more punch!" said Mounteagle, addressing the female domestic, who was
standing open-mouthed at the glittering pool of half-sovereigns.
I will spare the gentle reader--if I _may_ flatter myself that I
entertain a _few_ such--a recital of the conversation which followed,
and which was kept up until the very, very "small hours;" also I will
leave it to her imagination to picture how we spent the next few days,
how we found out a few families worth visiting, how we inspired the
Layton youths with a vehement passion for smoking, billiards, and the
cavalry branch of the service, and how we and our gay uniforms and our
prancing horses were the admiration of all the young damsels in the
place.
One morning after parade, Fane and I, having nothing better to do,
lighted our cigars and strolled down one of those shady lanes which
almost reconcile one to the country--_out_ of the London season. Seeing
the gate of a park standing invitingly open, we walked in and threw
ourselves down under the trees. "Now we are in for it," said Fane, "if
we are trespassing, and any adventurous-minded gamekeeper appears. Whose
park is this?"
"Mr. Aspeden's, Ennuye told me. It's rather a nice place," I replied.
"And that castle, of which mine eyes behold the turrets afar off?" he
asked.
"Lord Linton's, I believe; the father of Jack Vernon, of the Rifles, you
know," I answered.
"Indeed! I never saw the old gentleman, but I remember his daughter
Beatrice,--we had rather a desperate flirtation at Baden-Baden. She's a
showy-looking girl," said the captain, stretching himself on the grass.
"Why did you not allow her the sublime felicity of becoming Lady
Beatrice Fane?" I asked, laughing.
"My dear fellow, she had not a _sou_! That old marquis is as poor as a
church-mouse. You forget that I am only a younger son, with not much
besides my pay, and cannot afford to marry anywhere I like. I am not in
your happy position, able to espouse any pretty face I may chance to
take a fancy to. It would be utter madness in me. Do you think _I_ was
made for a little house, one maid-servant, dinner at noon, and six small
children? _Very_ much obliged to you, but love in a cottage is not _my_
style, Fred; besides _j'aime a vivre garcon_!" added Fane.
"_Et moi aussi!_" said I. "Really the girls one meets seem all tarlatan
and coquetry. I have never seen one worth committing matrimony for."
"Hear him!" cried Fane. "Here is the happy owner of Wilmot Park, at the
advanced age of twenty, despairing of ever finding anything more worthy
of his affection than his moustaches! Oh, what will the boys come to
next? But, eureka! here comes a pretty girl if you like. Who on earth is
she?" he exclaimed, raising his eye-glass to a party advancing up the
avenue who really seemed worthy the attention.
Pulling at the bridle of a donkey, "what wouldn't go," with all her
might, was indeed a pretty girl. Her hat had fallen off and showed a
quantity of bright hair and a lovely face, with the largest and darkest
of eyes, and a mouth now wreathing with smiles. Unconscious of our
vicinity, on she came, laughing, and beseeching a little boy, seated on
the aforesaid donkey, and thumping thereupon with, a large stick, "not
to be so cruel and hurt poor Dapple." At this juncture the restive steed
gave a vigorous stride, and toppling its rider on the grass, trotted off
with a self-satisfied air; but Fane, intending to make the rebellious
charger a means of introduction, caught his bridle and led him back to
his discomfited master. The young lady, who was endeavoring to pacify
the child, looked prettier than ever as she smiled and thanked him. But
the gallant captain was not going to let the matter drop _here_, so,
turning to the youthful rider, he asked him to let him put him on "the
naughty donkey again." Master Tommy acquiesced, and, armed with his
terrible stick, allowed himself to be mounted. Certainly Fane was a most
unnecessary length of time settling that child, but then he was talking
to the young lady, whom he begged to allow him to lead the donkey home.
"Oh! no, she was quite used to Dapple; she could manage him very well,
and they were going farther." So poor Fane had nothing for it but to
raise his hat and gaze at her through his eye-glass until some trees hid
her from sight.
"'Pon my word, that's a pretty girl!" said he, at length. "I wonder who
she can be! However, I shall soon find out. Have another weed, Fred?"
There was to be a ball that night at the Assembly Rooms, which we were
assured only the "_best_ families" would attend for Layton was a very
exclusive little town in its way. Some of us who were going were
standing about the mess-room, recalling the many good balls and pretty
girls of our late quarters, when Fane, who had declined to go, as he
said he had a horror of "bad dancing, bad perfumes, bad ventilation, and
bad champagne, and really could not stand the concentration of all of
them, which he foresaw that night," to our surprise declared his
intention of accompanying us.
