"You are perfectly right, Mrs. Sartoris; it is. And yet people who have serious misgivings about their ability to act a play have no hesitation about taking part in charades. It is wont to result in all the characters wanting to talk together, or else in nobody apparently having anything to say, or in one character being so enamoured with the ease he or she improvises, that the affair resolves itself into a mere monologue. I would venture to suggest that our charades should be merely pantomimic."
"Glorious!" exclaimed Jim. "I vote we place ourselves in Miss Sylla's hands, and elect her manageress. Will you agree, Mrs. Sartoris?"
"Most certainly. The idea sounds excellent, and to leave the originator to carry it out is undoubtedly the best thing we can do."
"Very well, then; if you will give me an hour or two to think out my words, I will explain how they ought to be done."
"If you wouldn't mind coming up to the Grange, we might have a rehearsal this afternoon, rummage up the properties, and all the rest of it," exclaimed Jim, energetically.
"That will do admirably," said Laura Chipchase. "And now, Sylla, the sooner you set that great mind of yours to work, the better."
Todborough Grange rejoiced in what should be the adjunct of every country house—a large unfurnished room. It had been thrown out expressly as a playroom for the children by Cedric Bloxam's father, and as they grew up proved even more useful. Should the house be full and the weather prove wet, what games of battledore and shuttlecock, "bean-bags," &c., were played in it in the daytime, and what a ball-room it made at night! There was no trouble moving out the furniture or taking up the carpet, there being nothing but a few benches and a piano in the room. At one end was a slightly-raised stage, and off that was a tiny chamber, originally known as the toy-room, and pretty well dedicated to the same use now, being stored with properties for cotillons, the aforesaid games, theatrical representations, &c. There was a regular drop-curtain to the stage, but that was all. Scenery there was none. That was fitted in when required, but would have been considered in the way as a permanency, the stage being used at times as an orchestra, at others as a tea-room. It was raised not quite a foot above the floor, and could therefore be easily stepped on to; in fact, upon the few occasions that the Theatre Royal Todborough opened, the entertainment had been confined invariably to one-act farces. At such times it was spoken of with considerable ostentation as a theatre; but as a rule the old appellation was adhered to, and it was generally known as the play-room. It was in this room that the Misses Chipchase found Blanche, Jim, Mr. Cottrell, Lionel Beauchamp, and the Sartorises awaiting their arrival in the afternoon.
"Now, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Jim, "we are all ready for you. We have installed you in command, and hereby promise attention and obedience."
"Honour and obey, Jim," interrupted Blanche, laughing; "but it is the lady who should say it."
"It does sound a little as if he had strayed into the marriage service," observed Cottrell.
"Ladies and gentlemen not intending to assist in this representation are requested to withdraw," retorted Jim, "by order of the stage-manager, James Bloxam."
"Come along, Mr. Cottrell: he has right on his side; the audience have certainly no business at the rehearsals."
And, followed by the younger Miss Chipchase, Cottrell, and Beauchamp,Blanche crossed towards the door. At the threshold they were arrested bySylla, who exclaimed,
"You cannot all go; I must have another gentleman. If Mr. Cottrell won't act, you must, Lionel."
"I had no idea you acted," said Blanche Bloxam, with some little surprise; "you said nothing about it this morning when we were talking this over."
It may have been some slight inflexion of the voice that prompted the deduction; but certain it was that as Pansey Cottrell heard that commonplace little speech, he muttered to himself, "The lady is beginning to take things in earnest, whatever Beauchamp may be."
"I have no idea that I can act," rejoined Lionel, laughing; "but I can stand still in whatever attitude I am placed, and that, I fancy, is all Sylla requires of me. You do not feel any disposition to volunteer, I suppose, Mr. Cottrell?"
"Heaven forbid!" rejoined Mr. Cottrell fervently, "Miss Sylla might want me to stand upon one leg. She will put some of you in most uncomfortable attitudes, just for the fun of the thing, I know."
"Now," said the manageress-elect, as Mr. Cottrell closed the door behind him, "what we have got to do is very simple. I have thought of two words which will each represent in three tableaux. Now, I propose that we arrange these tableaux—six in all—and then, if we run through them a second time, just to be sure we have not forgotten our places, we shall have nothing to do but to talk over any details that may occur to us. First, Mrs. Sartoris, which will you represent, the Lady or the Chambermaid of my charades?"
"Well, if you will allow me, I think I will do the Lady," said Mrs. Sartoris, laughing. "I ought, at all events, to be best in that; but there are three of us. What is Miss Chipchase going to do?"
"Oh, she is the Band," rejoined Sylla. "You see, we must have soft music all the way through these charades; and we want somebody to play for us who knows what we are about, and so can follow us."
"And so," interposed Miss Chipchase, "we have settled that I shall play the piano."
"Very well, Mrs. Sartoris," said Sylla; "then we will consider that settled; you do the Ladies and I do the Chambermaids. Now, gentlemen, you must select your own lines. What will you be, Mr. Sartoris—Walking Gentleman, Low Comedian, or Melodramatic Villain?"
"Oh, Melodramatic Villain," cried Mrs. Sartoris,—"he will be delighted. Tom's theatrical proclivities, shocking to relate, are murderous in the extreme. He is always complaining that he is never entrusted with a real good assassination."
"Then that's settled," exclaimed Sylla. "Captain Bloxam will take theWalking Gentleman, and Lionel can do the Low Comedy part."
Under the young manageress's energetic directions the tableaux were rapidly run through. The little troupe worked with a will, and in something under two hours they pronounced themselves perfect, and predicted, as people always do under these circumstances, that the performance would be a great success.
"Now comes a question," said Jim, "as to scenery, properties, and dresses. There is some little scenery in the granary that has been used before at different times, and of course we have a certain amount of properties. What shall you want, Miss Sylla?" and Jim, taking a sheet of paper and pencil in a very business-like manner, prepared to make notes on the top of the piano.
"For the first charade," said Sylla, "the scenery should be a wood scene, and then we want a lady's bed-chamber. The second charade is simply a drawing-room scene all through. For properties a brace of pistols, a pair of handcuffs, a jewel-box with plenty of bracelets, rings, &c.—we ladies can easily find those amongst us. In the second, nothing but a letter in bold handwriting. As for dresses, Mrs. Sartoris and I can easily manage; and as for you gentlemen, you want nothing but a policeman's dress, a livery, and a low comedy wig."
"No trouble about any of those things, Miss Sylla, unless it's the low comedy wig, and about that I have my doubts. However, Beauchamp must manage the best he can with his own hair if I can't find one. There is only one thing more you forgot to tell us,—what the second word is."
"No forgetfulness at all, Captain Bloxam," replied the young lady, laughing. "I am very curious to see if any of you, or any of the audience, make that word out."
"It's high time we were on our way home," observed Miss Chipchase; "as soon as you have given us a cup of tea, Jim, Sylla, and I will be off."
