A CRITIC--A CONDITION--AND THE SMALL-SWORDS.
Lord Aspenly walked forth among the trim hedges and secluded walks
which surrounded the house, and by alternately taking enormous pinches
of rappee, and humming a favourite air or two, he wonderfully assisted
his philosophy in recovering his equanimity.
"It matters but little how the affair ends," thought his lordship, "if
in matrimony--the girl is, after all, a very fine girl: but if the
matter is fairly off, in that case I shall--look very foolish,"
suggested his conscience faintly, but his lordship dismissed the
thought precipitately--"in that case I shall make it a point to marry
within a fortnight. I should like to know the girl who would refuse
_me_"--"_the only one you ever asked_," suggested his conscience again,
but with no better result--"I should like to see the girl of sense or
discrimination who _could_ refuse me. I shall marry the finest girl in
the country, and _then_ I presume very few will be inclined to call me
fool."
"Not _I_ for one, my lord," exclaimed a voice close by. Lord Aspenly
started, for he was conscious that in his energy he had uttered the
concluding words of his proud peroration with audible emphasis, and
became instantly aware that the speaker was no other than Major
O'Leary.
"Not _I_ for one, my lord," repeated the major, with extreme gravity,
"I take it for granted, my lord, that you are no fool."
"I am obliged to you, Major O'Leary, for your good opinion," replied
his lordship, drily, with a surprised look and a stiff inclination of
his person.
"Nothing to be grateful for in it," replied the major, returning the
bow with grave politeness: "if years and discretion increase together,
you and I ought to be models of wisdom by this time of day. I'm proud
of my years, my lord, and I would be half as proud again if I could
count as many as your lordship."
There was something singularly abrupt and uncalled for in all this,
which Lord Aspenly did not very well understand; he therefore stopped
short, and looked in the major's face; but reading in its staid and
formal gravity nothing whatever to furnish a clue to his exact purpose,
he made a kind of short bow, and continued his walk in dignified
silence. There was something exceedingly disagreeable, he thought, in
the manner of his companion--something very near approaching to cool
impertinence--which he could not account for upon any other supposition
than that the major had been prematurely indulging in the joys of
Bacchus. If, however, he thought that by the assumption of the frigid
and lofty dignity with which he met the advances of the major, he was
likely to relieve himself of his company, he was never more lamentably
mistaken. His military companion walked with a careless swagger by his
side, exactly regulating his pace by that of the little nobleman, whose
meditations he had so cruelly interrupted.
"What on earth is to be done with this brute beast?" muttered his
lordship, taking care, however, that the query should not reach the
subject of it. "I must get rid of him--I must speak with the girl
privately--what the deuce is to be done?"
They walked on a little further in perfect silence. At length his
lordship stopped short and exclaimed,--
"My dear major, I am a very dull companion--quite a bore; there are
times when the mind--the--the--spirits require _solitude_--and these
walks are the very scene for a lonely ramble. I dare venture to aver
that you are courting solitude like myself--your silence betrays
you--then pray do not stand on ceremony--_that_ walk leads down toward
the river--pray no ceremony."
"Upon my conscience, my lord, I never was less inclined to stand on
ceremony than I am at this moment," replied the major; "so give
yourself no trouble in the world about me. Nothing would annoy me so
much as to have you think I was doing anything but precisely what I
liked best myself."
Lord Aspenly bowed, took a violent pinch of snuff, and walked on, the
major still keeping by his side. After a long silence his lordship
began to lilt his own sweet verses in a careless sort of a way, which
was intended to convey to his tormentor that he had totally forgotten
his presence:--
"Tho' Chloe slight me when I woo,
And scorn the love of poor Philander;
The shepherd's heart she scorns is true,
His heart is true, his passion tender."
"Passion tender," observed the major--"_passion_ tender--it's a
_nurse_-tender the like of you and me ought to be looking
for--_passion_ tender--upon my conscience, a good joke."
Lord Aspenly was strongly tempted to give vent to his feelings; but
even at the imminent risk of bursting, he managed to suppress his fury.
The major was certainly (however unaccountable and mysterious the fact
might be) in a perfectly cut-throat frame of mind, and Lord Aspenly had
no desire to present _his_ weasand for the entertainment of his
military friend.
"Tender--_tender_," continued the inexorable major, "allow me, my lord,
to suggest the word _tough_ as an improvement--_tender_, my lord, is a
term which does not apply to chickens beyond a certain time of life,
and it strikes me as too bold a license of poetry to apply it to a
gentleman of such extreme and venerable old age as your lordship; for I
take it for granted that Philander is another name for yourself."
As the major uttered this critical remark, Lord Aspenly felt his brain,
as it were, fizz with downright fury; the instinct of self-preservation,
however, triumphed; he mastered his generous indignation, and resumed
his walk in a state of mind nothing short of awful.
"My lord," inquired the major, with tragic abruptness, and with very
stern emphasis--"I take the liberty of asking, _have you made your
soul_?"
The precise nature of the major's next proceeding, Lord Aspenly could
not exactly predict; of one thing, however, he felt assured, and that
was, that the designs of his companion were decidedly of a dangerous
character, and as he gazed in mute horror upon the major, confused but
terrific ideas of "homicidal monomania," and coroner's inquests floated
dimly through his distracted brain.
"My soul?" faltered he, in undisguised trepidation.
"Yes, my lord," repeated the major, with remarkable coolness, "have you
made your soul?"
