BOOT AND SADDLE
“THE GRAND MILITARY”--SPORT, BUT NOT PLEASURE--WARLIKE
ADVANCES--SOME OF ALL SORTS--AN EQUESTRIAN FEAT--THEY’RE
OFF--RIDING TO WIN--FOLLOW-MY-LEADER--WELL OVER AND WELL
IN--HOME IN A HURRY--A CLOSE RACE--THE HEIRESS WITH MANY
FRIENDS--A DAY’S AMUSEMENT
“Card of the running ’orses--_cor_-rect card! Major, dear, you always
take a card of me!” pleads a weather-worn, good-looking,
smart-ribboned card-woman, standing up to her ankles in mud on
Guyville race-course. Poor thing! hers is a strange, hard, vagabond
sort of life. This very morning she has heard mass (being an
Irish-woman) seventeen miles off, and she will be on her legs the
whole of the livelong day, and have a good supper and a hard bed, and
be up at dawn to-morrow, ready and willing for a forty-mile tramp
wherever money is to be made; so, in the meantime, she hands up
half-a-dozen damp cards to Gaston D’Orville, now Major in “The
Loyals,” and this day principal acting-steward of “The Grand Military
Steeple-Chase.”
The Major is but slightly altered since we saw him last at
Bishops’-Baffler. His tall figure may, perhaps, be a trifle fuller,
and the lines of dissipation round his eyes and mouth a little deeper,
while here and there his large whiskers and clustering hair are just
sprinkled with grey; but for all this, he is still about the
finest-looking man on the course, and of this fact, as of every other
advantage of his position, no one is better aware than himself. Yet is
he not a vain man; cool and calculating, he looks upon such “pulls in
his favour,” as he calls them, much as he would on “a point in the
odds,”--mere chances in the game of life, to be made the most of when
opportunity offers. He has just got upon a remarkably handsome white
horse, to show the military equestrians “the line” over which they are
to have an opportunity of breaking their necks, and is surrounded by a
posse of great-coated, shawl-handkerchiefed, and goloshed individuals,
mostly striplings, who are nervously ready to scan the obstacles they
are destined to encounter.
There are nine starters for the great event, and professional
speculators at “The Kingmakers’ Arms” are even now wagering that not
above three ever reach “home,” so low an opinion do they entertain of
“the soldiers’ riding,” or so ghastly do they deem the fences flagged
out to prove the warriors’ metal. Four miles over a stiff country,
with a large brook, and a finish in front of the grand-stand, will
furnish work for the horses and excitement for the ladies, whilst the
adventurous jocks are even now glancing at one another aghast at the
unexpected strength and height of these impediments, which, to a man
on foot, look positively awful.
“I object to this fence decidedly,” observes a weak, thin voice,
which, under his multiplicity of wraps, we have some difficulty in
identifying as the property of Sir Ascot Uppercrust. “I object in the
name of all the riders--it is positively dangerous--don’t you agree
with me?” he adds, pointing to a formidable “double post and rail,”
with but little room between, and appealing to his fellow-sufferers,
who all coincide with him but one.
“Nothing for a hunter,” says the dissentient, who, seeing that the
exploit has to be performed in full view of the ladies in the stand,
would have it worse if he could. “Nothing for any horse that is
properly ridden;--what do you say, major?”
“I agree with Kettering,” replies the Major; for our friend “Charlie”
it is, who is now surveying the country on foot, in a huge white
great-coat, with a silver-mounted whip under his arm, and _no gloves_.
He is quite the “gentleman-rider,” and has fully made up his mind to
win the steeple-chase. For this has poor Haphazard been deprived of
his usual sport in the field, and trained with such severity as Mr.
Snaffles has thought advisable; for this has his young master been
shortening his stirrups and riding daily gallops, and running miles
up-hill to keep him in wind, till there is little left of his original
self save his moustaches, which have grown visibly during the winter;
and for this have the ladies of the family been stitching for days at
the smartest silk jacket that ever was made (orange and blue, with
gold tags), only pausing in their labours to visit Haphazard in the
stable, and bring him such numerous offerings in the shape of bread,
apples, and lump-sugar, that had Mr. Snaffles not laid an embargo on
all “tit-bits,” the horse would ere this have been scarcely fit to run
for a saddle!