"I suppose, Fane, you hope to see your heroine of the donkey again?"
asked Sydney.
"Precisely," was Fane's reply; "or if not, to find out who she is. But
here comes Ennuye, got up no end to fascinate the belles of Layton!"
"The Aspedens are home; I saw 'em to-day," were the words of the
honorable cornet, as he lounged into the room. "My uncle seems rather a
brick, and hopes to make the acquaintance of all of you. He will mess
with us to-morrow."
"Have you any _belles cousines_?"--"Are they going to-night?" we
inquired.
"Yaas, I saw one; she's rather pretty," said L'Estrange.
"Dark eyes--golden hair--about eighteen?" demanded Fane, eagerly.
"Not a bit of it," replied the cornet, curling his moustache, and
contemplating himself in the glass with very great satisfaction; "hair's
as dark as mine, and eyes--y'ally I forget. But, let's have loo or
whist, or something; we need not go for ages!" So down we sat, and soon
nothing was heard but "Two by honors and the trick!" "Game and game!"
&c., until about twelve, when we rose and adjourned to the ball-room.
No sooner had we entered the room than Fane exclaimed, "There's my
houri, by all that's glorious! and looking lovelier than ever. By Jove!
that girl's too good for a country ball-room!" And there, in truth,
waltzing like a sylph, was, as Sydney called her, the "heroine of the
donkey." The dance over, we saw her join a party at the top of the room,
consisting of a handsome but _passee_ woman, a lovely Hebe-like girl
with dancing eyes, and a number of gentlemen, with whom they seemed to
be keeping up an animated conversation.
"Ennuye is with them--he will introduce me," said Fane, as he swept up
the room.
I watched him bow, and, after talking a few minutes, lead off his
"houri" for a _valse_; and disengaging myself from a Cambridge friend
whom I had met with, I professed my intention of following his example.
"What? Who did you say? That girl at the top there? Why, man, that's my
cousin Mary, and the other lady is my most revered aunt, Mrs. Aspeden.
Did you not know I and Ennuye were related? Y'ally I forget how,
exactly," he continued, mimicking the cornet. "But do you want to be
introduced to her? Come along then."
So, following my friend, who was a Trinity-man, of the name of
Cleaveland, I soon made acquaintance with Mrs. Aspeden and her daughter
Mary.
"_Who_ is he?" I heard Mrs. Aspeden ask, in a low tone, of Tom
Cleaveland, as I led off Mary to the _valse_.
"A very good fellow," was the good-natured Cantab's reply, "with lots of
tin and a glorious place. The shooting at Wilmot is really----"
"_Bien!_" said his aunt, as she took Lord Linton's arm to the
refreshment-room, satisfied, I suppose, on the strength of my "lots of
tin," that I was a safe companion for her child.
I found Mary Aspeden a most agreeable partner for a _dance_; she was
lively, agreeable, and a coquette, I felt sure (women with those dancing
eyes always are), and I thought I could not do better than amuse myself
by getting up a flirtation with her. What an intensely good opinion I
had of myself then! So I condescended to dance, though it was not
Almack's, and actually permitted myself to be amused. Strolling through
the rooms with Mary Aspeden on my arm, we entered one in which was an
alcove fitted up with a _vis-a-vis_ sofa (whoever planned that Layton
ball-room had a sympathy in the bottom of his heart for _tete-a-tete_),
and here Fane was seated, talking to his "houri" with the soft voice and
winning smiles which had gained the heart, or at least what portion of
that member they possessed, of so many London belles, and which would do
their work _here_ most assuredly.
"There is my cousin Florence--ah! she does not observe us. Who is the
gentleman with her?" said Miss Aspeden.
"My friend, Captain Fane," I replied. "You have heard of their rencontre
this morning?"
"Indeed! is he Tommy's champion, of whom he has done nothing but talk
all day, and of whom I could not make Florence say one word?" asked
Mary. "You must know our donkey is the most determined and resolute of
animals: if she 'will, she will,' you may depend upon it!" she
continued.
"Do you honor those most untrue lines upon ladies by a quotation?" I
asked.
"I do not think they _are_ so very untrue," laughed Mary, "except in
confining obstinacy to us poor women and exempting the 'lords of the
creation.' The Scotch adage knows better. 'A wilful _man_----' You know
the rest."
"Quite well," I replied; "but another poet's lines on _you_ are far more
true. 'Ye are stars of the----'" I commenced.
"Mary, my love, let me introduce you to Lord Craigarven," said Mrs.
Aspeden, coming up with Lord Linton's heir-apparent.
