“Come, stow that!” interrupted Bill, as the ping of a ball whistled over their heads, followed by the sharp report of a musket; “here’s music for your singing, and dancing too, faith,” he added, as the rear files of the advanced guard came running in; and “Old Swipes” exclaimed, “By Jove! they’re engaged. Attention! steady, men!—close up—close up”—and, throwing out a handful of skirmishers to clear the bush immediately in his front and support his advanced guard, he moved the column forward at “the double,” gained some rising ground, behind which he halted them, and himself ran on to reconnoitre. A sharp fire had by this time commenced on the right, and Charlie’s heart beat painfully whilst he remained inactive, covered by a position from which he could see nothing. It was not, however, for long. The “Light-Bobs” were speedily ordered to advance, and as they gained the crest of the hill a magnificent view of the conflict opened at once upon their eyes.
The Rifles had been beforehand with them, and were already engaged; their dark forms, hurrying to and fro as they ran from covert to covert, were only to be distinguished from the savages by the rapidity with which their thin white lines of smoke emerged from bush and brake, and the regularity with which they forced position after position, compared with the tumultuous gestures and desultory movements of the enemy. Already the Kaffirs were forced across the ford of which we have spoken, and, though they mustered in great numbers on the opposite bank, swarming like bees along the rising ground, they appeared to waver in their manœuvres, and to be inclined to retire. A mounted officer gallops up, and says a few words to the grey-headed captain. The “Light-Bobs” are formed into column of sections, and plunge gallantly into the ford. Charlie’s right-hand man falls pierced by an assagai, and as his head declines beneath the bubbling water, and his blood mingles with the stream, our volunteer feels “the devil” rising rapidly to his heart. Charlie’s teeth are set tight, though he is scarce aware of his own sensations, and the boy is dangerous, with his pale face and flashing eyes.
The “Light-Bobs” deploy into line on the opposite bank, covered by an effective fire from the Rifles, and advance as if they were on parade. “Old Swipes” feels his heart leap for joy. On they march like one man, and the dark masses of the enemy fly before them. “Well done, my lads!” says the old captain, as, from their flank, he marks the regularity of their movement. They are his very children now, and he is not thinking of the little blue-eyed girl far away at home. A belt of mimosas is in their front, and it must be carried with the bayonet! The “Light-Bobs” charge with a wild hurrah; and a withering volley, very creditable to the savages, well-nigh staggers them as they approach. “Old Swipes” runs forward, waving them on, his shako off, and his grey locks streaming in the breeze—down he goes! with a musket-ball crashing through his forehead. Charlie could yell with rage, and a fierce longing for blood. There is a calm, matronly woman tending flowers, some thousand miles off, in a small garden in the north of England, and a little girl sitting wistfully at her lessons by her mother’s side. They are a widow and an orphan—but the handsome lieutenant will get his promotion without purchase; death-vacancies invariably go in the regiment, and even now he takes the command.
“Kettering,” says he, cool and composed, as if he were but giving orders at a common field-day, “take a sub-division and clear that ravine; when you are once across you can turn his flank. Forward, my lads! and if they’ve any nonsense give ’em the bayonet!”
Charlie now finds himself actually in command—ay, and in something more than a skirmish—something that begins to look uncommonly like a general action. Waving the men on with his sword he dashes into the ravine, and in another instant is hand-to-hand with the enemy. What a moment of noise, smoke, and confusion it is! Crashing blows, fearful oaths, the Kaffir war-cry, and the soldiers’ death-groan mingle in the very discord of hell. A wounded Kaffir seizes Charlie by the legs, and a “Light-Bob” runs the savage through the body, the ghastly weapon flashing out between the Kaffir’s ribs.
“You’ve got it now, you black beggar!” says the soldier, as he coolly wipes his dripping bayonet on a tuft of burnt-up grass. While yet he speaks he is writhing in his death-pang, his jaws transfixed by a quivering assagai. A Kaffir chief, of athletic frame and sinewy proportions, distinguished by the grotesque character of his arms and his tiger-skin kaross, springs at the young lancer like a wild-cat. The boy’s sword gleams through that dusky body even in mid-air.
“Well done, blue ’un!” shout the men, and again there is a wild hurrah! The young one never felt like this before.
Hand-to-hand the savages have been beaten from their defences, and they are in full retreat. One little band has forced the ravine, and gained the opposite bank. With a thrilling cheer they scale its rugged surface, Charlie waving his sword and leading them gallantly on. The old privates swear he is a good ’un. “Forward, lads! Hurrah! for blue ’un!”
The boy has all but reached the brink; his hand is stretched to grasp a bush that overhangs the steep, but his step totters, his limbs collapse—down, down he goes, rolling over and over amongst the brushwood, and the blue lancer uniform lies a tumbled heap at the bottom of the ravine, whilst the cheer of the pursuing “Light-Bobs” dies fainter and fainter on the sultry air as the chase rolls farther and farther into the desert fastnesses of Kaffirland.
THE SOLDIER IN PEACE—THE LION AND THE LAMB—“THE GIRLS WE LEAVE BEHIND US”—A PLAIN QUESTION—THE STRONG MAN’S STRUGGLE—FATHERLY KINDNESS—THE “PEACE AND PLENTY”—A LADY-KILLER’S PROJECTS—WAKING THOUGHTS
In a neat, well-appointed barouche, with clever, high-stepping brown horses and everything complete, a party of three well-dressed persons are gliding easily out of town, sniffing by anticipation the breezes of the country, and greeting every morsel of verdure with a rapture only known to those who have been for several weeks in London. Past the barracks at Knightsbridge, where the windows are occupied by a race of giants in moustaches and shirt-sleeves, and the officers in front of their quarters are educating a poodle; past the gate at Kensington, with its smartest of light-dragoon sentries, and the gardens with their fine old trees disguised in soot; past dead walls overtopped with waving branches; on through a continuous line of streets that will apparently reach to Bath; past public-houses innumerable, and grocery-shops without end; past Hammersmith, with its multiplicity of academies, and Turnham Green, and Chiswick, and suburban terraces with almost fabulous names, and detached houses with the scaffolding still up; past market-gardens and rosaries, till Brentford is reached, where the disappointed traveller, pining for the country, almost deems himself transported back again east of Temple Bar. But Brentford is soon left behind, and a glimpse of the “silver Thames” rejoices eyes that have been aching for something farther afield than the Serpentine, and prepares them for the unbounded views and free, fresh landscape afforded by Hounslow Heath. “This is really the country,” says Blanche, inhaling the pure air with a sigh of positive delight, while the General exclaims, at the same instant, with his accustomed vigour, “Zounds! the blockhead’s missed the turn to the barracks, after all.”
