The day after the winter picnic Sir Charles Mitford sat in that little snuggery next his dressing-room, which had been so deftly fitted up for him by Captain Bligh, in the enjoyment of a quiet after-breakfast pipe. Breakfast was on the table at Redmoor from nine to twelve. Each guest chose his own time for putting in an appearance; rang for his or her special teapot, special relay of devilled kidney, ham, kipper, eggs, or bloater; found his or her letters placed in close proximity to his or her plate; breakfasted, and then went away to do exactly as he or she liked until luncheon, which was the real gathering hour of the day. On the morning in question everybody had been late, except Major Winton, who, deeply disgusted with the proceedings of the previous day, had routed up one of the under-keepers at daybreak, and trudged away to his usual shooting-ground. Sir Charles had turned out at ten, but had found no one in the breakfast-room save Captain Bligh, deep in the perusal of the newly-arrived copy ofBell's Life. So Sir Charles read his letters, which were of a prosaic business-like character, and ate his breakfast, which he rather enjoyed, and then went up to his room, taking theTimeswith him. Not, however, for the purpose of reading it--Charley seldom resorted to that means of passing time; he never could understand what fellows saw to read in the papers; for beyond the police intelligence and the sporting-news and the advertisements of horses to be sold, all that enormous sheet of news, gathered with such care and expense, was utterly blank to him. To-day he did not even want to read his usual portion of the paper; he took it up with him half-unconsciously; he wanted to smoke and to think--to smoke a little and to think a great deal.
So he sat before the cheerful fire in the cosey little room, the firelight glancing on the red-flock paper, and illumining the "Racing Cracks" and the "Coaching Recollections;" pictures which the Messrs. Fores furnished for the delectation of the sporting men of those days, and which are never seen in these. They were better and healthier in tone than the studies of French females now so prevalent, and infinitely more manly and national. The smoke from his pipe curled round his head, and as he lay back in his chair and watched it floating in its blue vapour, his thoughts filled him with inexpressible pleasure. He was thinking over what had happened the day before, and to him the picnic was as nothing. He only remembered the ride home. Yes; his thoughts were very, very pleasant; his vanity had been flattered, his fur had been stroked the right way. This was his first experience of flirtation since his marriage; and he stood higher than usual in his own opinion when he found that he had attracted the notice of--to say the least of it--a very pretty woman. Very pretty; no doubt about that! By Jove! she looked perfection in that tight-fitting robe. What a splendid figure she had,--so round and plump, and yet so graceful; and her general turn-out was so good--such natty gloves and jolly little white collars and cuffs, and such a neat riding-whip! And that lovely chestnut hair, gathered into that gleaming coil of braids under her chimney-pot hat! How beautifully she rode too! went at those posts and rails as calmly as though she had been cantering in the Row. He watched her as the mare rose at them; and but for a little tightening of the mouth, not a feature of her face was discomposed, while most women would have turned blue through sheer fright, even if they would have had pluck to face such a jump at all, which he doubted.
It was uncommonly pleasant to think that such a woman was interested in him; would look forward to his presence, would regret his absence, and would associate him with her thoughts and actions. What an earnest, impulsive, sensitive creature she was! She had seen in an instant what had annoyed him yesterday! Not like Georgie--he felt a slight twinge of conscience as he thought of her--not like Georgie, who had supposed he was vexed at something she had said, poor child! No; that other woman was really wonderful--so appreciative and intelligent. How cleverly she had befooled that hard-headed old Winton for the sake of keeping things square! Winton was like a child in her hands; and though he could not bear ladies' society, and was supposed to be never happy except when shooting or smoking, had cantered by her side and tried to make civil little speeches, and bowed and smiled like a fellow just fresh from Eton. And how cleverly she had managed that business about their getting away when she wanted to speak to him! Poor little thing, how frightened she was too at the idea of his being angry, as though one could be angry with a creature like that! And how pretty she looked when her eyes filled with tears and her voice trembled! Gad! she must feel something stronger than interest in him for her to show all that. Yes, by Jove!--there was no use in denying it to himself any longer,--this little woman was thoroughly fascinated. He recalled the events of that homeward ride--the talk, the looks, the long, long hand-clasp, the passionate manner in which, just before they reached the house, she had implored him to remember that she counted on him, and on him alone, for advice and aid in the troubles of her life. By the way what were the troubles of her life? She had dwelt very much upon them generally, but had never thought it necessary to go into detail. She spoke frequently of being tied to an invalid husband, of having been intended originally for something better than a sick man's nurse; but that could not prey upon her mind very much, as she was scarcely ever with her husband, or if it did, it was not a case in which any advice or any aid of his would be of much use to her. No; the advice and aid, and the intimate friendship, were devices by which she was endeavouring to blind herself and him to the real state of the case, to the fact that she was deeply, madly in love with him, and that he--well, he--What was that? a rustle of a dress in the passage outside, a low tap at the door. Can it be she?