At the same time I was introduced to Mr. Aspeden, a hearty Englishman,
loving his horses, his dogs, and his daughter; and as much the inferior
of his aristocratic-looking wife in _intellect_ as he was her superior
in _heart_. When we parted that night he gave Fane and me a most
hospitable general invitation, and, what was more, an especial one for
the next night. As we walked home "i' the grey o' the morning," I asked
Fane who his "houri" was.
"A niece of Mr. Aspeden's, and cousin to your friend Cleaveland," was
the reply. "Those Aspedens really seem to be uncle and aunt to every
one. She is staying there now."
"So is Tom Cleaveland," said I. "But, pray, are your expectations quite
realized? Is she as charming as she looks, this Miss Florence----"
"Aspeden?" added Fane. "Yes, quite. But here are my quarters; so good
night, old fellow."
We had soon established ourselves as _amis de la maison_ at Woodlands,
the Aspedens' place, and found him, as his nephew had stated, "rather a
brick," and her daughter and niece something more. All of us, especially
Fane and I, spent the best part of our time there, lounging away the
days between the shady lanes, the little lake, and the music or
billiard-rooms. Fane seemed entirely to appropriate Florence, and to
fascinate her as he had fascinated so many others. I really felt angry
with him; for, as Tom Cleaveland had candidly told me that poor Florie
had not a rap--her father had run through all his property and left her
an orphan, and a very poor one too--of course Fane could not marry her,
but would, I feared, "ride away" some day, like the "gay dragoon,"
heartwhole _himself_--but would _she_ come out as scatheless? Poor
Mounteagle, too, was getting quite spooney about Florence, and, owing to
Fane, she paid him no more heed than if he had been an old dried-up
Indianized major. _He_, poor fellow! followed her about everywhere,
asked her to dance in quite an insane manner, and made the most
horrible revokes in whist and mistakes in pool that can be imagined.
"By George! she is pretty, and no mistake!" said Sydney, as Florence
rode past us one day as we were sauntering down Layton, looking
charmingly _en amazone_.
"Pretty! I should rather think so. She is more beautiful than any other
woman upon earth!" cried Mounteagle.
"Y'ally! well, I can't see _that_," replied Ennuye. "She has tolerably
good eyes, but she is too _petite_ to please me."
"Ah! the adjutant's girls have rendered L'Estrange _difficile_. He
cannot expect to meet _their_ equals in a hurry!" said Fane, in a very
audible aside.
Poor Ennuye was silenced--nay, he even blushed. The adjutant's girls
recalled an episode in which the gallant cornet had shone in a rather
verdant light. Fane had effectually quieted him.
"I wonder if Florence Aspeden will marry Mount?" I remarked to Fane,
when the others had left us. "She does not seem to pay him much heed
_yet_; but still----"
"The devil, no!" cried Fane, in an unusually energetic manner. "I would
stake my life she would not have such a muff as that, if he owned half
the titles in the peerage!"
"You seem rather excited about the matter," I observed. "It would not be
such a bad match for her, for you know she has no tin; but I am sure,
with your opinion on love-matches, you would not counsel Mount to such a
step."
"Of course not!" replied Fane, in his ordinary cool tones. "A man has no
right to marry for love, except he is one of those fortunate individuals
who own half a county, or some country doctor or parson of whom the
world takes no notice. There may be a few exceptions. But yet," he
continued, with the air of a person trying to convince himself against
his will, "did you ever see a love match turn out happily? It is all
very well for the first week, but the roses won't bloom in winter, and
then the cottage walls look ugly. Then a fellow cannot live as he did
_en garcon_, and all his friends drop him, and altogether it is an act
no wise man would perpetrate. But I shall forget to give you a message I
was intrusted with. They are going to get up some theatricals at
Woodlands. I have promised to take _Sir Thomas Clifford_ (the piece is
the 'Hunchback'). and they want you to play _Modus_ to Mary Aspeden's
_Helen_. Do, old fellow. Acting is very good fun with a pretty girl----"
"Like the _Julia_ you will have, I suppose," I said. "Very well, I will
be amiable and take it. Mary will make a first-rate _Helen_. Come and
have a game of billiards, will you?"
"Can't," replied the gallant captain. "I promised to go in half an hour
with--with the Aspedens to see some waterfall or ruin, or something, and
the time is up. So, _au revoir, monsieur_."
Many of ours were pressed into the service for the coming theatricals,
and right willingly did we rehearse a most unnecessary number of times.