The ladies are very smart; and even Mary Delaval (the third occupant of the carriage), albeit quieter and more dignified than ever, has dressed in gaudier plumage than is her wont, as is the practice of her sex when they are about to attend what they are pleased to term “a breakfast.” As for Blanche, she is too charming—such a little, gossamer bonnet stuck at the very back of that glossy little head, so that the beholder knows not whether to be most fascinated by the ethereal beauty of the fabric, or wonder-struck at the dexterity with which it is kept on. Then the dresses of the pair are like the hues of the morning, though of their texture, as of their “trimmings,” it becomes us not to hazard an opinion. Talk of beauty unadorned, and all that! Take the handsomest figure that ever inspired a statuary—dress her, or rather undress her to the costume of the Three Graces, or the Nine Muses, or any of those dowdies immortalised by ancient art, and place her alongside of a moderately good-looking Frenchwoman, with dark eyes and small feet, who has been permitted to dress herself: why, the one is a mere corporeal mass of shapely humanity, the other a sparkling emanation of light and smiles and “tulle” (or whatever they call it) and coquetry and all that is most irresistible. Blanche and Mary, with the assistance of good taste and good milliners, were almost perfect types of their different styles of feminine beauty. The General, too, was wondrously attired. Retaining the predilections of his youth, he shone in a variety of under-waistcoats, each more gorgeous than its predecessor, surmounting the whole by a blue coat of unexampled brilliancy and peculiar construction. Like most men who are not in the habit of “getting themselves up” every day, he was always irritable when thus clothed in “his best,” and was now peculiarly fidgety as to the right turn by which his carriage should reach the barracks where the “Loyal Hussars,” under the temporary command of Major D’Orville, were about to give a breakfast of unspeakable splendour and hospitality.
“That way—no—the other way, you blockhead!—straight on, and short to the right!” vociferated the General to his bewildered coachman, as they drew up at the barrack-gate; and Blanche timidly suggested they should ask “that officer,” alluding to a dashing, handsome individual guarding the entrance from behind an enormous pair of dark moustaches.
“That’s only the sentry, Blanche,” remarked Mary Delaval, whose early military experience made her more at home here than her companion.
“Dear,” replied Blanche, colouring a little at her mistake, “I thought he was a captain, at least—he’s very good-looking.”
But the barouche rolls on to the mess-room door, and although the ladies are somewhat disappointed to find their entertainers in plain clothes (a woman’s idea of a hussar being that he should live and die en grande tenue), yet the said plain clothes are so well put on, and the moustaches and whiskers so carefully arranged, and the fair ones themselves received with such empressement, as to make full amends for any deficiency of warlike costume. Besides, the surrounding atmosphere is so thoroughly military. A rough-rider is bringing a young horse from the school; a trumpet is sounding in the barrack-yard; troopers lounging about in picturesque undress are sedulously saluting their officers; all is suggestive of the show and glitter which makes a soldier’s life so fascinating to woman.
Major D’Orville is ready to hand them out of the carriage. Lacquers is stationed on the door steps. Captain Clank and Cornet Capon are in attendance to receive their cloaks. Even Sir Ascot Uppercrust, who is here as a guest, lays aside his usual nonchalance, and actually “hopes Miss Kettering didn’t catch cold yesterday getting home from Chiswick.” Clank whispers to Capon that he thinks “Uppy is making strong running”; and Capon strokes his nascent moustaches, and oracularly replies, “The divil doubt him.”
No wonder ladies like a military entertainment. It certainly is the fashion among soldiers, as among their seafaring brethren, to profess far greater devotion and exhibit more empressement in their manner to the fair sex than is customary in this age with civilians.
The latter, more particularly that maligned class, “the young men of the present day,” are not prone to put themselves much out of their way for any one, and treat you, fair daughters of England, with a mixture of patronage and carelessness which is far from complimentary. How different you find it when you visit a barrack or are shown over a man-of-war! Respectful deference waits on your every expression, admiring eyes watch your charming movements, and stalwart arms are proffered to assist your delicate steps. Handsome, sunburnt countenances explain to you how the biscuit is served out; or moustaches of incalculable volume wait your answer as to “what polka you choose their band to perform.” You make conquests all around you, and wherever you go your foot is on their necks; but do not for this think that your image never can be effaced from these warlike hearts. A good many of them, even the best-looking ones, have got wives and children at home; and the others, unencumbered though they be, save by their debts, are apt to entertain highly anti-matrimonial sentiments, and to frame their conduct on sundry aphorisms of a very faithless tendency, purporting that “blue water is a certain cure for heart-ache”; that judicious hussars are entitled “to love and to ride away”; with other maxims of a like inconstant nature. Nay, in both services there is a favourite air of inspiriting melody, the burden and title of which, monstrous as it may appear, are these unfeeling words, “The girls we leave behind us!” It is always played on marching out of a town.
But however ill our “captain bold” of the present day may behave to “the girl he leaves behind him,” the lady in his front has small cause to complain of remissness or inattention. The mess-room at Hounslow is fitted up with an especial view to the approbation of the fair sex. The band outside ravishes their ears with its enchanting harmony; the officers and male guests dispose themselves in groups with those whose society they most affect; and Blanche finds herself the centre of attraction to sundry dashing warriors, not one of whom would hesitate for an instant to abandon his visions of military distinction, and link himself, his debts, and his moustaches, to the fortunes of the pretty heiress.