The door opened, and a woman entered--not Mrs. Hammond, but Miss Gillespie. Sir Charles Mitford's heart had beat high with expectation; its palpitation continued when he recognized his visitor, though from a different cause. He had risen, and remained standing before the fire; but Miss Gillespie made herself comfortable in a velvetcauseuseon the other side of the snug fireplace, and pointing to his chair, said:
"You had better sit down again. I shall be some time here."
As though involuntarily, Mitford re-seated himself. He had scarcely done so when she said:
"You did not expect me? You don't seem glad to see me?"
"Are you surprised at that?" he sneered. "I should be glad never to set eyes on you again."
"Exactly; as we used to say in the old days, 'them's my sentiments.' I reciprocate your cordial feelings entirely. And I can't conceive what adverse fate drove you to come with a pack of swaggering, sporting, vulgar people, into a part of the country where I happened to be quietly and comfortably settled; for, as I pointed out to you at our last interview, I was the original settler, and it is you who have intruded yourself into my territory."
"You did not come here to repeat that, I suppose?"
"Of course not; and that's exactly a point I want to impress upon you--that I never repeat. I hint, I suggest, I command, or I warn--once; after that I act."
"You act now, you're always acting, you perpetually fancy yourself on the boards. But it does not amuse me, nor suit me either, and I won't have it. What did you come here for?"
"Not to amuse you, Sir Charles Mitford, you may be certain, nor to be amused myself; for a heavier specimen of our landed gentry than yourself is not, I should hope for the credit of the country, to be found. You were never much fun; and it was only your good looks, and a certain soft manner that you had, that made you get on at all in ourcamaraderie. No; I came here on business."
"On business! Ah, it's not very difficult to imagine what kind of business. You want money, of course, like the rest of them."
"I want money, and come toyoufor it! No, Charles Mitford; you ought to know me better than that. You ought to know that if I were starving, I would steal a loaf from a child, or rob a church, rather than take, much more ask for, a single penny from you. Like the rest of them, did you say? So they have found you out and begun to bleed you!--the pitiful curs!"
"Well, what do you want, then? My time's precious."
"It is indeed, my friend; if you did but know all, you'd find it very precious indeed. But never mind that; now for my business. I want you to do something."
"And that is--"
"To give up making love to Mrs. Hammond. Now, be quiet; don't put yourself in a rage, and don't try those uplifted eyebrows, and that general expression of injured astonishment, on me, because it won't do. I was not born last week, and my capacity for gauging such matters is by no means small. Besides, I happened yesterday to be taking my walks abroad in a meadow not far from the western lodge of Redmoor Park, the seat of Sir Charles Mitford, Bart., and I happened to witness an interview of a very tender and touching kind, which took place between a lady and a gentleman both on horseback. I imagined something of the kind was going on. I saw something when you were leaving the house that night at Torquay which would have surprised any one who had not learned as much of Mrs. Hammond as I had during the time I had been with her. But since we have been here my suspicions have been confirmed, and yesterday's proceedings left no doubt upon my mind So I determined to speak to you at once, and to tell you that this must not and shall not be!"
Mitford's face grew very dark as he said:
"And suppose I were to ask you how the flirtation which you allege exists between me and--and the lady you have named,--which I utterly and entirely deny,--suppose I were to ask how this flirtation affects you, and, in short, what the devil business it is of yours?"
"How it affects me? Why--no, but that's too preposterous. Not even you, with all your vanity, could possibly imagine that I have in my own mind consented to forget the past, that I have buried the hatchet, that I have returned to mypremier amour, and am consequently jealous of your attentions to Mrs. Hammond."
"I don't suppose that. But I can't see what other motive you can possibly have."
"You can't, and you never shall. I don't choose to tell you; perhaps I have taken compassion on your wife, who is very pretty--of her style--and seems very good and all that, and very fond of you, poor silly thing! and I don't choose her to be tormented by you. Perhaps I want that poor wretched invalid to die in peace, and not to have his life suddenly snuffed out by the scandal which is sure to arise if this goes on. Perhaps--but no matter! I don't intend to give my reasons, and I've told you what I want."
"And suppose I tell you--as I do tell you--I won't do what you want, and I defy you! What then?"
"Then I will compel you."
"Will you? Do you think I don't know the screw which you would put on me? You'd proclaim all about my former life, my connection with that rascally crew, of whom you were one--"
"Who brought me into it?"