Mrs. Delaval having been as severely bitten with the sporting mania as
Blanche, they are even now sitting in the grand-stand perusing the
list of the starters as if their lives depended on it--and each lady
wears a blue and orange ribbon in her bonnet, the General, who escorts
them, appearing in an alarming neckcloth of the same hues.
The stand is already nearly full, and Blanche, herself not the least
attraction to many of the throng, has manœuvred into a capital
place with Mary by her side, and is in a state of nervous delight,
partly at the gaiety of the scene, partly at the coming contest in
which “Cousin Charlie” is to engage, and partly at the anticipation of
the Guyville ball, her first appearance in public, to take place this
very night. Row upon row the benches have been gradually filling, till
the assemblage looks like a variegated parterre of flowers to those in
the arena below. In that enclosed space are gathered, besides the
pride of the British army, swells and dandies of every different
description and calibre. Do-nothing gentlemen from London, glad to get
a little fresh air and excitement so cheap. Nimrods from “the shires”
come to criticise the performances, and suggest, by implication, how
much better they could ride themselves. Horse-dealers, and
professional “legs,” of course, whose business it is to make the most
of everything, and whose courteous demeanour is only equalled by the
unblushing effrontery with which they offer “five points” less than
the odds; nor, though last not least, must we omit to mention the
_élite_ of Bubbleton, who have one and all cast up from “the Spout,”
as that salubrious town is sometimes denominated, as they always
do cast up within reach of their favourite resort. Some of all
sorts there are amongst _them_. Gentlemen of family, without
incumbrances--gentlemen with incumbrances and no family; some with
money and no brains--some with brains and no money; some that live on
the fat of the land--others that live upon their wits, and pick up a
subsistence therewith, bare as might be expected from the dearth of
capital on which they trade. In the midst of them we recognise Frank
Hardingstone, sufficiently conspicuous in his simple manly attire,
amongst the chained and velveted and bedizened tigers by whom he is
surrounded. He is talking to a remarkably good-looking and
particularly well-dressed man, known to nearly every one on the course
as Mr. Jason, the famous steeple-chase rider, who has come partly to
sell Mr. Hardingstone a horse, partly to patronise the “soldiers’
performances,” and partly to enjoy the gay scene which he is even now
criticising. He is good enough to express his approval of the ladies
in the stand, taking them _en masse_, though his fastidious taste
cannot but admit that there are “some weedy-looking ones among ’em.”
All this, however, is lost upon Frank Hardingstone, who has ears only
for a conversation going on at his elbow, in which he hears Blanche’s
name mentioned, our friend Lacquers being the principal speaker.
“Three hundred thousand--I give you my honour, every penny of it!”
says that calculating worthy to a speculative dandy with enormous red
whiskers, “and a _nice_ girl too--devilish well read, you know, and
all that.”
“I suppose old Bounce keeps a bright look-out though, don’t he?”
rejoins his friend, who has all the appearance of a man that can make
up his mind in a minute.
“Yeees,” drawls Lacquers; “but it might be done by a fellow with some
energy, you know; she _is_ engaged to young Kettering, her
cousin--‘family pot,’ you know--and she’s very spooney on him; still,
I’ve half a mind to try.”
“Why, the cousin will probably break his neck in the course of the
day; you can introduce me to-night at the ball. By the way, what are
they betting about this young Kettering? Can he ride any?”
“Not a yard,” replies Lacquers, as he turns away to light a cigar,
whilst Lord Mount Helicon--for the red-bearded dandy is no less a
person than that literary peer--dives into the ring to turn an honest
“_pony_,” as he calls it, on its fluctuations.