Now, Sir Ascot Uppercrust has resolved this day to do or die—“to be a man or a mouse,” as he calls it. Of this young gentleman we have as yet said but little, inasmuch as he is one of that modern school which, abounding in specimens through the higher ranks of society, is best described by a series of negatives. He was not good-looking—he was not clever—he was not well-educated; but, on the other hand, he was not to be intimidated—not to be excited—and not to be taken in. Coolness of mind and body were his principal characteristics; no one ever saw “Uppy” in a hurry, or a dilemma, or what is called “taken aback”; he would have gone into the ring and laid the odds to an archbishop without a vestige of astonishment, and with a carelessness of demeanour bordering upon contempt; or he would have addressed the House of Commons, had he thought fit to honour that formidable assemblage by his presence, with an equanimity and insouciance but little removed from impertinence. A quaint boy at Eton, cool hand at Oxford, a deep card in the regiment, man or woman never yet had the best of “Uppy”; but to-day he felt, for once, nervous and dispirited, and wished “the thing was over,” and settled one way or the other. He was an only son, and not used to be contradicted. His mother had confided to him her own opinion of his attractions, and striven hard to persuade her darling that he had but to see and conquer; nevertheless, the young gentleman was not at all sanguine of success. Accustomed to view things with an impartial and by no means a charitable eye, he formed a dispassionate idea of his own attractions, and extended no more indulgence to himself than to his friends. “Plain, but neat,” he soliloquised that very morning, as he thought over his proceedings whilst dressing; “not much of a talker, but a devil to think—good position—certain rank—she’ll be a lady, though rather a Brummagem one—house in Lowndes Street—place in the West—family diamonds—and a fairish rent-roll (when the mortgages are paid)—that’s what she would get. Now, what should I get? Nice girl—’gad, she is a nice girl, with her ‘sun-bright hair’ as some fellow says—good temper—good action—and three hundred thousand pounds. The exchange is rather in my favour; but then all girls want to be married, and that squares it, perhaps. If she says ‘Yes,’ sell out—give up hunting—drive her about in a phaeton, and buy a yacht. If she says ‘No,’ get second leave—go to Melton in November—and hang on with the regiment, which ain’t a bad sort of life, after all. So it’s hedged both ways. Six to one and half-a-dozen to the other. Very well; to-day we’ll settle it.”
With these sentiments it is needless to remark that Sir Ascot was none of your sighing, despairing, fire-eating adorers, whose violence frightens a woman into a not unwilling consent; but a cautious, quiet lover, on whom perhaps a civil refusal might be the greatest favour she could confer. Nevertheless, he liked Blanche, too, in his own way.
Well, the band played, and the luncheon was discussed, and the room was cleared for an impromptu dance (meditated for a fortnight); and some waltzed, and some flirted, and some walked about and peeped into the troop-stables and inspected the riding-school, and Blanche found herself, rather to her surprise, walking tête-à-tête with Sir Ascot from the latter dusty emporium, lingering a little behind the rest of the party, and separated altogether from the General and Mary Delaval. Sir Ascot having skilfully detached Lacquers, by informing him that he had made a fatal impression on Miss Spanker, who was searching everywhere for the credulous hussar; and having thus possessed himself of Blanche’s ear, now stopped dead-short, looked the astonished girl full in the face, and without moving a muscle of his own countenance, carelessly remarked, “Miss Kettering, would you like to marry me?” Blanche thought he was joking, and although it struck her as an ill-timed piece of pleasantry, she strove to keep up the jest, and replied, with a laugh and low curtsey, “Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.”
“No, but will you, Miss Kettering?” said Sir Ascot, getting quite warm (for him). “Plain fellow—do what I can—make you happy—and all that.”
“‘Sir Ascot Uppercrust, you do me too much honour.’”
Poor Blanche blushed crimson up to her eyes. Good heavens! then the man was in earnest after all! What had she done—she, the pet of “Cousin Charlie,” and the protégée of Frank Hardingstone—that such a creature as this should presume to ask her such a question? She hesitated—felt very angry—half inclined to laugh and half inclined to cry; and Sir Ascot went on, “Silence gives consent, Miss Kettering—’pon my soul, I’m immensely flattered—can’t express what I feel—no poet, and that sort of thing—but I really am—eh!—very—eh!” It was getting too absurd; if she did not take some decisive step, here was a dandy quite prepared to affiance her against her will, and what to say or how to say it, poor little Blanche, who was totally unused to this sort of thing, and tormented, moreover, with an invincible desire to laugh, knew no more than the man in the moon.
“You misunderstand, Sir Ascot,” at last she stammered out; “I didn’t mean—that is—I meant, or rather I intended—to—to—to—decline—or, I should say—in short, I couldn’t for the world!” With which unequivocal declaration Blanche blushed once more up to her eyes, and to her inexpressible relief, put her arm within Major D’Orville’s, that officer coming up opportunely at that moment; and seeing the girl’s obvious confusion and annoyance, extricating her, as he seemed always to do, from her unpleasant dilemma and her matter-of-fact swain.
And this was Blanche’s first proposal. Nothing so alarming in it, young ladies, after all. We fear you may be disappointed at the blunt manner in which so momentous a question can be put. Here was no language of flowers—no giving of roses and receiving of carnations—no hoarding of locks of hair, or secreting of bracelets, or kidnapping of gloves—none of the petty larceny of courtship—none of the dubious, half-expressed, sentimental flummery which may signify all that mortal heart can bestow, or may be the mere coquetry of conventional gallantry. When he comes to the point, let us hope his meaning may be equally plain, whether it is couched in a wish that he might “be always helping you over stiles,” or a request that you will “give him a right to walk with you by moonlight without being scolded by mamma,” or an inquiry as to whether you “can live in the country, and only come to London for three months during the season,” or any other roundabout method of asking a straightforward question. Let us hope, moreover, that the applicant may be the right one, and that you may experience, to the extent of actual impossibility, the proverbial difficulty of saying—No.