During this conference his lordship's complexion had shifted from its
original lemon-colour to a lively orange, and thence faded gradually
off into a pea-green; at which hue it remained fixed during the
remainder of the interview.
"I protest--you cannot be serious--I am wholly in the dark. Positively,
Major O'Leary, this is very unaccountable conduct--you really
ought--pray explain."
"Upon my conscience, I _will_ explain," rejoined the major, "although
the explanation won't make you much more in love with your present
predicament, unless I am very much out. You made my niece, Mary
Ashwoode, an offer of marriage to-day; well, she was much obliged to
you, but she did not _want_ to marry you, and she told you so civilly.
Did you then, like a man and a gentleman, take your answer from her as
you ought to have done, quietly and courteously? No, you did not; you
went to bully the poor girl, and to insult her; because she politely
declined to marry a--a--an ugly bunch of wrinkles, like you; and you
threatened to tell Sir Richard--ay, you _did_--to tell him your pitiful
story, you--you--you--but wait awhile. You want to have the poor girl
frightened and bullied into marrying you. Where's your spirit or your
feeling, my lord? But you don't know what the words mean. If ever you
did, you'd sooner have been racked to death, than have terrified and
insulted a poor friendless girl, as you thought her. But she's _not_
friendless. I'll teach you she's not. As long as this arm can lift a
small-sword, and while the life is in my body, I'll never see any woman
maltreated by a scoundrel--a _scoundrel_, my lord; but I'll bring him
to his knees for it, or die in the attempt. And holding these opinions,
did you think I'd let you offend my niece? _No_, sir, I'd be blown to
atoms first."
"Major O'Leary," replied his lordship, as soon as he had collected his
thoughts and recovered breath to speak, "your conduct is exceedingly
violent--very, and, I will add, most hasty and indiscreet. You have
entirely misconceived me, you have mistaken the whole affair. You will
regret this violence--I protest--I know you will, when you understand
the whole matter. At present, knowing the nature of your feelings, I
protest, though I might naturally resent your observations, it is not
in my nature, in my _heart_ to be angry." This was spoken with a very
audible quaver.
"You _would_, my lord, you _would_ be angry," rejoined the major,
"you'd _dance_ with fury this moment, if you _dared_. You could find it
in your heart to go into a passion with a _girl_; but talking with men
is a different sort of thing. Now, my lord, we are both here, with our
swords; no place can be more secluded, and, I presume, no two men more
willing. Pray draw, my lord, or I'll be apt to spoil your velvet and
gold lace."
"Major O'Leary, I _will_ be heard!" exclaimed Lord Aspenly, with an
earnestness which the imminent peril of his person inspired--"I _must_
have a word or two with you, before we put this dispute to so deadly an
arbitrament."
The major had foreseen and keenly enjoyed the reluctance and the
evident tremors of his antagonist. He returned his half-drawn sword to
its scabbard with an impatient thrust, and, folding his arms, looked
down with supreme contempt upon the little peer.
"Major O'Leary, you have been misinformed--Miss Ashwoode has mistaken
me. I assure you, I meant no disrespect--none in the world, I protest.
I may have spoken hastily--perhaps I did--but I never intended
disrespect--never for a moment."
"Well, my lord, suppose that I admit that you did _not_ mean any
disrespect; and suppose that I distinctly assert that I have neither
right nor inclination just now to call you to an account for anything
you may have said, in your interview this morning, offensive to my
niece; I give you leave to suppose it, and, what's more, in supposing
it, I solemnly aver, you suppose neither more nor less than the exact
truth," said the major.
"Well, then, Major O'Leary," replied Lord Aspenly, "I profess myself
wholly at a loss to understand your conduct. I presume, at all events,
that nothing further need pass between us about the matter."
"Not so fast, my lord, if you please," rejoined the major; "a great
deal more must pass between us before I have done with your lordship;
although I cannot punish you for the past, I have a perfect right to
restrain you for the future. I have a proposal to make, to which I
expect your lordship's assent--a proposal which, under the
circumstances, I dare say, you will think, however unpleasant, by no
means unreasonable."
"Pray state it," said Lord Aspenly, considerably reassured on finding
that the debate was beginning to take a diplomatic turn.
"This is my proposal, then," replied the major: "you shall write a
letter to Sir Richard, renouncing all pretensions to his daughter's
hand, and taking upon yourself the whole responsibility of the measure,
without implicating _her_ directly or indirectly; do you mind: and you
shall leave this place, and go wherever you please, before supper-time
to-night. These are the conditions on which I will consent to spare
you, my lord, and upon no other shall you escape."
"Why, what can you mean, Major O'Leary?" exclaimed the little coxcomb,
distractedly. "If I did any such thing, I should be run through by Sir
Richard or his rakehelly son; besides, I came here for a wife--my
friends know it; I _cannot_ consent to make a fool of myself. How
_dare_ you presume to propose such conditions to me?"
The little gentleman as he wound up, had warmed so much, that he placed
his hand on the hilt of his sword. Without one word of commentary, the
major drew his, and with a nod of invitation, threw himself into an
attitude of defence, and resting the point of his weapon upon the
ground, awaited the attack of his adversary. Perhaps Lord Aspenly
regretted the precipitate valour which had prompted him to place his
hand on his sword-hilt, as much as he had ever regretted any act of his
whole life; it was, however, too late to recede, and with the hurried
manner of one who has made up his mind to a disagreeable thing, and
wishes it soon over, he drew his also, and their blades were instantly
crossed in mortal opposition.