When the evening came there was really a good sprinkling of visitors to look on or join in whatever entertainment might be provided for them. Jim the energetic, in pursuance of his mother's hints overnight, had not only sent over to the Rockcliffe Camp, but had dispatched missives in all directions by a groom on horseback, with the pithy intimation, "Charades and an impromptu dance this evening at nine. If you have nothing better to do, please come." Jim Bloxam was a popular man in his neighbourhood, and the Grange had a reputation for improvising pleasant entertainments in such fashion. Lady Mary contemplated the forthcoming proceedings with resignation, if not with satisfaction. She had a presentiment that the evening would end unpleasantly for her. She felt certain that Sylla would contrive to pose as its heroine; and that the niece of the woman she most detested in the world should have the opportunity of for once assuming such a position in the house of which she, Lady Mary, was mistress, was exasperating. Pansey Cottrell, too, had contributed not a little to her irritation by dwelling somewhat persistently at dinner on Miss Sylla's dramatic talent. He had done this, dear pleasant creature! simply for his own diversion. He was acting as prompter to a little comedy of real life; and it is ideas, not words, that the prompters on such occasions instil into our minds. As a rule, Pansey Cottrell would have judiciously shirked such an entertainment as the one which he was now with genuine curiosity taking his seat to witness. Neither host nor hostess ever succeeded in persuading him to do what he did not fancy. He would be ill, retire to his own bed-room at the shortest possible notice, would no more make up a fourth at whist, or conduce to the entertainment of his fellows, than volunteer for a turn on the treadmill. If his entertainers troubled him much, he did not come their way again. Of course, they need not ask him unless they liked. But Mr. Cottrell knew society well. Once assure such recognition as he had done, and how obtained matters not an iota: the more unmeasured your insolence to society, the more does society bow down and worship.
"Where's Brummell dished?"
Yes, but it was a mere matter ofL.s.d.that dished him. That he ever did tell the Prince to ring the bell is unlikely; but society thought him capable of doing so, and reverenced him accordingly.
The bell rings, and the fingers of Laura Chipchase, who has already seated herself at the piano, begin to move dreamily over the keys. She plays well, and a soft weird-like melody attunes the minds of the spectators to what is to follow. Again the bell rings, and as the curtain slowly rises comes the sharp report of a pistol. "Good Heavens! there is some accident," escapes from three or four lips. But the wild ghostly music still falls, without ceasing, from the piano. Slowly the curtain continues to rise, and discovers two men confronting each other after the approved custom of duelling. On the proper stage right stands Mr. Sartoris, with brows bent and sullen scowl upon his lip; the nerveless hand by his side grasps the still-smoking pistol. Opposite, and as far from him as the space will admit, is Bloxam, his right arm upraised, and his hand holding a pistol pointed upwards. In the background stands Beauchamp, in an attitude expressive of intense anxiety. Having reached the ceiling, the curtain slowly commences to descend. As it does so, Bloxam's pistol is discharged in the air, and the performers remain unmovable till once more masked from the view of the spectators.
"A duel!" exclaims Miss Evesham; "what are we to make of that?"
"No, no, that won't do," ejaculates the Squire: "he has missed—missed, don't you see? Can't be quite right; but that's the idea."
"I have it," rejoins Miss Evesham; "you are right, Mr. Bloxam, that is it. It's not missed, but a miss. There are lots of words, you know, begin with 'miss.'"
Some slight delay, during which the soft dreamy music still falters unceasingly from Laura Chipchase's fingers, and then the curtain once more begins to ascend. There is no such sensational effect as a pistol-report to startle the audience this time. The scene represents a lady's dressing-room. In an arm-chair, placed on the stage right opposite the toilette-table on the stage left, attired as a smart lady's-maid, reclines Sylla sound asleep; on the table are scattered bracelets, &c., and also stands an open jewel-case. Mr. Sartoris, got up to represent a dog-stealer, a burglar, or other member of the predatory classes, is in the act of getting in a practicable window at the back of the stage. A dark lantern is in his hand, and his feet are artistically enshrined in india-rubbers. Stealthily, with many melodramatic starts and gestures, and anxious glances at the sleeping girl, he makes his way to the toilette-table, fills his pockets with the glittering gewgaws, then turns to depart, with his plunder, silently as he had come. As he passes the sleeping soubrette, she moves uneasily in her chair. With a ferocious gesture the robber draws from his breast an ominous-looking knife, pauses for a moment, and then, reassured by her tranquillity, makes his way to the window. As he disappears, Mrs. Sartoris, an opera-cloak thrown over her ball-room dress, and carrying a bed-room candle in her hand, enters and crosses to the toilette-table. Placing her candle on the table, she seizes the jewel-box, and, it is evident, becomes cognizant that robbery has been committed. As she turns, Sylla starts from the chair in great confusion; Mrs. Sartoris points to the table, and then with a start notices the open window. The curtain descends upon Mrs. Sartoris pointing in an accusing manner to the window, and Sylla with clasped hands mutely protesting her innocence and ignorance of the robbery.
With the clue afforded by the solution of the first syllable, the audience very soon make out the second; and that the word was either "mistake" or "mistaken" they entertained little doubt. Curiosity now centred on what version they would give of the whole, for that each word was to be rendered in three tableaux had been stated before the performance commenced.
The curtain rises again upon the last scene; and upon this occasion the representation is motionless. In the centre of the stage, Lionel Beauchamp, in the guise of a policeman, is snapping-to the hand-cuffs on the weeping Sylla. On the left, with averted head, stands Mrs. Sartoris, indicating sorrow for the offender, but entire belief in her guilt. On the opposite side, Jim Bloxam, attired in evening costume, is unmistakably directing the officer to remove his prisoner. Slowly the curtain descends amid much acclamation and cries of "Mistake!" In his capacity of stage-manager, Jim Bloxam glides for a moment in front, and, in a few off-hand words to the audience, acknowledges the correctness of their apprehension.
"I give Jim credit for his exertions. That really was most successful," said Lady Mary, as her son disappeared.
"I fancy the success is due more to Miss Sylla than him," rejoined Pansey Cottrell, suavely. "Jim, as we all know, though one of the best of fellows, is the most execrable of actors; and I don't think those tableaux look like his inspiration."
"I am sure he is quite as good as the generality of amateurs," retortedLady Mary, with no little asperity.
She was no more exempt from the true womanly instinct that prompts the regarding of her own chicks as swans than any of her sex. Mr. Cottrell was much too quick-witted not to see that his criticism was distasteful, but he never could resist the temptation of teasing his fellow-creatures.
"Admitting, for the sake of argument, Lady Mary," he replied, "that Jim is an average actor, when one knows that there is rather exceptional talent in the troupe, one is apt to regard that as the guiding spirit. Sylla Chipchase is very clever at all this sort of thing, I know, because I have seen her on previous occasions."
"You seem to be losing your head about that girl, Pansey, like the rest of them. You all seem to think that she is wonderfully clever because she happened to know that Mr. Beauchamp could run."