Now, it fell out that Major D’Orville arrived in the nick of time to save Blanche from further embarrassment, in consequence of his inability, in common with the rest of his fellow-creatures, “to know his own mind.” The Major had got up the fête entirely, as he imagined, with the idea of prosecuting his views against the heiress, and hardly allowed to himself that, in his innermost soul, there lurked a hope that Mrs. Delaval might accompany her former charge, and he might see her just once more. Had D’Orville been thoroughly bad, he would have been a successful man; as it was, there gleamed ever and anon upon his worldly heart a ray of that higher nature, that nobler instinct, which spoils the villain, while it makes the hero. Mary had pierced the coat-of-mail in which the roué was encased; probably her very indifference was her most fatal weapon. D’Orville really loved her—yes, though he despised himself for the weakness (since weakness it is deemed in creeds such as his), though he would grind his teeth and stamp his foot in solitude, while he muttered, “Fool! fool! to bow down before a woman!” yet the spell was on him, and the chain was eating into his heart. In the watches of the night her image sank into his brain and tortured him with its calm, indifferent smile. In his dreams she bent over him, and her drooping hair swept across his forehead, till the strong man woke, and yearned like a child for a fellow-mortal’s love. But not for him the childlike trust that can repose on human affection. Gaston had eaten of the tree of knowledge, the knowledge of good and evil; much did the evil predominate over the good, and still the galling thought goaded him almost to madness. “Suppose I should gain this woman’s affections—suppose I should sacrifice my every hope to that sweet face, and find her, after all, like the rest of them! Suppose I, too, should weary, as I have wearied before of faces well-nigh as fair—hearts even far more kind—is there no green branch on earth? Am I to wander for ever seeking rest and finding none? Am I to be cursed, like a lost spirit, with longings for that happiness which my very nature will not permit me to enjoy? Oh that I were wholly good, or wholly bad! that I could loathe the false excitement and the dazzling charms of vice, or steep my better feelings in the petrifying waters of perdition! I will conquer my weakness. What should I care for this stone-cold governess? I will be free, and this Mrs. Delaval shall discover that I too can be as careless, and as faithless, and as hard-hearted as—a woman!” With which laudable and manly resolution our dashing Major proceeded to make the agreeable to his guests, and to lose no opportunity of exchanging glances and mixing in conversation with the very lady he had sworn so stoutly to avoid. But with all his tactics, all his military proficiency in manœuvring, he found it impossible to detach Mary from her party, or to engage her in a tête-à-tête with himself. True-hearted and dignified, with her pure affection fixed upon another, she was not a person to descend to coquetry for the mere pleasure of a conquest, and she clung to the General for the purpose of avoiding the Major, till old Bounce became convinced that she was to add another name to the list of victims who had already succumbed before his many fascinations. The idea had been some time nascent in his mind, and as it now grew and spread, and developed itself into a certainty, his old heart warmed with a thrill he had not felt since the reign of the widow at Cheltenham, and he made the agreeable in his own way by pointing out to Mary all the peculiarities and arrangements of a barrack-yard, interspersed with many abrupt exclamations and voluminous personal anecdotes. Major D’Orville hovered round them the while, and perhaps the very difficulty of addressing his former love enhanced the charm of her presence and the fascination against which he struggled. It is amusing to see a thorough man of the world, one accustomed to conquer and enslave where he is himself indifferent, awkward as the veriest schoolboy, timid and hesitating as a girl, where he is really touched—though woman—
She thereby gauges with a false measure the devotion for which she pines. Would she know her real power, would she learn where she is truly loved, let her take note of the averted eye, the haunting step, ever hovering near, seldom daring to approach, the commonplace remark that shrinks from the one cherished topic, and above all the quivering voice, which, steady and commanding to the world beside, fails only when it speaks to her. Mary Delaval might have noted this had her heart not been in Kaffirland, or had the General allowed her leisure to attend to anything but himself. “Look ye, my dear Mrs. Delaval, our stables in India were ventilated quite differently. Climate? how d’ye mean? climate makes no difference—why, I’ve had the Kedjerees picketed in thousands round my tent. What? D’Orville, you’ve been on the Sutlej—’gad, sir, your fellows would have been astonished if I’d dropped among you there.”
“And justly so,” quietly remarked the Major; “if I remember right, you were in cantonments more than three thousand miles off.”
“Well, at any rate, I taught those black fellows how to look after their nags,” replied the General. “I left them the best-mounted corps in the Presidency, and six weeks after my back was turned they weren’t worth a row of pins. Zounds, don’t tell me! jobbing—jobbing—nothing but jobbing! What? No sore backs whilst I commanded them—at least among the horses,” added our disciplinarian, reflectively; “can’t say as much with regard to the men. But there is nothing like a big stick for a nigger—so let’s go and see the riding-school.”
“I have still got the grey charger, Mrs. Delaval,” interposed the Major, wishing old Bounce and his Kedjerees in a hotter climate than India; “poor fellow, he’s quite white now, but as great a favourite still as he was in ‘the merry days,’” and the Major’s voice shook a little. “Would you like to see him?”
Mary understood the allusion, but her calm affirmative was as indifferent as ever, and the trio were proceeding to the Major’s stables, that officer going on before to find his groom, when he met Blanche, as we have already said, and divining intuitively what had taken place by her flushed countenance and embarrassed manner, offered his arm to conduct her back to her party, thereby earning her eternal gratitude, no less than that of Sir Ascot, who, as he afterwards confided to an intimate friend, “was completely in the hole, and didn’t the least know what the devil to do next.”
And now D’Orville practically demonstrated the advantage in the game of flirtation possessed by an untouched heart. With the governess he had been diffident, hesitating, almost awkward; with the pupil he was eloquent and winning as usual. His good taste told him it would be absurd to ignore Blanche’s obvious trepidation, and his knowledge of the sex taught him that the “soothing system,” with a mixture of lover-like respect and paternal kindness, might produce important results. So he begged Blanche to lean on his arm and compose her nerves, and talked kindly to her in his soft, deep voice. “I can see you have been annoyed, Miss Kettering—you know the interest I take in you, and I trust you will not consider me presumptuous in wishing to extricate you from further embarrassment. I am an old fellow now,” and the Major smiled his own winning smile, “and therefore a fit chaperon for young ladies. I have nobody to care for” (D’Orville, D’Orville! you would shoot a man who called you a liar), “and I have watched you as if you were a sister or a child of my own. Pray do not tell me more than if I can be of any service to you; and if I can, my dear Miss Kettering, command me to the utmost extent of my powers!” What could Blanche do but thank him warmly? and who shall blame the girl for feeling gratified by the interest of such a man, or for entertaining a vague sort of satisfaction that after all she was neither his sister nor his daughter. Had he been ten years older she would have thrown her arms round his neck, and kissed him in childlike confidence; as it was, she pressed closer to his side, and felt her heart warm to the kind, considerate protector. The Major saw his advantage, and proceeded—“I am alone in the world, you know, and seldom have an opportunity of doing any one a kindness. We soldiers lead a sadly unsatisfactory, desultory sort of life. Till you ‘came out’ this year, I had no one to care for, no one to interest myself about; but since I have seen you every day, and watched you enjoying yourself, and admired and sought after, I have felt like a different man. I have a great deal to thank you for, Miss Kettering; I was rapidly growing into a selfish, heartless old gentleman, but you have renewed my youthful feelings and freshened up my better nature, till I sometimes think I am almost happy. How can I repay you but by watching over your career, and should you ever require it, placing my whole existence at your disposal? It would break my heart to see you thrown away—no; believe me, Miss Kettering, you have no truer friend than myself, none that admires or loves you better than your old chaperon;” and as the Major spoke he looked so kindly and sincerely into the girl’s face, that albeit his language might bear the interpretation of actual love, and was, as Hairblower would have said, “uncommon near the wind,” it seemed the most natural thing in the world under the circumstances, and Blanche leaned on his arm, and talked and laughed, and told him to get the carriage, and otherwise ordered him about with a strangely-mixed feeling of childlike confidence and gratified vanity. The party broke up at an early hour, many of them having dinner-engagements in London; and as D’Orville handed Blanche into her carriage, he felt that he had to-day made a prodigious stride towards the great object in view. He had gained the girl’s confidence, no injudicious movement towards gaining her heart and her fortune. He pressed her hand as she wished him good-bye; and while he did so, shuddered at the consciousness of his meanness. Too well he knew he loved another—a word, a look from Mary Delaval, would have saved him even now; but her farewell was cold and short as common courtesy would admit of, and he ground his teeth as he thought those feet would spurn him, at which he would give his very life to fall. The worst passions of his nature were aroused. He swore, some day, to humble that proud heart in the dust, but the first step at all events must be to win the heiress. This morning he could have given up all for Mary, but now he was himself again, and the Major walked moodily back to barracks, a wiser (as the world would opine), but certainly not a better man.