"No matter;--of whom you were one! You'd rake up that story of the bill with my uncle's name to it. Well, suppose you did. What then? It would be news to nobody here--they all know of it."
"No, they don't all know of it. Lord Dollamore does, and so does that good-looking man with the beard, Colonel Alsager, and perhaps Captain Bligh. But I doubt if one of the others ever heard of it: these things blow over, and are so soon forgotten. And it would be very awkward to have the story revived here. Why, the county families who have called, and are inclined to be civil--I heard you boasting of it the other day--would drop you a like red-hot coal. The officers quartered in the barracks would cut you dead; the out-going regiment would tell the story to the in-coming regiment; you would never get a soul over here to dinner or to stop with you, and you would be bored to death. That's not a pleasant lookout, is it?"
He sat doggedly silent until she spoke again.
"But that is not nearly all. I have it in my power to injure your position as well as your reputation; to compel you to change that pretty velvet lounging-coat for a suit of hodden gray, that meerschaum-bowl for a lump of oakum, this very cheery room for--But there's no need to dilate on the difference: you'll do what I ask?"
"And suppose I were to deny all your story."
"Ah, now you're descending to mere childishness. How could you deny what all the men I have mentioned know thoroughly well? They are content to forget all about it now, and to receive you as a reclaimed man; but if they were asked as men of honour whether or not there had been such a scandal, of course they would tell the truth. Come, you'll do what I ask?"
She had won the day; there was no doubt about that. Any bystander, had one been there, could have told it in a moment; could have read it in his sullen dogged look of defeat, in her bright airy glance of triumph.
"You'll do what I ask?"
"You have me in your hands," he said in a low voice.
"I knew you would see it in the right light," she said, "You see, after all, it's very little to give up; the flirtation is only just commencing, so that even you, with your keen susceptibility, cannot be hard hit yet. And you have such a very nice wife, and it will be altogether so much better for you now you arerangé, as they say. You'll have to go to the village-church regularly when you're down here, and to become a magistrate, and to go through all sorts of other respectabilities with which this style of thing would not fit at all. Now, goodbye;" and she turned to go.
"Stay!" he called out; "when may I expect a repetition of this threat for some new demand?"
"That rests entirely with yourself. As I have said from the first, I did not seek you; you intruded yourself into my circle. I like my present mode of life--for the present--and don't want to change it. Keep clear of me, and we shall never clash. Again, goodbye."
She made a pretty little bow and, undulating all over, left the room as quietly as she had entered it.
When she had closed the door Mitford rose from his chair with a long sigh of relief, loosened his cravat, and shook his fist.
"Yours to-day, my lady--yours to-day; but my chance will come, and when it does, look out for yourself."
Mr. Effingham began to think that the position of affairs was growing serious. A month had elapsed since his interview with old Mr. Lyons at the Net of Lemons, and he had not gained one scrap of information as to the whereabouts of the holder of the forged bill, which was to be heldin terroremover Sir Charles Mitford for money-extracting purposes, and which was finally to be given up for an enormous round sum. Not a single scrap; and worse than all, he had so devoted himself to this one scent, that his other chances of money-getting were falling into disuse. Not that there was much to be done elsewhere; it was the off-racing season, so that his trade of tipster and tout, with occasional sallies into the arena of welching, could not have been turned to very profitable purpose. The Bank authorities had lately been terribly wideawake; several packets of slippery greasy half-crowns, and many rolls of soft sleezy bank-notes, lay hid in their manufacturer's and engraver's workshops, waiting a better time for their circulation. There had been some notable burglaries both in town and country. Gentlemen with blackened faces who wore smock-frocks over their ordinary clothes had done some very creditable work in out-of-the-way mansions and London houses whose owners were entertaining company in the country, and the melting-pots of old Mr. Lyons and others of his fraternity were rarely off the fire. But this branch of trade was entirely out of Mr. Effingham's line. "He's a good 'un at passing a half-bull or at spinning a flash fiver. There's a air about him that goes down uncommon. He's fust-rate for that, is D'Ossay Butler; but as rank a little cur as ever waddled. When he thinks traps is on, he's off; and as to my cracksman's business, or anything where pluck's wanted, Lor' bless you, you might as well have a girl in highstrikes as D'Ossay." That was what his companions said of him, and it was pretty nearly true. Where a little swaggering bantam-cock demeanour was of use, D'Ossay succeeded; but where anything like physical courage or physical force was required, he was no good at all.