"I fancy she knows a good deal more about him than that," replied Mr.Cottrell demurely.
"What do you mean? What have you heard about her?" inquired Lady Mary, somewhat eagerly.
"Nothing, further than she seemed to be equally well aware that he could act. But stop, they are commencing again."
Slowly, as before, the curtain ascends to a dreamy melody of the piano, and discovers Sylla, attired as the smartest of soubrettes, in close juxtaposition to Lionel Beauchamp in a groom's livery. Taking a letter from him, she places it in her bosom, and then looks up at him with all the devilry of coquetry in her eyes. She toys with the corner of her apron, twiddling it backwards and forwards between her fingers. She glances demurely down at her feet, then looks shyly up at him again; then once more studying her apron, she, as if unconsciously, proffers her cheek in a manner too provocative for any man to resist, and as the curtain descends Lionel Beauchamp is apparently about to make the most of his opportunity.
"By Jove!" laughed the Squire, "in Beauchamp's place I think I would have been thoroughly realistic—the proper thing in these days!"
"Well," whispered Lady Mary to Pansey Cottrell, "of all the audacious minxes! Mr. Beauchamp deserves great credit for his discretion in waiting until the curtain fell before he kissed her."
That Lady Mary assumed the ceremony was concluded may be easily imagined, while the audience generally differed considerably about the scene, some of the ladies contending that there was no necessity for carrying dramatic representation quite so far; while the men, on the other hand, thought that Beauchamp did not carry it far enough.
The second scene discovers Mrs. Sartoris in the centre of the stage, with Jim Bloxam on one knee, kissing the hand she extends towards him. On her other side, Mr. Sartoris, made up as an elderly gentleman, with coat thrown very much back, thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat, contemplates the pair with a look of bland satisfaction. Again the curtain descends, leaving the audience more at sea than ever as to what the word can be. Nor is the third scene calculated to throw much enlightenment on the subject. In it Lionel Beauchamp, in his groom's dress, appears to be pantomimically explaining something to the remainder of the company, who are artistically grouped in the centre of the stage, and which shrugs of the shoulders, upraised eyebrows, and other gestures, indicate they either fail to understand, or, it may be, to agree with. But the whole word, like more ambitious dramatic representations, is somehow involved in fog. You cannot help thinking that it must be a good charade if you could only make out what it was about; but when the curtain descends, the audience, instead of at once proclaiming the word, can hardly even make a guess at it. There are cries for the stage-manager; and when Jim Bloxam appears in reply to a laughing call, "The word? the word?" he bows low to the audience, and regrets his inability to comply with their request.
"The distinguished authoress," continued Jim, "has taken none of us into her confidence. She has, I presume, strong opinions on the subject of copyright, and is determined to give no opportunity of its infringement."
Jim's speech created both merriment and curiosity, and was followed by a prompt call of "Author, author!" A few seconds, and then the stage-manager responds by leading Sylla forward in her soubrette dress. Dropping the sauciest of curtsies in acknowledgment of the applause with which she is greeted, she replies in clear distinct tones,
"Ladies and gentlemen, you find our word unintelligible. Paradoxical as it may seem, that is precisely the result we have aimed at; and now that I have told you the word, I am sure you will admit our efforts have been successful;" and once more bowing to her audience, Sylla disappeared behind the curtain Jim held back for her.
What can she mean? What do they mean? What is it? What was the word? were questions responded to by the jolly laugh of Cedric Bloxam.
"Can't you see?" he said, "it's all a sell: we found it unintelligible, and that is precisely what we were meant to do—that's the word."
And once more the Squire indulged in a hearty guffaw.
But now the company flock into the drawing-room for tea or other refreshment, while the servants rapidly clear the play-room for dancing. The curtain is pulled up, the stage occupied by a select section of the Commonstone band, and, in something like a quarter of an hour Jim's impromptu dance is in full swing.
"My dear Sylla," exclaimed Lady Mary, as that young lady, leaning upon Bloxam's arm, stopped near her in one of the pauses of the valse, "I have not had an opportunity of congratulating you upon your very spirited pantomime—carried, my dear, alittletoo far in that last charade."
"Oh, I hope you don't really think so, Lady Mary," cried Sylla; "but you cannot half act a thing. When the exigencies of the stage require one to be embraced, one must admit of that ceremony. Surely if a girl has scruples about going through such a mere form, she had much better decline to act at once."
"That's a question that we will not argue," said Lady Mary. "I hear you are going to stay with Mrs. Wriothesley for the remainder of the London season."
"Yes, she is an aunt of mine; you know her, I believe."
"Very well; we are old friends, although I don't see so much of her as I once did. The London world has got so very big, you see, and Mrs. Wriothesley and I have drifted into different sets."
"Yes," chimed in Pansey Cottrell, who was standing by, "it has got perfectly unendurable. One could calculate at one time upon seeing a good deal of one's friends during the season; now half of them we only come across some once or twice. But surely you and Mrs. Wriothesley see a good deal of each other."
"No, not in these days," rejoined Lady Mary, tartly, much to Mr.Cottrell's amusement.
He knew perfectly well that the two ladies met continually, although there was little cordiality between them. But Lady Mary's last speech showed him she intended to keep Mrs. Wriothesley at arms' length, if possible, for the future; and Pansey Cottrell smiled as he thought that his hostess's schemes would, in all likelihood, be as persistently thwarted in town as they had been in the country.
"Well, I trust that Blanche and I will contrive to see a good bit of each other all the same," replied Sylla courteously. "You know my aunt, Captain Bloxam," she continued, as she moved away. "I should have thought her an easy person to get on with; but I am afraid Lady Mary does not like her."
When Ralph Wriothesley of the Household Cavalry, better known among his intimates as the "Rip," married pretty Miss Lewson, niece of that worldly and bitter-tongued old Lady Fanshawe, everybody said what a fool he had made of himself. What did he, a man who had already developed a capacity for expenditure much in excess of his income, want with a wife who brought little or no grist to the mill? The world was wrong—as the world very frequently is on such points. It was about the first sensible thing that the "Rip," in the course of his good-humoured, blundering, plunging career, had done. It saved him. Without the check that his clever little wife almost imperceptibly imposed upon him, "Rip" Wriothesley would probably, ere this, have joined the "broken brigade," and vanished from society's ken. As it was, the pretty little house in Hans Place throve merrily; and though people constantly wondered how the Wriothesleys got on, yet the unmistakable fact remained, that season after season they were to be seen everywhere and ruffling it with the best.