Care, however, although, as Horace tells us, “she sits behind the horseman,” is a guest whose visits are but little encouraged by the light dragoon. Our gallant hussars were not inclined to mope down at Hounslow after their guests had returned to town, and the last carriage had scarcely driven off with its fair freight, ere phaeton, buggy, riding-horse, and curricle were put in requisition, to take their military owners back to the metropolis; that victim of discipline, the orderly officer, being alone left to console himself in his solitude, as he best might, with his own reflections and the society of a water-spaniel. To-morrow morning they must be again on the road, to reach head-quarters in time for parade; but to-morrow morning is a long way off from gentlemen who live every hour of their lives; so away they go, each on his own devices, but one and all resolved to make the most of the present, and glitter, whilst they may, in the sunshine of their too brief noon.
St. George’s clock tolls one, and Blanche has been asleep for hours in her quiet room at the back of the house in Grosvenor Square. Pure thoughts and pleasant dreams have hovered round the young girl’s pillow, and the last image present to her eyes has been the kind, handsome face of Major D’Orville—the hero who, commanding to all besides, is so gentle, so considerate, so tender with her alone. “Perhaps,” thought she, as the midnight rain beat against her window-panes, “he is even now going his bleak rounds at Hounslow” (Blanche had a vague idea that the hussars spent the night in patrolling the heath), “wrapped in his cloak, on that dear white horse, very likely thinking of me. How such a man is thrown away, with his kindly feelings, and his noble mind, and his courageous heart. ‘Nobody to care for,’ he said; ‘alone in the world’;” and little Blanche sighed a sigh of that pity which is akin to a softer feeling, and experienced for an instant that startling throb with which love knocks at the door, like some unwelcome visitor, ere habit has emboldened him to walk up-stairs, unbidden, and make himself at home.
Let us see how right the maiden was in her conjectures, and follow the Major through his bleak rounds, and his night of military hardships.
As we perambulate London at our loitering leisure, and stare about us in the desultory, wandering manner of those who have nothing to do, now admiring an edifice, now peeping into a print-shop, we are often brought up, “all standing,” in one of the great thoroughfares, by the magnificent proportions, the architectural splendour, of a building which our peaceful calling debars us from entering. Nevertheless we may gaze and gape at the stately outside; we may admire the lofty windows, with their florid ornaments, and marvel for what purpose are intended the upper casements, which seem to us like the bull’s-eyes let into the deck of a three-decker, magnified to a gigantic uselessness; we may stare till the nape of our neck warns us to desist, at the classic ornaments raised in high relief around the roof, where strange mythological devices, unknown to Lemprière, mystify alike the antiquarian and the naturalist,—centaurs, terminating in salmon-trout, career around the cornices, more grotesque than the mermaid, more inexplicable than the sphinx. In vain we cudgel our brains to ask of what faith, what principle these monsters may be the symbols. Can they represent the insignia of that corps so strangely omitted in the Army List—known to a grateful country as the horse marines? Are they a glorious emanation of modern art? or are they, as the Irish gentleman suggested of our martello towers, only intended to puzzle posterity? Splendid, however, as may be the outward magnificence of this military palace, it is nothing compared with the luxury that reigns within, and the heroes of both services enjoy a delightful contrast to the hardships of war, in the spacious saloons and exquisite repasts provided for its members by the “Peace and Plenty Club.”
“Waiter—two large cigars and another sherry-cobbler,” lisps a voice which, although somewhat thicker than usual, we have no difficulty in recognising as the property of Captain Lacquers. That officer has dined “severely,” as he calls it, and is slightly inebriated. He is reclining on three chairs, in a large, lofty apartment, devoid of furniture, and surrounded by ottomans. From its airy situation, general appearance, and pervading odour, we have no difficulty in identifying it as the smoking-room of the establishment. At our friend’s elbow stands a small table, with empty glasses, and opposite him, with his heels above the level of his head, and a cigar of “sesquipedalian” length in his mouth, sits Sir Ascot Uppercrust. Gaston D’Orville is by his side, veiling his handsome face in clouds of smoke, and they are all three talking about the heiress. Yes; these are the Major’s rounds, these are the hardships innocent Blanche sighed to think of. It is lucky that ladies can neither hear nor see us in our masculine retreats.
“So she refused you, Uppy; refused you point blank, did she? ’Gad, I like her for it,” said Lacquers, the romance of whose disposition was much enhanced by his potations.
“Deuced impertinent, I call it,” replied the repulsed; “won’t have such a chance again. After all, she’s not half a nice girl.”
“Don’t say that,” vociferated Lacquers, “don’t say that. She’s perfect, my dear boy; she’s enchanting—she’s got mind, and that—what’s a woman without intellect?—without the what-d’ye-call-it spark?—a—a—you recollect the quotation.”
“A pudding without plums,” said Sir Ascot, who was a bit of a wag in a quiet way; and “A fiddle without strings,” suggested the Major at the same moment.
“Exactly,” replied Lacquers, quite satisfied; “well, my dear fellow, I’m a man that adores all that sort of thing. ’Gad, I can’t do without talent, and music, and so on. Do I ever miss an opera? Didn’t I half ruin myself for Pastorelli, because she could dance? Now, I’ll tell you what”—and the speaker, lighting a fresh cigar, forgot what he was going to say.
“Then you’re rather smitten with Miss Kettering, too,” observed D’Orville, who, as usual, was determined not to throw a chance away. “I thought a man of your many successes was blasé with that sort of thing;” and the Major smiled at Sir Ascot, whilst Lacquers went off again at score.
