"A very philosophical view," said Mr. Scriven, between his teeth;
"but, as I suppose you do not intend to live dependent upon these
friends, let me ask if you have considered the hints I threw out with
regard to your future course."
"I have not given them a thought," replied Charles. "I saw at once
that they could be of no service to me, and therefore judged, my dear
uncle, that it might be bad economy to waste much reflection upon
them."
"You are as polite as wise, my good nephew," rejoined his uncle,
drily.
"Oh, it is what you call due course of exchange," answered Charles.
"You have told me a thousand times that you are fond of plain
speaking, and have proved the fact to me in many instances. Middleton,
you have not yet been to see our excellent friend Mr. Winkworth, and
he is half angry with you."
"I was out of town all yesterday," replied Henry, "and did not arrive
to-day till it was just time to dress. I was very sorry indeed to
find, from your note, that he had met with such an unpleasant
adventure. I hope he is better."
"Oh, going on quite well," said Charles, "and, though still obliged to
keep his bed, will be very glad to see you."
"I will call early to-morrow," replied Henry; "and now, shall we not
join the ladies? This sitting after dinner seems a very strange custom
to our foreign eyes."
As he spoke, he rose, and the rest followed his example.
In the drawing-room the whole party were more at ease, for they
divided themselves according to their several tastes, and Henry was by
Maria's side during a great part of the evening. The moments flew
happily with them; for, though she was a little anxious in regard to
the keen and searching look with which her uncle observed the open
attentions of her lover, yet there was a counterbalancing pleasure in
his society and his conversation, which fully made up for the slight
uneasiness she experienced.
She was too frank and straightforward in her nature to conceal
altogether the happiness she felt, although she strove to do so as far
as possible, and endeavoured to show every attention to her aunt's
guests, who were soon increased by two or three visiters from the
neighbourhood. She even fancied that she succeeded very well; but
nevertheless there was hardly an eye in the room which did not remark
certain small differences of manner when speaking with Colonel
Middleton--a look of bright intelligence, a happy-hearted smile, which
betrayed the secret to more than one talkative person, who was quite
ready to carry the news over the whole town.
Henry, too, seemed either carried away by passion or perversely
determined to display his love. When obliged to converse with others,
although his conversation was very different from that of most men of
the world in the great capital--deep, powerful, going to the very
heart of the matter in question--yet withal there was a sparkling
gaiety of manner, a laughing and almost ironical spirit, veiling the
depths of the ideas. It was like one of those fine-toned and plaintive
airs in the works of the Italian composers, to which is attached a gay
and fluttering accompaniment, as if to bide under an airy mockery the
strength of the feelings expressed. But when he conversed with her it
was all very different: the language, though not the language of love,
was all deep-toned, warm, and impassioned; and the manner, though it
might not be sad, was in perfect harmony with the words.
Mr. Scriven marked the whole, very much displeased, and determined
promptly to interfere, though he somewhat miscalculated the extent of
his power. Excellent Lady Fleetwood, too, was very uneasy. Having made
up her mind that Charles Marston ought somehow or other to marry his
cousin, she saw all sorts of dangers and perplexities in the very
marked attentions of Colonel Middleton, and the favourable manner in
which Maria received them. She looked at Charles several times to see
how he bore it, and was very willing, had it been possible, to have
bestowed a good deal of unnecessary compassion upon her nephew. But
Charles seemed obstinately resolved to show that he wanted no
compassion at all. He talked a great deal to Lady Anne Mellent, and
Lady Anne to him; and every now and then a quiet little ray of loving
light stole out of her eyes as she lifted them to Charles Marston's,
which might have undeceived any one but an aunt or a parent.
In the end, however, Lady Anne sent him away from her, saying in a low
voice--
"There--go and talk to somebody else. We have flirted together enough
to-night--perhaps too much, Charles; and now I am going to flirt with
Colonel Middleton to make up for it;" and her ladyship kept her word,
for she took an opportunity, very soon after, of calling Henry to her
side, and to the eyes of most people in the room seemed to be
coquetting with him in a very determined manner.
It were vain to deny that Charles Marston felt a little
uncomfortable--I will not say exactly jealous, for that would imply
more than he felt; but he wished that Lady Anne would be a little more
cautious, and thought that she and Frank Middleton need not exactly
talk in so low a tone, or with their heads quite so close together. He
spoke worse Spanish than ever to the fair young countess, beside whom
he had sat down; and he was going on step by step to make himself
seriously uneasy, when Lady Anne's eyes were suddenly turned towards
him, and found his fixed upon her face. A very grave look instantly
came over it. It seemed to him like a look of reproach, and the words
of warning which she had spoken to him the moment before instantly
recurred to his mind.