The Wriothesleys had advantages for which those who marvelled as to how they managed failed to make due allowance. They were both of good family—in fact, their escutcheons were better to investigate than their banker's account. Both popular in their own way, they were always in request to make up a party for Hurlingham dinners, the Ascot week, or other similar diversion. They did not affect to entertain; but the half-dozen little dinners—strictly limited to eight persons—that they gave in that tiny dining-room in the course of the season were spoken of with enthusiasm by the privileged few who had been bidden. An invitation to Mrs. Wriothesley's occasional little suppers after the play was by no means to be neglected; the two or threeplatswere always of the best, and the "Rip" took care that Giessler's "Brut" should be unimpeachable. They had both a weakness for race-meetings; but Wriothesley's plunging days were over, and his modest ventures were staked with considerably more discretion than in the times when he bet heavily. The lady was a little bit of a coquette, no doubt; but the most unscrupulous of scandalmongers had never ventured to breathe a word of reproach against Mrs. Wriothesley. A flirting, husband-hunting little minx, she had fallen honestly in love with this big,blond, good-humoured Life Guardsman; and, incredible as it might seem to the world she lived in, remained so still. They understood each other marvellously well, those two. The "Rip" regarded his wife as the cleverest woman alive; and, though she most undoubtedly looked upon him in a very different light, nobody more thoroughly appreciated the honest worth of his character than she did. As she once said, to one of her female intimates, of her husband, "He has one great virtue: he is always 'straight,' my dear. The 'Rip' couldn't tell me a lie if he tried."
Mrs. Wriothesley is sitting in her pretty little drawing-room listening to Sylla Chipchase's spirited account of her visit to Todborough Rectory.
"It was great fun," continued the girl. "Lady Mary Bloxam was thoroughly convinced, and no doubt is still, that I was setting my cap at Lionel Beauchamp. She had no idea that we had known each other from childhood; and her face, when I first called him Lionel, would have sent you into fits of laughter."
"But Lady Mary was right about one thing, Sylla. Lionel Beauchamp would be a very nice match for you."
"Don't talk nonsense, mine aunt, or speculate upon the impossible. I couldn't care for Lionel in that way any more than he would care for me. I am only eighteen, and I am sure I need not think about marriage as a speculation for some years yet."
"Well," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, laughing, "I am certainly not entitled to preach worldly wisdom. I was as mercenary, speculative a little animal at your age as you could wish to see; and what came of it? I forgot all my prudent resolutions, fell over head and ears in love, married the 'Rip,' and have been the genteel pauper you see me ever since."
"Consigned to such a poor-house as this," exclaimed Sylla melodramatically, and glancing round at the china and other knicknacks scattered about the room, "methinks that the stings of poverty are not so hard to bear."
"Ah, yes," replied Mrs. Wriothesley; "but then, you see, I meant to have had my country seat, my box at the opera, my two or three carriages, and thatmyballs should betheballs of the season."
"Now, aunt, I want to ask you one question. Mr. Cottrell told me that you and Lady Mary were once rivals. What did he mean by that?"
"No! Did Pansey tell you that?" laughed Mrs. Wriothesley. "He has a good memory. It's now some six or seven years ago that your cousin, Lady Rosington, then unmarried, was staying with me for the season, Mary Bloxam at that time was trailing that grenadier eldest girl of hers about" (a little bit of feminine exaggeration this, the lady referred to being only half an inch taller than Blanche), "and thought Sir Charles would suit very well for her husband. Unluckily for Mary Bloxam, I thought Sir Charles equally suitable for Jessie, and—well, in short, we won."
"Ah, now I understand; and I suppose you have never been friends since.Lady Mary told me that she saw very little of you in London now."
"That is not quite the case. I think we meet as often as formerly. Friends we never were, but acquaintances we have been for some years. Jim Bloxam, though, is one of my intimates. He is a great friend of both mine and the 'Rip's,' and we see a good deal of him when he is in London; and, indeed," she continued, laughing, "for the matter of that, when he is not; for he has a way of turning up at all places generally when there is anything going on. Indeed, we have half promised to lunch at their regimental tent at Ascot. And you, what do you think of Captain Bloxam?"
"I like him very much indeed," replied Sylla. And she looked her inquisitor so steadily in the face, that Mrs. Wriothesley came promptly to the conclusion that no love passages had taken place between the pair as yet. But it had suddenly shot through the energetic little woman's mind that her favourite, Jim Bloxam, would make a most suitable husband for her niece. Jim was an eldest son, and Todborough, from all accounts, a very respectable property. Yes, it would do very well if it could be brought about, to say nothing of the satisfaction there would be in stealing from her old enemy's flock the only lamb that was worth the taking. All this ran through Mrs. Wriothesley's mind as quick as lightning; and though she said nothing to Sylla on the subject, she had pretty well resolved to do her best to marry those two.
When Mrs. Wriothesley took charge of nieces for the season, she conceived it her clear and bounden duty to provide for them satisfactorily if possible. If Sylla could not be brought to think of Lionel Beauchamp, it might be possible for her to take a more favourable view of Captain Bloxam. True, he was not quite so good apartias the other; but it was comforting to think that there was every probability that it would occasion her old antagonist equal annoyance. It further struck her that, engrossed in her plans for her daughter, Lady Mary would probably totally overlook any flirtation of her son's. There is a species of fascination in countermining difficult to resist; and, though of course she would have in some measure to be guided by events, Mrs. Wriothesley had pretty well determined upon the course she would pursue.
"What are you thinking about?" inquired Sylla, breaking in upon her aunt's reverie. "They should be pleasant thoughts, judging from the smile on your lips."
"Thinking, my dear, that if we don't get our bonnets on, the world will all have gone home to luncheon before we get to the Row, and it is good for us to get the fresh air of the morning."
A little later, and the two ladies passed into the Park by the Albert Gate, and made their way to the High Change of gossip of fashionable London. A bright fresh spring morning filled the Row to overflowing. It was thronged, as it always is on a fine day after Easter. Fashionable London comes to see who of its acquaintances may be in town; and numberless parties and plans for the future are sketched out on these occasions. As for Mrs. Wriothesley's acquaintance, their name was legion. Everybody seemed to know her; and that she was popular was evident from the numbers who stopped to speak to her. They had not been long installed in their chairs before Sylla perceived Mr. Cottrell lounging towards them, and pointed him out to her aunt.
"Ah," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, "I must signal him as soon as he gets within range. I want to speak to him. I should like to hear his account of your Todborough party."
"Do," replied Sylla, laughing. "He is my fellow-conspirator, remember, though I don't suppose he will confess anything. It's delicious to see the utterly unconscious way in which he will upset people's schemes. I used really at first to think he did it innocently, but I soon discovered it wasmalice prepense."
"Yes, I know Pansey Cottrell very well. He is very mischievous; though not malicious, unless you interfere with his personal comfort; rather given to playing tricks upon his fellow-creatures; but he is more of a Puck than a Mephistopheles.—Good morning, Mr. Cottrell. Pray come and give an account of yourself. Sylla tells me you have been passing Easter with the Bloxams."
