A Modern Bayard.
Perhaps Lady Carruthers never did a more unwise thing than when she left
her son, with his peculiar temperament and notions, to go through a
London season alone. She honestly believed herself to be doing right.
She was ill and unable to bear the whirl of fashion and gaiety. She
could not withdraw him from town to spend the gayest month of the year
in seclusion.
"Leave him to me, Hildegarde," said her cousin, Colonel Mostyn. "I will
pilot him safely through the rocks and deep waters; nothing makes a man
as self-reliant as feeling that he is trusted entirely."
And knowing that Colonel Mostyn was an elderly man, who knew about as
much as there was to know of life in all its phases, Lady Hildegarde had
no scruples.
The colonel and the young squire were most luxuriously established at
Roche House, the Carruthers' family mansion in Belgravia. Lady
Hildegarde made every arrangement for keeping up the establishment in
all bachelor's comforts. There was an excellent housekeeper, one who had
been at Ulverston Priory for many years.
"You will be able to give some good dinner-parties," she said to her
son; "bachelor dinners--bien entender--for Mrs. Richards is an excellent
housekeeper."
Assured and satisfied that all would go well, she left London. She
hesitated as to whether she should give her son any warning about love
or marriage, then decided that it would be quite useless.
"The boy is naturally so fastidious and refined," she thought; "he will
never love beneath him. He will see no one so nice as Marion."
So Lady Hildegarde Carruthers went to her stately home, little dreaming
of the fatal news that was to follow her.
Basil cared little for the fashions and frivolities of the day; Colonel
Mostyn tried to laugh him out of his romantic and chivalrous ideas.
"You are behind the age, Basil--quite unfit for it," he would say to
him. "Chevalier Bayard would not be appreciated in these times."
He listened with a smile on his face, while the young man talked of
something to do--some grand action to fill up his life, some heroic deed
with which to crown himself.
"Utopian, Basil--all those are Utopian ideas. Progress is the order of
the day."
"Is there nothing?" asked Basil, "no way in which a man may distinguish
himself after the fashion of the heroes of old?"
The colonel smiled sarcastically.
"My dear boy," he said, "between ourselves, some of those heroes of
yours were unmitigated ruffians, I hardly like to give utterance to such
a sentiment, yet I believe it. You cannot defend a bridge after the
fashion of Horatius--you cannot conquer worlds like Alexander. I fancy
you will have to be content with being one of the best lords of the
manor Rutsford has ever known."
"You are sentimental, Basil," he said to him one morning, "but not
practical. A man is nothing unless he is practical. Why not give up all
these foolish notions of being a great hero? Go down to Ulverston,
build schools, almhouses, mechanics' institutes and all that kind of
thing. Marry and bring up your family to fear God and serve the queen.
One ounce of such practice is worth all the theory in the world."
But Basil could not see it--he longed for the unattainable, the ideal.
What lay plainly before him was a matter of great indifference to him.
Colonel Mostyn, the keen, cynical man of the world, was, perhaps, the
best companion he could have had. But the colonel had many anxious
thoughts over him. At last an idea struck him.
"The finest thing that could happen to Basil would be a very decided
flirtation with a beautiful, worldly woman, who would laugh him out of
these fantastic ideas and make a modern man of him."
So thought the colonel, and so has thought many a one before him, little
dreaming of the danger of playing with fire.
But Basil did not seem to care much for ladies' society. He went to two
or three grand balls and pronounced them stupid, on hearing which, the
colonel raised his eyes and hands in horror.
"A young man of twenty who finds a ball stupid is past hope," he said.
There had been a great flutter in the dovecotes when it was known that
Basil Carruthers, the heir of Ulverston, son of the great statesman, a
young man whose income was quite twenty thousand per annum, besides the
savings of a long minority, was in London--free, disengaged, and, as a
matter of course, wanting a wife. Invitations literally poured in upon
him--he accepted them at first, but soon grew tired.