“To be sure, I’ve gone very deep into the thing, old fellow, as you know; and I think I understand women. You may depend upon it they like a fellow with brains. But I ought to settle; I ‘flushed’ a grey hair yesterday in my whiskers, and this is just the girl to suit. It’s not her money I care for; I’ve got plenty—at least I can get plenty at seven per cent. No, it is her intellect, and her refusing Uppy, that I like. What did you say, my boy? how did you begin?” he added, thinking he might as well get a hint. “Did you tip her any poetry? Tommy Moore, and that other fellow, little What’s-his-name?” Lacquers was beginning to speak very thick, and did not wait for an answer. “I’ll show you how to settle these matters to-morrow after parade. First I’ll go to——Who’s that fellow just come in? ’Gad, it’s Clank—good fellow, Clank. I say, Clank, will you come to my wedding? Recollect I asked you to-night; be very particular about the date. Let me see; to-morrow’s the second Sunday after Ascot. I’ll lay any man three to two the match comes off before Goodwood.”
D’Orville smiles calmly. He hears the woman whom he intends to make his wife talked of thus lightly, yet no feeling of bitterness rises in his mind against the drunken dandy. Would he not resent such mention of another name? But his finances will not admit of such a chance as the present wager being neglected; so he draws out his betting-book, and turning over its well-filled leaves for a clear place, quietly observes, “I’ll take it—three to two, what in?”
“Pounds, ponies, or hundreds,” vociferates Lacquers, now decidedly uproarious; “thousands if you like. Fortune favours the brave. Vogue la thingumbob! Waiter! brandy-and-water! Clank, you’re a trump: shake hands, Clank. We won’t go home till morning. Yonder he goes: tally-ho!” And while the Major, who is a man of conscience, satisfies himself with betting his friend’s bet in hundreds, Lacquers vainly endeavours to make a corresponding memorandum; and finding his fingers refuse their office, gives himself up to his fate, and with an abortive attempt to embrace the astonished Clank, subsides into a sitting posture on the floor.
The rest adjourn to whist in the drawing-room; and Gaston D’Orville concludes his rounds by losing three hundred to Sir Ascot; “Uppy” congratulating himself on not having made such a bad day’s work after all.
As the Major walks home to his lodgings in the first pure flush of the summer’s morning, how he loathes that man whose fresh unsullied boyhood he remembers so well. What is he now? Nothing to rest on; nothing to hope for—loving one—deceiving another. If he gain his object, what is it but a bitter perjury? Gambler—traitor—profligate—turn which way he will, there is nothing but ruin, misery, and sin.
SELLING THE COPYRIGHT—THE POLITICIAN’S DAY-DREAMS—TATTERSALL’S AT FLOOD—A DANDY’S DESTINY
“Can’t do it, my lord—your lordship must consider—overwritten yourself sadly of late—your ‘Broadsides from the Baltic’ were excellent—telling, clever, and eloquent; but you’ll excuse me—you were incorrect in your statistics and mistaken in your facts. Then your last novel, ‘Captain Flash; or, the Modern Grandison,’ was a dead loss to us—lively work—well reviewed—but it didn’t sell. In these days people don’t care to go behind the scenes for a peep at aristocratic ruffians and chivalrous black-legs—no, what we want is something original—hot and strong, my lord, and lots of nature. Now, these translations”—and the publisher, for a publisher it was who spoke, waved his sword of office, a huge ivory paper-cutter, towards a bundle of manuscripts—“these translations from the ‘Medea’ are admirably done—elegant language—profound scholarship—great merit—but the public won’t look at them; and even with your lordship’s name to help them off, we cannot say more than three hundred—in point of fact, I think we are hardly justified in going as far as that;” and the publisher crossed his legs and sat back in his arm-chair, like a man who had made up his mind.
We have almost lost sight of Lord Mount Helicon since the Guyville ball, but he now turns up, attending to business, as he calls it, and is sitting in Mr. Bracketts’ back-room, driving as hard a bargain as he can for the barter of his intellectual produce, and conducting the sale in his usual careless, good-humoured manner, although he has a bill coming due to-morrow, and ready money is a most important consideration. The little back-room is perfectly lined with newspapers, magazines, prospectuses, books, proof-sheets, and manuscripts, whilst the aristocracy of talent frown in engravings from the walls—faces generally not so remarkable for their beauty as for a dishevelled, untidy expression, consequent on disordered hair pushed back from off the temples, and producing the unbecoming effect of having been recently exposed to a gale of wind; nevertheless, the illegible autographs beneath symbolise names which fill the world.
Mr. Bracketts, the presiding genius of the place, is a remarkable man; his broad, high brow and deep-set flashing eyes betray at once the man of intellect, the champion whose weapon is the brain, whilst his spare, bent frame is attenuated by that mental labour which produces results precisely the converse of healthy physical exertion. Mr. Bracketts might have been a great poet, a successful author, or a scientific explorer; but, like the grocer’s apprentice who is clogged with sweets till he loathes the very name of sugar, our publisher has been surfeited with talent till he almost pines to be a boor, to exchange the constant intellectual excitement which wears him to shreds for placid ignorance, a good appetite, and fresh air. How can he find time to embody his own thoughts who is continually perusing, rejecting, perhaps licking into shape those of others? How can he but be disgusted with the puny efforts of the scribbler’s wing, when he himself feels capable of flights that would soar far out of the ken of that every-day average authorship of which his soul is sick?—so beyond an occasional slashing review, written in no forbearing spirit, he seldom puts pen to paper, save to score and interline and correct; yet is he, with all his conscious superiority, not above our national prejudices in favour of what we playfully term good society. We fear he had rather go to a “crush” at Lady Dinadam’s than sup with Boz. He is an Englishman, and his heart warms to a peer—so he lets Lord Mount Helicon down very easy, and offers him three hundred for his manuscript.
“Hang it, Bracketts,” said his lordship, “it’s worth more than that—look what it cost me; if it hadn’t been for that cursed ‘Sea-breeze’ chorus I should have been at Newmarket, when ‘Bowse-and-Bit’ won ‘The Column’—and I should have landed ‘a Thou’ at least. But I was so busy at it I was late for the train. Come, Bracketts, spring a point, and I’ll put you ‘on’ about ‘Sennacherib’ for the Goodwood Cup.”
“We should wish to be as liberal as possible, my lord,” replied Mr. Bracketts, shaking his head with a smile, “but we have other interests to consult—if I was the only person concerned it would be different—but, in short, I have already rather exceeded my powers, and I can go no farther!”
“Very well,” said Lord Mount Helicon, looking at his watch, and seeing it was time for him to be at Tattersall’s; “only if it goes through another edition, we’ll have a fresh arrangement. It’s time for me to be off. Any news among the fraternity? Anything good coming out soon?”