“Look here, Mr. Hardingstone,” exclaims the observant Jason, forcibly
attracting Frank’s notice to a feat which, as he keeps his eyes fixed
on the stand, is going on behind him. “That’s the way to put ’em at
it, Major! well ridden, by the Lord Harry!” and Frank turns round in
time to witness, with the shouting multitude and the half-frightened
ladies, the gallant manner in which D’Orville’s white horse clears the
double post and rails to which Sir Ascot had objected.
The Major, it is needless to say, is a dauntless horseman, and, on
being remonstrated with by Sir A. and his party on the impracticable
nature of the leap which he had selected for them, and the young
Mohair of the Heavies suggesting that the stewards should always be
compelled to ride over the ground themselves, made no more ado, but
turned the white horse at the unwelcome barrier, and by dint of a fine
hand and a perfectly-broken animal, went “in and out” without
touching, to the uproarious delight of the mob, and the less loudly
expressed admiration of the ladies.
“That’s what I call _in-and-out-clever_,” observes Mr. Jason, as the
shouting subsides, thinking he could not have done it better himself;
and he too elbows his way into the mass of noise, hustling, and
confusion that constitutes the betting-ring.
“We ought to throw our ‘bouquets’ at the white horse!” says Mrs.
Delaval’s next neighbour, a bold-looking lady of a certain age; and
Mary recognises, with mingled feelings, her military adorer and his
well-known grey charger, now showing the lapse of time only by his
change of colour to pure white. “I’m afraid its all very dangerous,”
thinks Blanche, to whom it occurs for the first time that “Cousin
Charlie” may possibly break his neck; but the General at this instant
touches her elbow to introduce “Major D’Orville,” who, having
performed his official duties, has dismounted, and works his way into
the stand to make the agreeable to the ladies, and “have a look at
this Miss Kettering--the very thing, by Jove, if she is tolerably
lady-like.”
How different is the Major’s manner to that of Lacquers, Uppercrust,
and half the other unmeaning dandies whom Blanche is accustomed to see
fluttering round her. He _has_ the least thing of a military swagger,
which most women certainly like, more particularly when in their own
case that lordly demeanour is laid aside for a soft deferential air,
highly captivating to the weaker sex; and nobody understands this
better than D’Orville. The little he says to Blanche is quiet,
amusing, and to the purpose. The heiress is agreeably surprised. The
implied homage of such a man is, to say the least of it, flattering;
and our cavalier has the good sense to take his leave as soon as he
sees he has made a favourable impression, quite satisfied with the way
in which he has “opened the trenches.” At the moment he did so, on
turning round he encountered Mary Delaval. She looked unmoved as
usual, and put out her hand to him, as if they had been in the habit
of meeting every day. With a few incoherent words he bent over those
long well-shaped fingers; and an observant bystander might have had
the good luck to witness a somewhat unusual sight--a Major of Hussars
blushing to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of
the world, the experienced _roué_, the dashing _militaire_, had a
heart, if you could only get at it, like the veriest clown then
‘squiring his red-faced Dolly to “the races”--the natural for the
moment overcame the artificial--and as Gaston edged his way down
through nodding comrades and smiling ladies, the feeling uppermost in
his heart was, “Heavens! how I love this woman still! and what a fool
I am!” But sentiment must not be indulged to the exclusion of
business, and the Major too forces his way into the betting-ring.
There they are, hard at it--_Nobblers_ and noblemen--grooms and
gentlemen--betting-house keepers and cavalry officers--all talking at
once, all intent on having the best of it, and apparently all layers
and no takers. “Eight to one agin Lady Lavender,” says a stout
capitalist, who looks like a grazier in his best clothes. “Take ten,”
lisps the owner, a young gentleman, apparently about sixteen. “I’ll
back Sober John.” “I’ll take nine to two about the Fox.” “I’ll lay
against the field _bar three_.” “I’ll lay five ponies to two _agin_
Haphazard!” vociferates the capitalist. “Done!” cries Charlie, who is
investing on his horse as if he owned the Bank of England. At this
moment Frank Hardingstone pierces into the ring, and drawing Charlie
towards the outskirts, begins to lecture him on the coming struggle,
and to give him useful hints on the art of riding a steeple-chase; for
Frank with his usual decision has resolved not to go into the stand to
talk to Blanche till he has done all in his power to insure the
success of her cousin. “Come and see the horse saddled, you conceited
young jackanapes; don’t fool away any more money; how do you know
you’ll win?” says Frank, taking the excited jockey by the arm and
leading him away to where Haphazard, pawing and snorting, and very
uneasy, is being stripped of his clothing, the centre of an admiring
throng. “I know he can beat Lady Lavender,” replies Charlie, whose
conversation for the last week had been strictly “Newmarket”; “and
he’s five pounds better than the Fox; and Mohair is sure to make a
mess of it with Bendigo--he owns he can’t ride him; and there’s
nothing else has a chance except Sober John, a great half-bred brute!”