"Quite so," replied that gentleman, as he raised his hat. "Miss Sylla and I have been dedicating our poor talents to the amusement of Lady Mary's guests, and to the furtherance of Lady Mary's plans. I am sure she was much delighted at all the dancing and theatricals we inveigled her into. I presume," he continued, turning to Sylla, "that you have seen her since your arrival in town."
"Not yet," returned the girl. "She told me, you know, at Todborough, that she and my aunt moved in somewhat different sets."
"Which is hardly the case, as you know," interrupted Mrs. Wriothesley."What do you suppose she meant by that?"
"I?" replied Cottrell. "My dear Mrs. Wriothesley, I never pretend to understand what a woman means by doubtful speech of any kind. Our masculine understandings are a great deal too dense to penetrate the subtleties of feminine language. She might mean that she intends your grooves to lie far apart for the future; and then again she might mean something—something—else," continued Mr. Cottrell, rather vaguely.
"So you think Mary Bloxam intends to see as little of me in future as possible?" rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, taking no manner of notice of her companion's last words.
"No; don't say I think so," interrupted Mr. Cottrell. "I told you particularly I could form no conclusion as to what she meant. However, this place is neutral ground, and all the world meets here, or rather would, if it was not so crowded that it is almost impossible to find anybody. But—ah, here comes Lady Mary andla belleBlanche! Shall I stop her, and ask her what she does mean?" And Mr. Cottrell looked so utterly unconscious, that any one who did not know him might have deemed him actually about to put this awkward interrogatory. But the two ladies to whom he was speaking knew him better than that, and only laughed.
Whether Lady Mary intended to pass Mrs. Wriothesley with merely a bow it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that Mr. Cottrell supposed that to be her intention. Prompted by his insatiable passion for teasing his fellow-creatures, he took advantage of his situation, and, turning from Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, placed himself in Lady Mary's way, and stopped her to shake hands. It was only natural that Sylla should jump up to say "How do you do?" to Blanche; and then suddenly occurred to Mrs. Wriothesley the audacious idea of capturing her enemy and bearing her off in triumph to luncheon. She rose, greeted Lady Mary and Blanche warmly, and then strongly urged that they should come home with her to Hans Place when the Park should begin to thin.
"You know, I am close to Prince's, and the Canadians are going to play a match at La Crosse, which is well worth looking on at; such a pretty game. We can go across and have our afternoon tea at the little tables overlooking the cricket-ground. Everybody will be there."
"Mrs. Wriothesley is quite right," interposed Cottrell gravely. "Not to have seen La Crosse played is as grave an omission this season as not to have done the Opera, the Royal Academy, or other of the stereotyped exhibitions. If you can't rave about the 'dexterity of the dear Indians,' you are really not doing your duty to society. They are the last new craze; and admitting that you have not seen them being out of the question, as a lover of veracity I counsel you to do so at once."
We lunch and dine at a good many places that we would rather not; entertain, and are entertained by, a good many people for whom we feel a by no means dormant aversion. It is only the Pansey Cottrells of this world who successfully evade all such obligations, and persistently decline to do aught that does not pleasure them.
Lady Mary was too much a woman of the world to be entrapped by atour de forcesuch as this. She hesitated; thought it was impossible. It was very kind of Mrs. Wriothesley; but they had so many visits to pay, so much to do, &c. But here, somewhat to her mother's astonishment, Blanche interposed, and suggested that their other engagements could be postponed. The young lady was great at lawn tennis, having a natural aptitude for all games of that description. She had heard a great deal about this La Crosse, and was extremely curious to see it; therefore it was not surprising that she should advocate the acceptance of Mrs. Wriothesley's invitation.
"It's a thing you will have to do some time or other, Lady Mary," observed Mr. Cottrell, "unless you are setting up as an 'eccentric.' By-the-bye, Miss Sylla, of course you will see Beauchamp at Prince's. Tell him I have heard of a park hack worth his looking at. He was wanting one the other day."
That settled the question. Lady Mary felt now it was essential that she should be at Prince's and see how Sylla progressed in her insidious designs. For that Miss Chipchase, under her aunt's guidance, was not doing her best to entangle Lionel Beauchamp in her toils, no power could have persuaded Lady Mary. Mrs. Wriothesley was one of the few people who thoroughly understood the whimsical perversity of Mr. Cottrell's character, and she shrewdly suspected, as was indeed the case, that he had no more heard of that hack than that he had that Beauchamp wanted one.
It was seldom that Ralph Wriothesley honoured his wife's luncheon-table, so the four ladies had that meal all to themselves. Mrs. Wriothesley exerted herself to be agreeable; and if Lady Mary had still doubts about her hostess's sincerity, she was not insensible to the charm of her manner; so that in spite of her mother's misgivings and Blanche's own nascent jealousy of Sylla, the afternoon glided pleasantly by, until it was time to stroll across to Prince's. They found quite a fashionable mob already there assembled, for, as Mr. Cottrell had told them, to see the Canadians play La Crosse was one of the novelties of the season. That gentleman's idle words proved true also in more senses than one, for they had not long taken chairs overlooking the cricket-field, before Lionel Beauchamp joined them, and, as he greeted Sylla, thanked her for her very pretty present.
"I am very glad you like it," replied Sylla, smiling; "but I can't take much credit for my generosity. I am afraid, strictly speaking, it only amounts to the payment of a debt. You deserved a testimony of your prowess, and I to pay a penalty for my rashness."
"What is this testimony?" inquired Blanche. "What has Sylla given you? and what have you done to deserve it?"
"A mere trifle," interposed Miss Chipchase; "I daresay he will show it you some day. He got me out of my scrape that day at Rockcliffe, you know, as indeed he has been called upon to do before, though not quite in that fashion. He saved my bracelet, you remember; it's rather a pet bangle, and I should have been very sorry to have lost it. Have you done my other commission for me?"
"Not as yet," replied Lionel. "I haven't had time; but I will see about it in a day or two."
All this fell very unpleasantly upon Blanche's cars. She was utterly unconscious of her mother's schemes and hopes. She had not as yet recognized that she was drifting into love with Lionel Beauchamp, but she did know that his confidential intimacy with Sylla Chipchase was very distasteful to her. What was this present she had made him? and what was this commission she had given him? She did not like to ask further questions just then, but she made up her mind that she would know all about these things the first time she got Lionel to herself. People who make mysteries of trifles at times exercise their friends a good deal,—the imagination so often converts molehills into mountains; and then there is always a power in the unknown.
"Have you seen this game of La Crosse before, Miss Bloxam?" inquired Lionel. "It looks incomprehensible and never-ending, to start with; but when you have seen a goal or two taken you will understand it, and admire the dexterity of the players."
"Mrs. Wriothesley explained it to me at luncheon. As I told you atTodborough, I am good at games, and can follow it very fairly. But,Sylla, you have a message for Mr. Beauchamp, which you have forgottento give him."
Sylla had not forgotten Mr. Cottrell's message at all, but she thought it more than doubtful whether that message was intended to be delivered. She had her own opinion as to the motive of that message, but, thus challenged, immediately replied, "Oh, yes, something about a hack from Mr. Cottrell; he told me to tell you he had heard of one to suit you."