When the lion is on short commons, the jackal is generally in a very bad way. If Mr. D'Ossay Butler was hard up, the condition of tall-hatted Mr. Griffiths was necessarily frightful. That worthy member of society was financially at the lowest ebb, and had resorted to a trade which he reserved for the depths of despair, a mild cardsharping--a "three, two, and vun" game, in which it was an impossibility for the bystander to point out the exact position of the king--at low public-houses. During all his wanderings, however, he kept his eyes open to the necessity of obeying his instructions from D'Ossay Butler, to the necessity of discovering the whereabouts of Lizzy Ponsford, the holder of the bill. There was no slum that he visited; no public-house, where he first propitiated the landlord by the purchase of half-a-pint of ale, and then proceeded to suggest to the notice of the two or three sawney-looking men at the bar a "curous little game he had there, at which 'atfuls of money had been von, and which was the favourite recreation of the horficers of the Queen's Life-Guards at the Windsor Barracks, where he'd 'ad the pleasure of introducin' it 'imself;" no pedestrian ground, no penny-gaff, where he did not get into conversation with somebody connected with the premises, and try to worm out that all-important secret. But all was of no avail. Many of the persons he spoke to knew or had heard of Tony Butler, and paid many handsome compliments to the deceased--"a vide-avake vun and no mistake," "a feller as vould take your coat off your back on to his own," &c.; but very few had known Lizzie Ponsford, and those had not seen or heard of her for a considerable time.
So Mr. Griffiths began to keep clear of Mr. Effingham. There was nothing to be got from his employer but abuse, and that was an article of which Mr. Griffiths perhaps had a surfeit, especially after he had picked up a few stray eighteenpences from the frequenters of the Pig and Whistle, at the noble game of the "three, two, and vun." But one night, finding himself in the neighbourhood of the Strand, and having had rather a successful evening,--he had won fifteen shillings from a sailor, at a public-house in Thames Street; a sailor who paid him rigidly, and then cursed him for an adjective swab and kicked him into the street,--Mr. Griffiths thought he would take a little refreshment at Johnson's. On presenting the crown of his hat within the swing-doors, that article was immediately recognized by Mr. Effingham, seated moodily in the nearest box, and its owner hailed in the nearest approach to a voice of thunder which that small gentleman could accomplish.
"Come in; I see you!" called out the little man. "I've been wondering what had become of you all this time. I thought you'd gone to stay with some swell in the country for the hunting-season. I was goin' to ask if they had got your address at theMorning-Postoffice, that I might write you a line and see if you could find it convenient to lend me a trifle."
"You must be in luck to have such spirits, D'Ossay,--you must," said Mr. Griffiths sententiously. "Out of collar and out at elbows--that's what I've been out of. Look at my coat," pointing to his arms; "shining like bees-wax. Look at my crabshells," pointing to his boots; "as leaky as an old punt, reg'larly wore down to the sewin', and all through elberin' and cadgin' my way into every crib where I thought there was a chance of my comin' at what we wanted to know."
"And what good have you done with all that tremenduous exertion?"
"No good,--not a scrap. I suppose you've been at the same game? How have you got on?"
"About the same as you have. Just as 'ealthy my lookout is."
"Well, I'll tell you what I intend to do. I've worked high and low, here and there, like a blessed black slave, to find out where this gal is, and I've had no luck no more than you have. And I intend to cut it. I'm sick of all this dodgin' and divin', and askin' everybody after somebody that nobody knows. I intend to cut it. That's what I intend!"
"And let it go altogether, after all the trouble we've had; after-- Not such a flat, Griffiths; don't you fear. Look here, my boy," said Mr. Butler, putting his hand into his waistcoat-pocket, and producing therefrom two sovereigns; "do you see that couple of quid? That, with a shilling and a fourpenny bit, is all that remains to your friend D'Ossay of the current coin of this realm--the real business, I mean, and no fakement. But these two simple skivs shall be turned into fifty or a hundred before the end of the week. And to show you that I'm not boasting, I'll stand a drink. Here, waiter!--brandy hot, two!"
Mr. Griffiths gazed in double admiration at his friend's generosity and pluck; but low as he was, he really admired the latter, from which he might possibly derive ultimate benefit, more than the former, from which he was about to receive immediate advantage. After the first sip of his grog he said--
"And how's it coming off?"
"I don't mind telling you," said D'Ossay. "There's nothing to hide--why should there be? I'm going to try it on again with our friend the Bart."
"Without the bill?"
"Of course, without the bill, considering that neither you nor I have been able to get hold of it. But didn't I raise a fiftier out of him without the bill before, and why shouldn't I do that, or double that, now?"
"Ah, why indeed?" said Mr. Griffiths, who always coincided when he did not know what else to do, and there was nothing to lose by so doing.