“Do you see that quiet-looking man talking to Jason there?” says
Frank; “that’s the man who is to ride Sober John--about the best
_gentleman_ in England, and he’s getting a hint from the best
_professional_. Do you think _you_ can ride like Captain Rocket? Now,
take my advice, Charlie, Haphazard is a nice-tempered horse, you
_wait_ on Sober John--keep close behind him--ride over him if he
falls--but whatever you see Captain Rocket do, _you do the
same_--don’t _come_ till you’re safe over the last fence--and if
you’re not first, you’ll be second!” Charlie promised faithfully to
obey his friend’s directions, though in his own mind he did not think
it possible an _Infantry_ horse could win the great event--Sober John,
if he belonged to any one in particular, being the property of
Lieutenant Sharpes of the Old Hundredth, who stood to win a very
comfortable sum upon the veteran steeple-chaser.
“They look nervous, Tim, most on ’em,” observes Captain Rocket, while
with his own hands he adjusts “the tackle,” as he calls it, on his
horse; and his friend “Tim” giving him a “leg up,” he canters Sober
John past the stand, none of the ladies thinking that docile animal
has the remotest chance of winning. “He seems much too quiet,” says
Blanche, “and he’s dreadfully ugly.” “Beauty is not absolutely
essential in _horses_, Miss Kettering,” replies a deep, quiet voice at
her elbow. Major D’Orville has resumed his place by her side. Though
he thinks he is paying attention to Blanche, he cannot, in reality,
forbear hovering about Mrs. Delaval. That lady, meanwhile, with
clasped hands, is hoping with all her heart that Captain Rocket may
_not win_. If “wishes were horses,” we think this young gentleman now
tearing down the course upon Haphazard, throwing the dirt round him
like a patent turnip-cutter, would have a good many of hers to bear
him on his victorious career. By the way, Mary has never found her
glove; we wonder whether that foolish boy knows anything about it. And
talking of gloves, look at that dazzling pair of white kids on a level
with his chin, in which “Mohair, of the Heavies,” is endeavouring to
control Bendigo. He has had two large glasses of sherry, yet does he
still look very pale--another, and yet another, comes striding past
like a whirlwind--Sir Ascot rides Lady Lavender, and Cornet Capon is
to pilot the Fox. It is very difficult to know which is which amongst
the variegated throng, and the ladies puzzle sadly over their cards,
in which, as is usually the case at steeple-chases, the colours are
all set down wrong. Each damsel, however, has one favourite at least
whom she could recognise in any disguise, and we may be sure that
“blue-and-orange” is not without his well-wishers in the grand-stand.
Major D’Orville is an admirable cicerone, inasmuch as besides being
steward, he has a heavy book on the race, and knows the capabilities
of each horse to a pound, whatever may be his uncertainty as regards
the riders. “Your cousin has a very fair chance, Miss Kettering--he
seems to ride uncommonly well for _such a boy_; Sir Ascot wants
nerve, and Mohair can’t manage his horse.” “See, they’ve got ’em in
line,” exclaims the General, who is in a state of frantic excitement
altogether. “Silence, pray! he’s going to--ah, the blundering
blockhead, it’s a false start!” Major D’Orville takes out his
double-glasses, and proceeds quietly without noticing the
interruption, “Then the Fox has been lame, and Capon is a sad
performer; nevertheless, you shall have your choice, Miss Kettering,
and I’ll bet you a pair of gloves on the----By Jove, they’re off,” and
the Major puts his glasses up in scarcely veiled anxiety, whilst Mary
Delaval’s heart beats thick and fast, as she strains her eyes towards
the fleeting tulip-coloured throng, drawing gradually out from the
dark mass of spectators that have gone to witness the start.