"There he is wrong," rejoined Beauchamp: "a thing can't suit you when you don't want it; and that's my case with regard to a hack."
"Curious that he should be so misinformed," said Lady Mary. "He certainly said you had asked him if he knew of one."
"Mixed up with somebody else," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley. "Mr.Cottrell is a very idle man with a very numerous acquaintance.Somebody wanted a hack, and he has forgotten who."
If Lady Mary's suspicions had been lulled to sleep during luncheon, they had been now most thoroughly reawakened. She, like her daughter, had overheard the conversation between Sylla and Lionel upon the latter's first arrival. She had always had misgivings that the relations between the two would change into something much warmer, to the downfall of her own hopes. She was annoyed with herself for having accepted the hand of amity extended by her ancient antagonist. She felt sure that the battle that she pictured to herself on that night at the Grange, when she had first heard of the relationship between Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley, was already begun. She had a horrible conviction that she was once more destined to undergo the bitterness of offering her congratulations to her successful opponent. What cruel fatality had ordained that whenever she had a daughter to settle, Mrs. Wriothesley should invariably appear upon the scene with a niece? And in the anguish of her spirit she gave way to very harsh thoughts concerning poor Sylla's conduct. If she could but have divested herself of all prejudice, and looked on matters with dispassionate eyes, she would have seen, as Pansey Cottrell had told her at Todborough, that things were travelling much in the way she wished them. At this very moment, when she is inwardly raging against Mrs. Wriothesley, Lionel Beauchamp is undoubtedly paying at least as much, if not more, attention to Blanche than he is to Miss Chipchase; but the spectacles of prejudice are never neutral-tinted.
However, it is time to leave; and Lady Mary, rising, signals her daughter, and makes her adieu.
"I really have no patience with that girl," said Lady Mary, when she found herself outside. "I think her making a present to a young man like Mr. Beauchamp is going a great deal more than half-way."
"Oh, I don't know, mamma," replied Blanche; "she has known him all her life; and you know he did save her bracelet."
"Very indelicate of her ever to have made such a wager," retorted LadyMary, quite trumpeting in her wrath.
"I have known you bet yourself, mamma," rejoined Blanche; "and I think she was perhaps carried away by the excitement of the occasion. I wonder what it is that she has given him?"
It was curious, that although Miss Bloxam was as uncomfortable concerning that gift as her mother, she still took Sylla's part regarding it. She was a proud girl, and it was probable that she shrank from owning even to her mother that it could possibly matter to her what presents any lady might choose to bestow on Mr. Beauchamp.
Hurlingham in the merry month of June, just when the east winds have ceased to trouble; when the roses and strawberries are at their best; when the lamb is verging towards muttony, and the whitebait are growing up; when the leaves are yet young, and Epsom and Ascot either pleasant or grim memories of the past. Can anything be more delightful than Hurlingham on a fine Saturday afternoon? that one week-day when the daughters of Venus throng the pleasant grounds, and the birds sacred to the goddess are held sacred for fear that the shooters should scatter the coaches—it would be too grievous that the destruction of pigeons, through frightening the horses, should result in the upsetting of a drag bearing a bevy of London's fairest daughters. What matches have been made here both for life and for centuries—as, in the "shibboleth" of our day, a hundred pounds is sometimes termed! Much damage at times has no doubt accrued both to the hearts of humanity and the legs of the polo ponies. The coaches gather thick about their allotted end of the grassy paddock; drag after drag drops quietly into its position; the teams are unharnessed and led slowly away; and their passengers either elect to view the forthcoming match from their seats of vantage, or, alighting, stroll up and mix with the fashionable crowd that throngs the far side of the lawn-like paddock. All London has flocked to Hurlingham to-day to enjoy the bright afternoon, indulge in tea, gossip, or claret-cup, and look lazily on at the polo match between the —th Hussars and Monmouthshire. Both teams are reported very strong, and opinion is pretty equally divided as to which way the match will go.
Mrs. Wriothesley is, of course, there. That lady is a pretty constanthabituée, and with Sylla to chaperon is not likely to miss it on this occasion. She has joined forces already with Lady Mary: as she said, they have all a common interest in the event of the day, for was not Captain Bloxam the life and soul of the Hussar side, and were they not all there ready to sympathize or applaud? Applause at Hurlingham, by the way, being in as little accord with the traditions of the place as it is in the stalls of a fashionable theatre. The match has not yet begun. Two or three wiry ponies, with carefully-bandaged forelegs, are being led up and down on the opposite side of the paddock. The centre is still unoccupied, save for a few late-comers walking quietly across, none of the competitors having so far put in an appearance.
"Just the sort of thing to interest you, this, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Pansey Cottrell, after lifting his hat in a comprehensive manner to the whole party. "I know you are passionately fond of horses and have a taste for riding."
"Now, what does he mean by that?" thought Sylla. There was nothing much in the remark, but she was getting a little afraid of this mischievous elderly gentleman. She was beginning to look for a hidden meaning in his speeches. Could this be a covert allusion to her mishap at Todborough? Had the story of her fall come to his ears, and was he about to indulge his love of teasing people at her expense? "I don't know," she replied, guardedly, "that I am so very passionately fond of horses; but I have no doubt I shall enjoy this very much. Knowing one of the players will of course make it interesting."
"Quite so," replied Cottrell. "It is a pity Mr. Beauchamp is not playing. If he were, I should consult you as to which side to back. You judge his capabilities in all ways so accurately."
Neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Wriothesley could help noticing this speech. It was just one of those wicked little remarks to which Pansey Cottrell treated his friends when they were wanting in deference to his comments on things generally.
"Sylla has known him all her life," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley; "but because she happened to know that Lionel could run, it does not follow that she knows whether he can play polo. However, as he is not playing, it is a matter of very little account whether he can or no."
"Quite right. Nothing is much in this world, except the weather and the cooks. The sun shines to-day; and whatever the rest of us are called upon to endure, Mrs. Wriothesley, I know, can always rely upon her soup andentrées. I always look upon it as rather good of you to dine out."
It was probable that such judicious remarks had done Mr. Cottrell good service in the early part of his career; but now he was the fashion, and realised his position most thoroughly.
"Very pretty of you to recognize the fact that my poor little kitchenmaid is not a barbarian," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley.
She also had her foible, and always spoke in disparaging tones of her establishment. She would ask her friends to take a cutlet with her, or to come and eat cold chicken with her after the play, but took good care that the menu should be of very different calibre. She, like Pansey Cottrell, was the fashion, and he knew it. Besides, not only was the lady a favourite of his, but he never would have permitted himself to commit the folly of quarrelling with any one who so thoroughly understood the mysteries of gastronomy.