“Nothing but a novel by a lady of rank,” returned Mr. Bracketts, with a meaning smile; “and we all know what that is likely to be. Capital title, though: ‘Blue-bell; or, the Double Infidelity’—the name will sell it. Good-morning; good-morning, my lord. Pray look in again, when you are this way.” And the publisher, having bowed out his noble guest, returned to his never-ending labours, whilst Lord Mount Helicon whisked into the street, with five hundred things to do, and, as usual, a dozen appointments to keep, all at the same time.
Let us follow him down to Tattersall’s, whither, on the principle of “business first and pleasure afterwards,” he betakes himself at once, treading as it were upon air, his busy imagination teeming with a thousand schemes, and his spirits rising with that self-distilled elixir which is only known to the poetic temperament, and which, though springing to a certain extent from constitutional recklessness, owes its chief potency to the self-confidence of mental superiority—the reflection that, when all externals are swept away, when ruin and misfortune have done their wickedest, the productive treasure, the germ of future success, is still untouched within.
“If the worst comes to the worst,” thinks his lordship, “if ‘Sennacherib’ breaks down, and Blanche Kettering fights shy, and the sons of Judah thunder at the door of the ungodly, and ‘the pot boils over,’ and the world says ‘it’s all up with Mount,’ have I not still got something to fall back upon? Shall not my very difficulties point the way to overcome them? and when I am driven into a corner, won’t I come out and astonish them all? I’ve got it in me—I know I have. And the reviewers—pshaw! I defy them! Let them but lay a finger on my ‘Medea,’ and I’ll give them such a roasting as they haven’t had since the days of the ‘Dunciad.’ Byron did it: why shouldn’t I? If I could only settle down—and I could settle down if I was regularly cleaned out—I think I am man enough to succeed. Bring out a work that would shake the Ministry, and scatter the moderate party—then for Progress, Improvement, Enfranchisement, and the March with the Times (rogue’s march though it be), and Mount Helicon, at the head of an invincible phalanx, in the House, with unbounded popularity out of doors, an English peerage—fewer points to the coronet—a seat in the Cabinet—why not? But here we are at Tattersall’s;” and the future statesman is infernally in want of a few hundreds, so now for “good information, long odds, a safe man, and a shot at the favourite!”
As he walked down the narrow passage out of Grosvenor Place, now bowing to a peer, now nodding to a trainer, now indulging in quaint badinage, which the vulgar call “chaff,” with a dog-stealer, who would have suspected the rattling, agreeable, off-hand Mount Helicon of deep-laid schemes and daring ambition? Nobody saw through him but old Barabbas, the Leg; and he once confided to a confederate on Newmarket Heath, “There’s not one of the young ones as knows his alphabet, ’cept the Lively Lord; and take my word for it, Plunder, he’s a deep ’un.”
If a foreigner would have a comprehensive view of our system of English society all at one glance, let him go into the yard at Tattersall’s any crowded “comparing day,” before one of our great events on the turf. There will he see, in its highest perfection, the apparent anomaly of aristocratic opinions and democratic habits, the social contradiction by which the peer reconciles his familiarity with the Leg, and his hauteur towards those almost his equals in rank, who do not happen to be “of his own set.” There he may behold Privy Councillors rubbing shoulders with convicted swindlers, noblemen of unstained lineage, themselves the “mirror of honour,” passing their jests for the time, on terms of the most perfect equality, with individuals whose only merit is success; and that indescribable immunity some persons are allowed to enjoy, by which, according to the proverb, “one man is entitled to steal a horse, when another may not even look at a halter.” But this apparent equality can only flourish in the stifling atmosphere of the ring, or the free breezes of Newmarket Heath. Directly the book is shut my lord is a very different man, and Tom This or Dick That would find it another story altogether were he to expect the same familiarity in the county-rooms or the hunting-field which he has enjoyed in that vortex of speculation, where, after all, he merely represents a “given quantity,” as a layer of the odds, and where his money is as good as another man’s, or, at least, is so considered. Nay, the very crossing which divides Grosvenor Place from the Park is a line of demarcation quite sufficient to convert the knowing, off-hand nod of our lordly speculator into the stiff, cold bow and studiously polite greeting of the “Grand Seigneur.” Verily, would-be gentlemen, who take to racing as a means of “getting into society,” must often find themselves grievously deceived. But Lord Mount Helicon is in the thick of it. Tattersall greets him with that respectful air which his good taste never permits him to lay aside, whether he is discussing a matter of thousands with Sir Peter Plenipo, or arranging the sale of a forty-pound hack for an ensign in the Guards; therefore is he himself respected by all. “You should have bought two of the yearlings, my lord,” says he, in his quiet, pleasant voice; “Colonel Cavesson never sent us up such a lot in his life before.”
“Ha! Mount!” exclaims Lord Middle Mile, with a hearty smack on his friend’s shoulders, “the very man I wanted to see,” and straightway he draws him aside, and plunges into an earnest conversation, in which, ever and anon, the whispered words—“Carry the weight,” “Stay the distance,” and “Stand a cracker on Sennacherib,” are distinctly audible.
“I can afford to lay your lordship seven to one,” observes an extra-polite individual, who seems to consider the laying and taking the odds as the normal condition of man, and whose superabundant courtesy is only equalled by the deliberate carefulness of his every movement, masking, as it does, the lightning perception of the hawk, and, shall we add, the insatiable rapacity of that bird of prey? Mount Helicon moves from one group to another, intent on the business in hand. He invests largely against “Nesselrode” (not the diplomatist nor the pudding, but the race-horse of that name), and backs “Sennacherib” heavily for the Goodwood Cup. He takes the odds to a hundred pounds, besides, from his polite friend, “who regrets he cannot offer him a point or two more,” and, on looking over the well-filled pages of his book, hugs himself with the self-satisfied feeling of a man who has done a good day’s work, and effected the crowning stroke to a flourishing speculation.
As he walks up the yard a quick step follows close upon him, a hand is laid upon his shoulder, and a well-known voice greets him in drawling tones, which he recognises as the property of our military Adonis, the irresistible Captain Lacquers. “Going to the Park, Mount?” says the hussar, with more animation than he usually betrays. “If you’ve a mind for a turn, I’ll send my cab away;” and the peer, who cultivates Lacquers, as he himself says, “for amusement, just as he goes to see Keeley,” replying in the affirmative, a tiny child, in top-boots and a cockade, is with difficulty woke, and dismissed, in company with a gigantic chestnut horse, towards his own stables. How that urchin, who, being deprived of his natural rest at night, constantly sleeps whilst driving by day, is to steer through the omnibuses in Piccadilly, is a matter of speculation for those who love “horrid accidents”; but it is fortunate that the magnificent animal knows his own way home, and will only stop once, at a door in Park Lane, where he is used to being pulled up, and where, we are concerned to add, his master has no business, although he is sufficiently welcome. “The fact is, I want to consult you, Mount, about a deuced ticklish affair,” proceeded the dandy, as he linked his arm in his companion’s, and wended his way leisurely towards the Park.