How easy it looks to go cantering along over a nice grass country,
properly flagged out so as to insure the performers from making any
mistakes; and how trifling the obstacles appear over which they are
following each other like a string of wild geese, more particularly
when you, the spectator, are quietly ensconced in a comfortable seat,
sheltered from the wind, and viewing the sports at a respectful
distance. Perhaps you might not think it quite such child’s play were
you assisting in the pageant on the back of a headstrong, powerful
horse, rendered irritable and violent by severe training (of which
discipline this unfortunate class of animal gets more than enough),
rasping your knuckles against his withers, and pulling your arms out
of their sockets, because he, the machine, is all anxiety to get to
the end, whilst you the controlling, or who ought to be the
controlling power, have received strict injunctions “to wait.” If your
whole energies were not directed to the one object of “doing your
duty” and winning your race, you might possibly have leisure to
reflect on your somewhat hazardous position. “Neck-or-nothing” has
just disappeared, doubling up himself and Mr. Fearless in a
complicated kind of fall, at the very place over which you must
necessarily follow; and should your horse, who is shaking his head
furiously, as you vainly endeavour to steady him, make the slightest
mistake, you shudder to think of “Frantic” running away with her rider
close behind you. Nevertheless, it is impossible to decline “eternal
misery on this side and certain death on the other,” but _go you
must_, and when safe into the next field there is nothing of any
importance till you come to the brook. To be sure, the animal you are
riding never would _face water_, still, your spurs are sharp, and you
have a vague sort of trust that you may get over _somehow_. You really
deserve to win, yet will we, albeit unused to computation of the odds,
willingly bet you five to four that you are neither first nor second.
In the meantime, our friends in the stand make their running
commentaries on the race. “How slow they are going,” says Blanche,
who, like all ladies, has a most liberal idea of “pace.” “_He’s
over!_” mutters Mary Delaval, as “blue-and-orange” skims lightly over
the first fence, undistinguished, save by _her_, amidst the rest. “One
down!” says a voice, and there is a slight scream from amongst the
prettiest of the bonnets. “Red-and-white cap--who is it?” and what
with the distraction of watching the others, and the confusion on the
cards, Bendigo has been caught and remounted ere the hapless
Lieutenant Mohair can be identified. Meanwhile the string is
lengthening out. “Uppy is making frightful running,” says Major
D’Orville, thinking how right he was to stand heavily against
Lady Lavender; “however, the Fox is close upon him; and
that’s Haphazard, Miss Kettering, just behind Sober John.”