"A tres dansantes at Lady Cecilia Gorton's," he said, holding out an
invitation card at arm's length. "Go, if you like, colonel. I do not
care for it."
The colonel was engrossed in the buttering of his roll, an operation
which he always performed himself, but he was sufficiently astonished to
pause in his proceedings and look at his nephew with a very horrified
face.
"You do not mean to tell me, Basil, that you are tired of ladies--young
ladies?"
"My dear colonel," said the young man, quietly, "I am very sorry to tell
you that I find one chignon very much the same as another."
Colonel Mostyn sighed deeply. What Mentor could make anything out of
such a Telemachus? He resigned himself, thankful that what he called one
civilized taste remained--Basil enjoyed the opera.
"I would really sooner see him fall in love with an opera dancer than
remain what he is," thought the man of the world.
One evening they went to the opera. It was "Lucretia Borgia," and, as
usual, Basil Carruthers saw nothing but the stage. In vain did the
unwearied colonel call his attention to Lady Evelyn Hope, the lovely
blonde; the fascinating Spanish Countess Rosella; to the twin sisters,
the Ladies Isabel and Marie Duncan--he looked at them without interest.
"I wonder," thought the colonel to himself, "if the woman be living who
could touch that cold, icy heart!"
The opera was nearly over when he saw Basil looking intently at the
occupants of a box on the grand tier. He even raised his glass, and sat
for some minutes oblivious of everything and everyone except one central
figure. Very quietly and without attracting Basil's attention, Colonel
Mostyn raised his glass and looked at the box. His gaze was steadfast
for some minutes, then he gave utterance to a prolonged sigh.
"That will do," he said to himself.
Like the diplomatist that he was, Colonel Mostyn said never a word, but
when the act was ended, he turned to Basil.
"I see a lady, an old friend of mine, and I am going to spend a few
minutes with her."
He went to the box, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Basil never
removed his glass. When he returned to his own seat, the heir of
Ulverston said, somewhat eagerly:
"Who is that lady, colonel, with whom you have been speaking?"
"My dear boy," he replied, "one chignon is just like another; which do
you mean?"
"There is no chignon in this case. I mean the lady with whom you have
been speaking."
"That is Lady Amelie Lisle," he replied, briefly.
"Amelie Lisle!" repeated Basil; "but who is she?"
"If you wish to know her pedigree, you must consult Burke's Peerage. I
can only remember that she is the daughter of Lord Grayson, who married
a French duchess, and rumor says she is the loveliest and most
accomplished woman in England."
"Is she married?" was the next question.
"Yes; she married Lord Lisle, and rumor, always busy with beautiful
women, says again that she is not too happy. Do you know Lord Lisle?"
"No; I do not remember having ever seen him."
"When you do, you will realize what it is for a man to be all animal. He
eats well, sleeps well, drinks well; he rides out a great deal in the
fresh air; he is tall and portly, never, perhaps, read a book through in
his life, good humored, generous in his way, but obstinate as a--well,
as a woman."
"And is that lovely lady married to such a man?"
"Yes; the lovely lady was very young, and perhaps his fortune tempted
her. She is all fire and poetry, plays with passion as children play
with sharp knives."
"Will you introduce me?" asked Basil Carruthers.
"My dear Basil," replied the wily diplomatist, with an air of assumed
frankness, "I really do not think you would like her. She is fond of
balls, of dancing, of all sorts of amusements that you despise. If I
introduce you to anybody at all, it must be to Minerva in disguise."
"I should not like Minerva," was the abrupt reply.
"Well, as you seem anxious, I will undertake it. We are going to the
Duchess of Hexham's ball tomorrow evening. Lady Amelie Lisle is sure to
be there--no grand ball is complete without her. She is so surrounded
now. I hardly like to interrupt her. Are you going to the Hexham ball?"
Now Basil had said no, he should certainly decline the invitation, but
he seemed to forget it.
"Certainly I shall go," he said.
"Ah, then we shall see her there," replied the colonel, and his long
mustache concealed the triumphant smile with which he listened to the
words.