But now, clad in white flannels, butcher-boots, and scarlet caps, a couple of players make their appearance, and walk their sturdy little steeds up the ground; another and another quickly follow, and soon the contending sides group themselves together at opposite ends of the enclosure. The Monmouthshire quintet in their all white and scarlet caps are faced by the Hussars in their blue and scarlet hoops. The umpire walks to the centre, glances round to the captains of either side to see that they are all in readiness, and then drops the ball. Quick as thought the contending teams are in motion, the "players up" of each party scudding as fast as their wiry little ponies can carry them for the first stroke. It is a close thing; but the white and scarlet obtains the first chance, and by some fatality misses the ball. Another second, and Jim Bloxam has sent it flying towards the Monmouthshire goal, and is pelting along in hot pursuit, only to see the ball come whizzing back past him from a steady drive by one of the adversary's back-players. Backwards and forwards flies the ball, and the clever little ponies, at the guidance of their riders, bustle now this way, now that, in chase of it. Over and over again it is driven close to the fatal posts at either end—the being driven between which scores the first goal of the game—only to be sent again in the reverse direction by the back-player. Then comes a regular scrimmage in the centre of the ground, and the ball is dribbled amongst the ponies' legs, first a little this way, and then that, but never more than a few yards in any direction. Suddenly it flies far away from themêlée, and Jim Bloxam races after it, hotly pursued by one of the white and scarlet men. Jim fails to hit the ball fair, and it spins off at a tangent. His antagonist swerves, quick as thought, to the ball, and by a clever back-stroke sends it once more into the centre of the field; another shortmêlée, and then the Monmouthshire men carry the ball rapidly down on the Hussar goal. The back-player of the Hussars rides forward to meet it; but a dexterous touch from the leader of the white and scarlet men sends it a little to the right, and before any of the Hussars can intervene, a good stroke from one of the Monmouthshire men galloping on that side sends it between the posts, and the first goal is credited to the white and scarlet.
Dr. Johnson, when asked by Boswell what a shining light of those days meant by a somewhat vague remark, surmised that the speaker must have "meant to annoy somebody." The Doctor was probably right, being a pretty good judge of that sort of thing. There are many unmeaning remarks made, the why of which it is difficult to explain, unless we put that interpretation upon them. It must have been some such malicious feeling that prompted Mr. Cottrell to observe,
"Poor Jim! He seems destined always to play second fiddle. As atRockcliffe, he is just beaten again."
"Defeats such as Captain Bloxam's," exclaimed Sylla, "are as much to one's credit as easily-obtained victories. He was just defeated at Rockcliffe after a gallant struggle. I have seen some polo-playing before at Brighton, and don't think I ever saw a harder-fought goal played."
It was with somewhat amused surprise that Mr. Cottrell found his dictum disputed by a young lady in her first season, and he shot a sharp glance at Mrs. Wriothesley, to see what that lady thought of the spirited manner in which her niece stood up for the vanquished Hussar; but she and Lady Mary were just then engaged in welcoming Lionel Beauchamp, and the observation consequently escaped their ears.
"I beg your pardon," rejoined Cottrell; "I did not know your sympathies were so strong. I am, of course," he continued, in mocking tones, "prepared to condole with his family over Jim's defeat; but I must comfort you in your affliction by reminding you that the loss of one point does not mean the loss of the rubber."
"Thank you," replied Sylla. "I have ranged myself to-day on the side of the Hussars; and my champions are not always defeated, as you may remember."
"I trust," replied Mr. Cottrell, laughing, "you will have a good afternoon. I reverence you as a young lady who wagers with infinite discretion." And so saying, he moved off to talk to other acquaintance.
Lionel Beauchamp had seated himself next Blanche, and, assisted by a slight movement of the young lady's chair in his favour, found that he had successfully obtained thetête-à-têtefor which he had manoeuvred.
"I want you to do me a favour, Miss Bloxam," he observed.
"Certainly, Mr. Beauchamp, if I can; what is it?"
"I want you to promise to join a water party that four of us are organizing for this day fortnight; but we mean to go down the river instead of up. We intend chartering a steamer, and so be quite independent, as we shall carry our own commissariat with us."
"I have no doubt mamma will say yes if we have no other engagement.But favour for favour—I have one to ask of you; will you grant it?"
"I answer as you did—most certainly if I can."
"Ah, but you must answer differently; you must say 'certainly' without any conditions."
"That is impossible; one cannot quite pledge oneself to that. It is not very likely that I shall refuse you."
"But you are refusing me now. I want you to say 'certainly' without any reservation whatever."
"And I can only reply as I did before, Miss Bloxam, that it is impossible. No sensible person could ever do that. It is very improbable that you should ask me, but it is possible that you might wish me, to do something that I was bound to say 'no' to. I repeat, improbable but possible. Won't you tell me what it is? You may be quite sure it is already granted if within my power."
"But it is quite within your power," replied Blanche; "you can do it if you choose. Why won't you say 'yes'?"
"Tell me what it is," he answered, more determined than ever not to yield to her unreasonable demand. He was not obstinate, but Lionel Beauchamp had a will of his own, and could make up his mind quickly and decidedly, a virtue sadly wanting in many of us. His reservation had been put in mechanically in the first instance, but Blanche's persistence made him now resolute not to commit himself to an unlimited promise. Except unthinkingly, people do not make promises of this nature, any more than they give blank cheques, the filling-in of which in unwarrantable fashion might occasion much grief and tribulation to the reckless donor.
Miss Bloxam felt a little indignant at not being able to carry her point, but she knew just as well as Lionel did that she was insisting on the exorbitant. "Still," she argued, "if he were really in love with me he would not mind promising to grant me whatever I asked.
"I want to know," she said at length, "what was the present MissChipchase made you?"
"Good Heavens!" replied Lionel, laughing, "is that all you require? She sent me these solitaires for saving her bracelet at Rockcliffe; are they not pretty ones?" And, pulling back his coat-sleeve, Beauchamp exhibited the studs at his wrists.
"Very," returned Blanche. "But that is not quite all: what is the commission she has given you?"
Beauchamp looked a little grave at this question. This commission was in reality the mildest of mysteries; but he saw that Blanche believed it to be of far greater importance.
"I cannot tell you," he replied.
"May I ask why?"
"Certainly. I cannot tell you because I have promised not to mention it. You, of course, would not wish me to break my word?"
"Decidedly not," rejoined Miss Bloxam. "My curiosity has led me into a great indiscretion. But the game is getting interesting. Surely Jim's side are having the best of it now?" And Miss Bloxam, turning half-round in her seat, devoted her attention to the polo-players with laudable persistency. If Blanche Bloxam was showing herself somewhat childish and unreasonable—for there could be no doubt that the young lady had turned away from Lionel more or less in a huff—it must be remembered that she was very much in earnest in her love affair, that she was jealous of Sylla Chipchase, and that though she believed Lionel Beauchamp loved her, he had not as yet declared himself. She had foolishly, and perhaps whimsically, regarded this as a test question, and she had been answered in the negative. I do not know that she was out-of-the-way foolish. Maidens like Marguerite have played "He loves me, he loves me not," many a time with a flower; and Blanche's appeal was as wise as theirs, except in the one thing—you cannot quarrel with a flower, but it is very possible to do so with a lover. It is all very well for the gods to laugh at such quarrels, but those interested seldom see the humour of the situation, and in nineteen cases out of twenty the cause of their occurrence is trifling.