“Not going to call anybody out, are you?” rejoined Mount, with a quaint expression of countenance. “’Pon my soul, if you are, I’ll put you up with your back to a tree, or along a furrow, or get you shot somehow, and then no one will ever ask me to be a ‘friend’ again.”
“Worse than that,” replied Lacquers, looking very grave; “I’m in a regular fix—up a tree, by Jove. Fact is, I’m thinking of marrying—marrying, you know; devilish bad business, isn’t it?”
“Why, that depends,” said his confidant; “of course you’ll be a great loss, and all that; break so many hearts too; but then, think—the duty you owe your country. The breed of such men must not be allowed to become extinct. No; I should say you ought to make the sacrifice.”
Lacquers looked immensely comforted, and went on—“Well, I’ve made arrangements—that’s to say, I’ve ordered some of the things—dressing-case, set of phaeton-harness, large chest of cigars—but, of course, it’s no use getting everything till it’s all settled. Now, you know, Mount, I’m a deuced domestic fellow, likely to make a girl happy. I’m not one of your tearing dogs that require constant excitement; I could live in the country quite contentedly part of the year. I’ve got resources within myself—I’m fond of hunting and shooting and—no, I can’t stand fishing, but still, don’t you think I’m just the man to settle?”
“Certainly; it’s all you’re fit for,” replied his friend.
“Well, now to the point. I’ve not asked the girl yet, you know, but I don’t anticipate much difficulty there,” and the suitor smoothed his moustaches with a self-satisfied smile; “but, of course, the relations will make a bother about settlements, ‘love light as air,’ you know, and ‘human flies,’ and that; still we must provide for everything. Well, my lawyer informs me that I can’t settle anything during my brother’s lifetime, and he’s just a year older than myself—that’s what I call ‘a stopper.’ Now, Mount, you’re a sharp fellow—man of intellect, you know—’gad, I wouldn’t give a pin for a fellow without brains—what do you advise me to do?”
This was rather a poser, even for a gentleman of Lord Mount Helicon’s fertile resources; but he was never long at a loss, so as he took off his hat to a very pretty woman in a barouche, he replied, in his off-hand way, “Do? why, elope, my good fellow—run away with her—carry her off like a Sabine bride, only let her take all her clothes with her—save you a trousseau. Has she money?”
“Plenty, I fancy; from what I hear, I should think Miss Kettering can’t have less than——”
“The devil!” interrupted Lord Mount Helicon, in a tone that would have made most men start. “You don’t mean to say you want to marry Miss Kettering?”
“Well, I think she wants to marry me,” rejoined Lacquers, perfectly unmoved; “and you know one can’t refuse a lady; but it’s only fair to say she hasn’t actually asked me.”
Lord Mount Helicon felt for a moment intensely disgusted. Blanche’s beauty, and her simple, pretty manner, had touched him, as far as a man could be touched who had so many irons in the fire as his lordship, but the impulse for fun, the delight he experienced in quizzing his unsuspecting friend, soon overcame all other feelings, and he proceeded to egg Lacquers on, and assure him of his undoubted success, for the express purpose of amusing himself with the hussar’s method of courtship. “Besides,” thought he, “such a flat as this hanging about her will keep the other fellows off; and with a girl like her, I shall have little difficulty in ‘cutting him out.’” So he advised his friend to take time, and “allow her to get accustomed to his society, and gradually entangled in his fascinations; and then, my dear fellow,” he added, “when she finds she can’t live without you—when she has got used to your engaging ways, as she is to her poodle’s—when she can no more bear to be parted from you than from her bullfinch, then speak up like a man—bring all your science into play—come with a rush—and win cleverly at the finish!”
“Ay, that’s all very well,” mused the captain, “that’s just my idea; but in the meantime some fellow might cut me out. Now, there’s our Major—D’Orville, you know (’gad, how hot it is! let’s lean over the rails)—D’Orville seems to be always in Grosvenor Square. He’s an old fellow, too, but he has a deuced taking way with women. I don’t know what they see in him either. To be sure he was good-looking; but he’s a man of no education” (Lacquers himself could scarcely spell his own name), “and he must be forty, if he’s a day. Look at this fellow on the black cob. By Jove! it’s old Bounce, and talk of the devil—there’s D’Orville riding with Miss Kettering next the rails. This is a go.”
Now, the little guileless conversation we have here related was hardly more worthy of record than the hundred and one nothings by the interchange of which gentlemen of the present day veil their want of ideas from each other, save for the fact of its being overheard by ears into which it sank like molten lead, creating an effect far out of proportion to its own triviality. Frank Hardingstone was walking close behind the speakers, and unwittingly heard their whole dialogue, even to the concluding remark with which Lacquers, as he leaned his elbows on the rails, and passed the frequenters of “the Ride” in review before him, expressed his disapprobation of the terms on which Major D’Orville stood with Blanche Kettering. Poor Frank! How often a casual word, dropped perhaps in jest from a coxcomb’s lips, has power to wring an honest, manly heart to very agony! Our man of action had been endeavouring, ever since the Guyville ball, to drive Blanche’s image from his thoughts, with an energy worthy of better success than it obtained. He had busied himself at his country place with his farm and his library and his tenants and his poor, and had found it all in vain. The fact is, he was absurdly in love with Blanche—that was the long and short of it—and after months of self-restraint and self-denial and discomfort, he resolved to do what he had better have done at first, to go to London, mingle in society, and enter the lists for his lady-love on equal terms with his rivals. And this was the encouragement he received on his appearance in the metropolis. He had a great mind to go straight home again, so he resolved to call on the morrow in Grosvenor Square, to ascertain with his own eyes the utter hopelessness of his affection, and then—why, then make up his mind to the worst, and bear his destiny like a man, though the world would be a lonely world to him for evermore. Frank was still young, and would have repelled indignantly the consolation, had such been offered him, of brighter eyes and a happier future. No, at his age there is but one woman in the universe. Seared, callous hearts, that have sustained many a campaign, know better; but verily in this respect we hold that ignorance is bliss. Frank, too, leaned against the rails when Mount Helicon and Lacquers passed on, and gazed upon the sunshiny, gaudy scene around him with a wistful eye and an aching heart.