“Two--four--six--seven--nine--what a pretty sight!” says Blanche, but
she turns away her head with a shudder as a party-coloured jacket goes
down at the next fence, neither horse nor rider rising again. One
always fancies the worst, and Mary turns pale as death, and clasps her
hands tighter than ever. And now they arrive at the double post and
rails, which have been erected purposely for the gratification of the
ladies in the stand. The first three bound over it in their stride
like so many deer. Captain Rocket pulls his horse into a trot, and
Sober John goes in-and-out quite as clever as did the Major’s white
charger. Mr. Jason is good enough to express his approval. Charlie
follows the example of his leader, and though he hits it very hard,
Haphazard’s fine shape saves him from a fall. Blanche thinks him the
noblest hero in England, and nobody but D’Orville remarks how very
pale Mrs. Delaval is getting. Mohair essays to follow the example
thus set him, and succeeds in doing the first half of his task
admirably, but no power on earth will induce Bendigo to jump _out_
after jumping _in_, and eventually he is obliged to be ignominiously
extricated by a couple of carpenters and a handsaw. His companions
diverge, like a flight of wild-fowl, towards the brook. The Fox, who
is now leading, refuses; and the charitable Nimrods, and dandies, and
swells, and professionals, all vote that Capon’s heart failed him, and
“he didn’t put in half enough powder.” The Major knows better. The
horse was once his property, and he has not laid against it without
reason. The brook creates much confusion; but Sober John singles
himself out from the ruck, and flies it without an effort, closely
followed by Haphazard and Lady Lavender. The rest splash and struggle,
and get over as they best can, with but little chance now of coming up
with the first three. They all turn towards home, and the pace is
visibly increasing. Captain Rocket is leading, but Charlie’s horse is
obviously full of running, and the boy is gradually drawing away from
Lady Lavender, and nearer and nearer to the front. Already people
begin to shout “Haphazard wins”; and the General is hoarse with
excitement. “Charlie wins!” he exclaims, his lace purple, and the ends
of his blue-and-orange handkerchief floating on the breeze. “Charlie
wins! I tell you. Look how he’s coming up. Zounds! don’t contradict
_me_, sir!” he roars out to the intense dismay of his next neighbour,
a meek old gentleman, who has only come to the steeple-chase in order
that he may write an account of it for a magazine, and who shrinks
from the General as from a raving madman. “Now, Captain Rocket,”
shouts the multitude, as if that unmoved man would attend to anything
but the business in hand. They reach the last fence neck-and-neck,
Haphazard landing slightly in advance. “Kettering wins!” “_Blast_
him!” hisses D’Orville between his teeth, turning white as a sheet He
stands to lose eighteen hundred by Haphazard alone, and we question
whether, on reliable security, the Major could raise eighteen-pence.
Nevertheless, he turns the next instant to Blanche, with a quiet,
unmoved smile, to congratulate her on her cousin’s probable success.
“If he can only ‘finish,’ Miss Kettering, he can’t lose,” says the
speculator; but he still trusts that “if” may save him the price of
his commission.
What a moment for Charlie! Hot, breathless, and nearly exhausted, his
brain reeling with the shouts of the populace, and the wild excitement
of the struggle, one idea is uppermost in his mind--if man and horse
can do it, _win he will_. Steadily has he ridden four long miles,
taking the greatest pains with his horse, and restraining his own
eagerness to be in front, as well as that of the gallant animal. He
has kept his eye fixed on Captain Rocket, and regulated his every
movement by that celebrated performer. And now he is drawing slightly
in advance of him, and one hundred yards more will complete his
triumph. Yet, inexperienced as he is, he cannot but feel that
Haphazard is no longer the elastic, eager goer whom he has been
regulating so carefully, and the truth shoots across him that his
horse is beat. Well, he ought to last another hundred yards. See, the
double flags are waving before him, and the shouts of his own name
fall dully upon his ear. He hears Captain Rocket’s whip at work, and
is not aware how that judicious artist is merely plying it against his
own boot to flurry the young one. Charlie begins to flog. “Sit
_still_!” shouts Frank Hardingstone from the stand. Charlie works arms
and legs like a windmill, upsets his horse, who would win if he were
but let alone--Sober John shows his great ugly head alongside.
Haphazard changes his leg--Major D’Orville draws a long breath of
relief--Captain Rocket, with a grim smile, and one fierce stab with
his spurs, glides slightly in advance--and Haphazard is beaten on the
post by half a length, Lady Lavender a bad third, and the rest
nowhere!
* * * * *
Blanche is dreadfully disappointed. The General thinks “the lad
deserves great credit for being second in such good company;” but the
tears stand in Mary Delaval’s eyes--tears, we believe, of gratitude at
his not being brought home on a hurdle, instead of riding into the
weighing enclosure with the drooping self-satisfied air, and the
arms hanging powerless down his side, which distinguish the
gentleman-jockey after his exertions. The boy is scarcely
disappointed. To have been so near winning, and to have run second for
such an event as the “Grand Military,” is a feather in his cap, of
which he is in no slight degree proud; and he walks into the stand the
hero of the day, for Captain Rocket is no lady’s man, and is engaged
to risk his neck again to-morrow a hundred miles from here. So he has
put on a long great-coat and disappeared. The General accounts for
Charlie’s defeat on a theory peculiarly his own. “_Virtually_” says
he, “my nephew won the race. How d’ye mean _beat_? It was twenty yards
over the four miles. Twenty yards from home he was a length in front.