"There is some secret here," he said to himself: "she warned me of the
very course she is now pursuing, and told me she had a motive for it.
It is difficult to conceive what it can be, and yet it is strange how
I myself have always felt towards Middleton ever since I knew him.
From the first moment he seemed like an old friend, and his face, too,
was familiar to me. If I had not known that he had been brought up all
his life in Spain, I should have fancied we had been at Eton
together."
At that moment his uncle approached, and bending down his head, he
said--
"I must have some conversation with you, Charles, about this friend of
yours. Do you know much of his history?"
"Oh, dear, yes!" replied his nephew. "I heard the whole of it from the
Spanish ambassador at Rome, who is a relation of his. He is the son of
Dona Eleanora Xamorça, the niece of Don Balthazar, a rich old grandee
who died some time ago. During some of the troubles in Spain she was
sent into a convent for protection, and thence ran away with and
married an English gentleman of the name of Middleton. They soon
quarrelled, however, and separated; and the old gentleman took her boy
and brought him up as his own son."
"Do you happen to recollect the face of your old schoolfellow Henry
Hayley?" asked Mr. Scriven.
"Good heaven! so he is!--very like indeed," said Charles. "I have
often been puzzling myself to think who it is to whom he bears so
great a resemblance."
"Great indeed," said Mr. Scriven, drily; "so great that I do not
understand it. It is impossible, I suppose, that they can be the same
person?"
Charles Marston laughed.
"Utterly, my dear uncle," he said. "Here is Fraga, who has known him
from his boyhood; and depend upon it, Spaniards are not such
disinterested people as to suffer a stranger to deprive them of a
large fortune, without being very sure that he had a right to it. Now,
I know that Middleton came in for one-third of old Balthazar's riches.
You may ask any one in Spanish society. The thing is perfectly well
known."
"Humph!" said Mr. Scriven, and walked away.
He had suggested thoughts to his nephew's mind, however, which did not
so speedily retire. The likeness, when it had been once pointed out,
struck him more and more every moment. The strange intimacy which had
arisen between the young officer and Lady Anne, to whom he was almost
a stranger, and the evident regard which existed between him and
Maria, whose heart was little likely to be captivated at first sight,
were all extraordinary circumstances, which seemed to favour the
suspicions that his uncle entertained, and were with difficulty
accounted for on any other ground. But then, on the other hand, the
information he had received, in regard to his friend's birth and
history, was so precise, and had been given by persons necessarily so
well informed, that it was impossible for him to doubt that the young
officer was exactly what he represented himself to be. Charles was in
a maze of perplexity, and remained so all the evening, till at length
Lady Anne beckoned him to her side again, and playfully scolded him
for his thoughts.
Charles laughingly evaded the attack, but she asked--
"Do you think I cannot read your looks? I will tell you one thing,
Charles: if you could see what is going on in my heart, as well as I
can see what is going on in yours, I should have no such looks to
complain of. And now, for your pains, I will torment you for a week
longer, the latter part of which you shall come and spend with me in
Northumberland.--There! do not suppose I am going to insist upon your
marrying me directly, for I do not intend any such thing; but I have
engaged dear aunt Fleetwood and Maria, while you four gentlemen were
down-stairs drinking too much wine, after the sottish custom of the
land, and I asked Colonel Middleton just now, so you must come and be
jealous."
"But Winkworth?" said Charles--"I do not like to leave him in his
present state."
"He must come too," said the fair lady. "I will call and ask him
to-morrow, so pray tell him that I never suffer myself to be
contradicted by anybody."
"Can you not put it off for a week?" asked Charles. "I do not think
Winkworth will be well enough to travel."
Lady Anne mused.
"No," she said, "I cannot, for I have determined to take Frank
Middleton down there on Thursday next; and you know, Charles, it
wouldn't do for him and me to go down and live together by ourselves
till you and your friend were ready to come. Propriety--think of
propriety!" and she looked up in his face with a gay and meaning
laugh. "No, no; get your friend well as soon as you can. Maria and I
and Lady Fleetwood will go down on Wednesday, Colonel Middleton will
come down on Thursday, and you and Mr. Winkworth must join us
afterwards. So now good-bye, for I am going home."
Charles saw her to her carriage, and then, without returning to his
aunt's drawing-room, walked across to his own hotel; but during a
great part of the night his thoughts were occupied with Henry Hayley
and Colonel Middleton, and the same objects formed the subject of his
dreams.