Many merry hours did we spend at Woodlands, and I sentimentalized away
desperately to Mary Aspeden; but, somehow or other, always had an
uncomfortable suspicion that she was laughing at me. She never seemed
the least impressed by all my gallantries and pretty speeches, which was
peculiarly mortifying to a moustached cornet of twenty, who thought
himself irresistible. I began, too, to get terribly jealous of Tom
Cleaveland, who, by right of his cousinship, arrived at a degree of
intimacy _I_ could not attain.
One morning Fane and I (who were going to dine there that evening), the
Miss Aspedens, and, of course, that Tom Cleaveland, were sitting in the
drawing-room at Woodlands. Fane and Florence were going it at some
opera airs (what passionate emphasis that wicked fellow gave the loving
Italian words as his rich voice rolled them out to her accompaniment!),
the detestable Trinity-man had been discoursing away to Mary on
boat-racing, outriggers, bumping, and Heaven knows what, and I was just
taking the shine out of him with the description of a shipwreck I had
had in the Mediterranean, when Mary, who sat working at her _broderie_,
and provokingly giving just as sweet smiles to the one as to the other,
interrupted me with--
"Goodness, Florie, there is Mr. Mills coming up the avenue. He is my
cousin's admirer and admiration!" she added, mischievously, as the door
opened, and a little man about forty entered.
There was all over him the essence of the country. You saw at once he
had never passed a season in London. His very boots proclaimed he had
never been presented; and we felt almost convulsed with laughter as he
shook hands with us all round, and attempted a most _empresse_ manner
with Florence.
"Beautiful weather we have now," remarked Mrs. Aspeden.
"She is indeed!" answered the little squire, with a gaze of admiration
at Florence.
Fane, who was leaning against the mantelpiece, looking most superbly
haughty and unapproachable, shot an annihilating glance at the small
man, which would have quite extinguished him had he seen it.
"The country is very pretty in June," said Mrs. Aspeden, hazarding
another original remark.
"Lovely--too lovely!" echoed Mr. Mills, with a profound sigh, at which
the country must have felt exceedingly flattered.
"Glorious creature your new mare is, Mr. Mills," cried the Cantab;
"splendid style she took the fences in yesterday."
"Wilkins may well say she is the _belle_ of the county!" continued Mr.
Mills, dreamily. "I beg your pardon, what did you say? my mother took
the fences well? No, she never hunts."
"Pray tell Mrs. Mills I am very much obliged for the beautiful azalias
she sent me," interposed Florence, with her sweet smile.
"I--I am sure anything we have _you_ are welcome to. I--I--allow me----"
And the poor squire, stooping for Florence's thimble, upset a tiny
table, on which stood a vase with the azalias in question, on the back
of a little bull of a spaniel, who yelled, and barked, and flew at the
squire's legs, who, for his part, became speechless from fright,
reddened all over, and at last, stammering out that he wanted to see Mr.
Aspeden, and would go to him in the grounds, rushed from the room.
We all burst out laughing at this climax of the poor little man's
misery.
"I will not have you laugh at him so," said Florence, at length. "I know
him to be truly good and charitable, for all his peculiarities of
manner."
"It is but right Miss Aspeden should defend a _soupirant_ so charming in
every way," said the captain, his moustache curling contemptuously.
"Oh! Florie's made an out-and-out conquest, and no mistake!" cried Tom
Cleaveland.
Florence did not heed her cousin, but looked up in Fane's face, utterly
astonished at his sarcastic tones. No man could have withstood that look
of those large, beautiful eyes, and Fane bent down and asked her to sing
"_Roberto, oh tu che adoro!_"
"Yes, that will just do. Robert is his name; pity he is not here to hear
it. 'Robert Mills, _oh tu che adoro!_'" sang the inexorable Cantab, as
he walked across the room and asked Mary to have a game of billiards.
For once I had the pleasure of forestalling him, but he, nevertheless,
came and marked for us in a very amiable manner. "How well you play,
Mary," said he. "Really, stunningly for a woman. Do you know Beauchamp
of Kings won three whole pools the other day without losing a life!"
"Indeed!" said Mary. "What good fun it is to see Mr. Mills play; he
holds his queue as if he were afraid of it."
"I say, Mary," said Cleaveland, "you don't think that Florence will
marry that contemptible little wretch, do you? Hang it, I should be
savage if she had not better taste. There's a cannon."
"She has better taste," replied Mary, in a low tone, as Mrs. Aspeden and
Fane entered the room.
I never could like Mrs. Aspeden--peace be with her now, poor woman--but
there was such a want of delicacy and tact, and such open manoeuvring
in all she did, which surprised me, clever woman as she was.