If the stewards had been worth their salt, we should have won. Don’t
tell _me_!”
There is more racing, but the great event has come off, and our
friends in the stand occupy themselves only with luncheon. Frank
Hardingstone comes up to speak to Blanche, but she is so surrounded
and hemmed in, that beyond shaking hands with her he might as well be
back at his own place on the south coast, for any enjoyment he can
have in her society. Major D’Orville is rapidly gaining ground in the
good graces of all the Newton-Hollows party. He has won a great stake,
and is in brilliant spirits. Even Mary thinks “what an agreeable man
he is,” and glances the while at a fair glowing face, eating,
drinking, and laughing by turns, and discussing with Sir Ascot the
different events of their exciting gallop. Lacquers, with his mouth
full, is making the agreeable in his own way to the whole party.
“Deuced good pie--aw--ruin me--aw--in gloves, Miss Kettering--aw--lose
everything to you--aw;” and the dandy has a vague sort of notion that
he might say something sweet here, but it will not shape itself into
words very conveniently, so he has a large glass of sherry instead.
Our friend Captain Lacquers is not so much “a man of parts,” as “a man
of figure.” Charlie, somewhat excited, flourishes his knife and fork,
and describes how he lost his race to the public in general. Gaston
D’Orville, with his most deferential air, is winning golden opinions
from Blanche, and thinking in his innermost soul what a traitor he is
to his own heart the while; Mrs. Delaval looks very pale and subdued,
and Bounce thinks she must be tired, but breaks off to something else
before he has made the inquiry--still everybody seems outwardly to be
enjoying him or herself to the utmost, and it is with a forced smile
and an air of assumed gaiety that Frank Hardingstone takes his leave,
and supposes “we shall all meet at the ball!”
Fancy Frank deliberately proposing to go to a ball! How bitterly he
smiles as he walks away from the course faster and faster, as thought
after thought goads him to personal exertion! Now he despises himself
thoroughly for his weakness in allowing the smile of a silly girl thus
to sink into a strong man’s heart--now he analyses his own feelings as
he would probe a corporeal wound, with a stern scientific pleasure in
the examination--and anon he speculates vaguely on the arrangements of
Nature, which provide us with sentimental follies for a _sauce
piquante_ wherewith to flavour our daily bread. Nevertheless, our man
of action is by no means satisfied with himself. He takes a fierce
walk over the most unfrequented fields, and returns to his solitary
lodgings, to read stiff chapters of old dogmatic writers, and to work
out a tough equation or two, till he can “get this nonsense out of his
head.” In vain, a fairy figure with long violet eyes and floating hair
dances between him and his quarto, and the “unknown quantity” _plus_
Blanche continually eludes his mental grasp.
We do not think Frank has enjoyed his day’s pleasure, any more than
Mary Delaval. How few people do, could we but peep into their heart of
hearts! Here are two at least of that gay throng in whom the shaft is
rankling, and all this discomfort and anxiety exists because,
forsooth, people never understand each other in time. We think it is
in one of Rousseau’s novels that the catastrophe is continually being
postponed because the heroine invariably becomes _vivement émue_, and
unable to articulate, just at the critical moment when two words more
would explain everything, and make her happy with her adorer. Were it
not for this provoking weakness, she would be married and settled long
before the end of the first volume: but then, to be sure, what would
become of all the remaining pages of French sentimentality? If there
were no uncertainty, there would be no romance--if we knew each other
better, perhaps we should love each other less. Hopes and fears make
up the game of life. Better be the germinating flower, blooming in the
sunshine and cowering in the blast, than the withered branch, defiant
indeed of winter’s cold and summer’s heat, but drinking in no dew of
morning, putting forth no buds of spring, and in its dreary, barren
isolation, unsusceptible of pleasure as of pain.