The band of the Guards is ringing out the most seductive of valses. Silken robes sweep the grass, and soft laughter floats upon the summer air. The polo-players are once more in the full tide of battle. The gaily-coloured jerseys are now here, now there, in pursuit of the ever-flying sphere, for the temporary possession of which each player seems as covetous as Atalanta was of the golden apple. Ever and anon comes a short, sharp, furiousmêlée, and then from its midst flies the ball, with three or four horsemen riding their hardest in pursuit; while the back-player of the threatened goal warily prepares for the attack that is impending unless some one of his comrades should succeed in arresting it. One of the fiercest of thesemêléesis now taking place in front of the promenade. From the confused surging knot suddenly shoots the ball, and skims along at an ominous pace in the direction of the goal of the scarlet and white. Jim Bloxam, slipping all the other players by a couple of lengths, leads the pursuit, with two of his antagonists riding their hardest to catch him. Jim makes the most of his opportunity, and it looks like a goal for the Hussars. He is riding a smartish pony, and feels that his followers will never catch him. He is bound to get first to the ball, and, if only he does not miss his stroke, should drive it clean through the goal-posts. But though he is so far right that he keeps his lead of his antagonists, there is another player to be taken into calculation, whom so far Jim has quite overlooked, and this is the crafty back-player of the scarlet and white men who is in charge of the goal. He is quite as alive as Jim to the gravity of the occasion. He knows that Bloxam's stroke must be prevented, if possible; and coming from the opposite direction, although lying somewhat to Jim's left, is striving his utmost to interfere. The ball has all but stopped, and it is palpable that the new-comer will cut Jim's course obliquely at the ball. It is a fine point. Each man's wiry little steed is doing its very best. But, ah, Jim has it! The Hussar's polo-mallet whirls high in the air, and, as he passes the ball, a well-aimed stroke sends it flying through the enemy's goal-posts; another second, and, unable to rein up their ponies, Jim and the back-player of the scarlet and white meet in full career and roll over in a heap on the ground, while Jim's two attendant antagonists are both brought to similar grief from tumbling over their leader.
"Good Heavens! there are four of them down!" exclaimed Lionel Beauchamp. "Don't be alarmed, Miss Bloxam: falls are not often serious at polo; see, there are two of them getting up already."
The lastmêléehad taken place so close to the spectators that it had been quite easy to identify the players, and Miss Bloxam was therefore quite aware that her brother was one of the four men down; but she and Lady Mary were too habituated to the accidents of the hunting-field to feel that nervous terror at witnessing a fall that people not so accustomed are apt to experience. But there were other lookers-on with whom it was very different. It was a bad accident to look upon; and Mrs. Wriothesley suddenly felt her wrist gripped with a force that could hardly be supposed existent in the delicately-gloved fingers. She glanced round at her niece's face. The girl was white to her very lips. She had been educated abroad, and though, as we know, she had displayed plenty of courage when she had fallen into similar difficulties herself, accidents both in flood and field were a novel sight to her.
"He does not get up," she faltered at last, in low tones.
"For goodness' sake don't make a fool of yourself," replied Mrs. Wriothesley sharply. She honestly thought the girl was about to faint, and was filled with dismay at the prospect of finding her niece the centre of a scene. "Men don't get hurt at polo any more than they do at cricket. They will all be galloping past here again before five minutes are over."
But in this conjecture Mrs. Wriothesley was wrong; for although two of the fallen horsemen struggled promptly to their feet, Jim and the antagonist with whom he had come in collision had neither of them as yet done so. By this time all the players were collected round the spot where the accident had taken place, and an impression that some one was seriously hurt was rapidly gaining ground.
"Lionel," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, the moment she dared take her eyes off her niece, "I am sure Lady Mary would be extremely obliged to you if you would run down and see what is the matter. For Heaven's sake, Sylla," she whispered into her niece's ear, "don't make an exhibition of yourself by fainting or any nonsense of that sort. Ridiculous! as if any one was ever hurt by falling off a pony!"
Lady Mary reiterated Mrs. Wriothesley's request, and Beauchamp at once slipped through the rails and ran down to the group. He found Jim resting his head upon his hand, lying on the grass and looking ghastly pale, but his brother-sufferer was still insensible.
"I don't think I can go on," gasped Jim, in answer to inquiries as to how he was—"that is, not to be of any use, you know; that confounded cannon has not only knocked all the wind out of me, but knocked me half foolish besides. I feel so faint and sick, you must get on as you best can without me for half an hour."
The other sufferer now gave signs of returning animation; and as, after looking at him, the doctor pronounced him only stunned by the fall and a good deal shaken, it was decided to draw a man from each side and so continue the game. Lionel Beauchamp made the best of his way back with his report.
"No sort of cause, Lady Mary, for being in the least alarmed. Bloxam is sensible; says there is nothing the matter, further than that they have knocked all the wind out of his body, and that he is too shaken to go on with the game at present; he will be all right again in a couple of hours. See, there he is, walking away to the dressing-rooms at the other side, along with his antagonist, who is in a similar case. It was an awkward collision, and it is well the results were no worse." And, as he finished his speech, Beauchamp rather ruefully contrasted the cool reception that Blanche gave to his intelligence with the bright smile with which Sylla rewarded him.
Under no circumstances, perhaps, would it have been otherwise. Blanche was of a calmer disposition, very different from the vivacious emotional temperament of Sylla Chipchase; and then she had never felt the nervous apprehension as to its results that had so terrified Sylla. Miss Bloxam loved her brother very dearly, but it would never occur to her to feel any great anxiety at seeing Jim fall. She would have told you quietly that "Jim knew how to fall." But she was filled with exceeding bitterness about one thing,—that her secret love-test had resulted in failure, and that her heart was, to a considerable extent, out of her possession before it had been asked for. No, her difference with Lionel Beauchamp was not to be passed over so lightly as all that. If he could refuse the slight request that she had made him, he could care very little about her. "As if any man, honestly in love, would hesitate to break a mere promise made to another woman!" And to the best of my belief, the majority of her sex would be quite of Blanche's opinion.
"He does not get up," thought Mrs. Wriothesley, as she drove home from Hurlingham. "Yes, Sylla, my dear, you have told me something to-day that I honestly don't believe you knew yourself before. When accidents happen in the plural, and young ladies remark upon them only in the singular number, it is a sign of absorbing interest in somebody concerned. People generally, I think, would have observed, 'They don't get up.'" But Mrs. Wriothesley wisely kept all these reflections to herself.