No sooner had she approached the billiard-table that day, than she
began:
"Florence was called away from her singing to a conference with her
uncle, and--with somebody else, I fancy." (Fane darted a keen look of
inquiry at her.) "Poor dear girl! being left so young an orphan, I have
always felt such a great interest and affection for her, and I shall
rejoice to see her happily settled as--as I trust there is a prospect of
now," she continued.
Could she mean Florence Aspeden had engaged herself to Mr. Mills? A
roguish smile on Mary's face reassured me, but Fane walked hastily to
the window, and stood with folded arms looking out upon the sunny
landscape.
Inveterate flirt that he was, his pride was hurt at the idea of a rival,
and _such_ a rival, winning in a game in which _he_ deigned to have
_ever_ so small a stake, _ever_ such a passing interest!
The dinner passed off heavily--_very_ heavily--for gay Woodlands, for
the gallant captain and Florence were both of them _distraits_ and
_genes_, and he hardly spoke to the poor girl. Oh, wicked Fane!
We sat but little time after the ladies had retired, and Tom and Mr.
Aspeden going after some horse or other, Fane and I ascended to the
drawing-room alone. It was unoccupied, and we sat down to await them, I
amusing myself with teaching Master Tommy, the young heir of Woodlands,
some comic songs, wherewith to astonish his nurse pretty considerably,
and Fane leaning back in an arm-chair, with Florence's dog upon his knee
in _that_, for _him_, most extraordinary thing, a "brown study."
Suddenly some voices were heard in the next room.
"Florence, it is your duty, recollect."
"Aunt, I can recollect nothing, save that it would be far, far worse
than death to me to marry Mr. Mills. I hold it dread sin to marry a man
for whom one can have nothing but contempt. Once for all, I cannot,--I
will not."
Here the voice was broken with sobs. Fane had raised his head eagerly at
the commencement of the dialogue, but now, recollecting that we were
listeners, rose, and closed the door. I did not say a word on the
conversation we had just heard, for I felt out of patience with him for
his heartless flirtation; so, taking up a book on Italy, I looked over
the engravings for a little time, and then, Tommy having been conveyed
to the nursery in a state of rebellion, I reminded Fane of a promise he
had once made to accompany me to Rome the next winter, and asked him if
he intended to fulfil it.
"Really, my dear fellow, I cannot tell what I may possibly do next
winter; I hate making plans for the future. We may none of us be alive
then," said he, in an unusually dull strain for him: "I half fancy I may
exchange into some regiment going on foreign service. But _l'homme
propose_, you know. By the by, poor Castleton" (his elder brother) "is
very ill at Brussels."
"Yes. I was extremely sorry to hear it, in a letter I had from Vivian
this morning," I replied. "He is at Brussels also, and mentions a
_belle_ there, Lady Adeliza Fitzhowden, with whom, he says, the world is
associating _your_ name. Is it true, Fane?"
"_Les on dit font la gazette des fous!_" cried the captain, impatiently,
stroking Florence's little King Charles. "I saw Lady Adeliza at Paris
last January, but I would not marry her--no! not if there were no other
woman upon earth! I thought, Fred, really you were too sensible to
believe all the scandal raked up by that gossiping Vivian. I do hope you
have not been propagating his most unfounded report?" asked my gallant
friend, in quite an excited tone.
At this moment the ladies entered. Florence with her dark eyes looking
very sad under their long lashes, but they soon brightened when Fane
seated himself by her side, and began talking in a lower tone, and with
even more _tendresse_ than ever.
I had the pleasure of quite eclipsing Tom Cleaveland, I thought, as I
turned over the leaves of Mary's music, and looked unutterable things,
which, however, I fear were all lost, as Mary _would_ look only at the
notes of the piano, and I firmly believe never heard a word I said.
How Florence blushed as Fane whispered his soft good night; she looked
so happy, poor girl, and he, heartless demon, talked of going into
foreign service! By the by, what put that into his head, I wonder?
The night of our grand theatricals at length arrived, and we were all
assembled in the library, converted for the time into a green-room.
Mounteagle was repeating to himself, for the hundredth time, his part of
_Lord Tinsel_; I, in my _Modus_ dress, which I had a disagreeable idea
was not becoming, was endeavoring to make an impression on the
not-to-be impressed Mary, and Florence was looking lovelier than ever in
her rich old-fashioned dress, when Fane entered, and bending, offered
her a bouquet of rare flowers. She blushed deeply as she took it. Oh!
Fane, Fane, what will you have to answer for?
We were waiting the summons for the first scene, when, to Mary's horror,
I suddenly exclaimed that I could not play!