"You see, I thought he might down upon me with the extortion dodge, and hand me over to a bobby. But there's no bobbies where he is now; he couldn't ring the bell and send out that sleek-looking vally, and have me in Vine Street in a brace of shakes. He's down in the country ever so far away. I called at Eaton Place to-day, and they gave me his address."
"And how do you mean to get at him? Not by writin'? Don't trust your fist on paper."
"Teach your grandmother, Griffiths! How do I mean to get at him? Why, by paying one of those yellow-boys to a booking-clerk at 6.30 to-morrow morning, and going down by the Great-Western parliamentary to Torquay, which is close by the swell's place."
"And then?"
"Then I shall put up at some quiet crib, and go over the next morning and take him on the bounce--just as I did before."
"And suppose he shows fight and won't part?"
"Then I must send up a line to you, and you must get up a friendly lead, or something of that kind, and work me back to town."
"And you'll chance all that?"
"I'd chance a mile more than that for such stakes, where there's no knockin' about or head-punchin' business, Griffiths. I've not got what they call animal courage, which means I don't like being hurt. Some people do, I suppose, and they have animal courage. Now, let's settle where I'm to write to you, and all the rest of the business."
Mr. Effingham spoke thus cheerily, and seemed thoroughly determined on his undertaking and confident of his success, as he sat, late at night, in a warm brilliantly-lit tavern-parlour, with the odours of tobacco and hot spirituous drinks fragrant to him floating pleasantly about. He took quite another view of the subject when he turned out between five and six the next morning into a bald blank street, swept by torrents of rain, in which no one was visible but the policeman and the few vagrants huddling round the early-breakfast stall at the corner. Mr. Effingham wrapped himself up as best he might in his fifteen-shilling pea-jacket, and under cover of a big gingham umbrella, borrowed from his landlady, made the best fight he could against the wind and the rain, which, however, had so far the best of it that he was tolerably damp by the time he reached the Paddington station.
He took his ticket, and seated himself on the shelf in one of those wooden boxes which benevolent railway directors set aside for the conveyance of parliamentarians. His companions were two navvies, who had not slept off the effects of last night's drunkenness, and whose language made Mr. Effingham--albeit not unused to listening to "tall talk"--shrink with disgust; an old woman with steaming black garments, and an umbrella which would not stand up in any corner and would not lie under the seat, and got itself called most opprobrious names for its persistence in leaning against the nearest navvy; and a young woman with a swollen face tied up in a check cotton handkerchief. Mr. Effingham made an effort to let the very small window on his side down, but the young woman with the toothache had it up in an instant; while the aperture on the other side was constantly stuffed with the body of one or other of the drunken navvies, who fought for the privilege of leaning half out of the carriage, and running the chance of being knocked to pieces against arches and tunnel-walls. So the navvies fought and swore, and the old woman sniffed and took little snatches of sleep, waking with a prolonged snort and start; and the young woman moaned and rubbed her face, until Mr. Effingham was nearly mad. Circumstances were almost too much for him; he grew first desponding, and then desperate. He wished he had never started on his journey; he would get out at the next station at which the train stopped (and as the parliamentary duly stopped at every station, he would not have had to wait long); he would go back to London. No, he would not do that; he had boasted about his intention to Griffiths, and would lose all authority over that satellite if he did not show at least the semblance of a fulfilment of his purpose. He would get out at the next station, and wait at a public-house in the village until the next day, and then go back and tell Griffiths he had seen Sir Charles Mitford, and had found it impossible to get any money out of him. And then, just as the whistle shrieked out and the engine reduced its particularly slow pace to a slower still, preparatory to pulling up, Mr. Effingham's hands strayed into his waistcoat-pocket, where he found only a half-sovereign and a few shillings remaining--the extent of his earthly possessions. That decided him; he would go on, come what might! Such a state of impecuniosity nerved him to anything; and--the absence of policemen in rural districts still pleasantly remembered--he determined upon pursuing his original idea and of continuing his journey.
The next day Sir Charles Mitford, who had been compelled to devote the morning to dry details of business connected with his estate--details to which he listened conscientiously, over which he shook his head visibly, and which he did not in the least understand--had got rid of the man of business from the library about noon, and was just thinking he would go and see what Mrs. Hammond was doing, when Banks entered, and closing the door after him in a secret and mysterious manner, announced "That party, sir."
"What 'party,' Banks?"
"The party that called in Heaton Place, Sir Charles, and ast to see you, and you wouldn't see at first, but did afterwards, Sir Charles."
"I don't know yet whom you mean, Banks."
"The naval party, Sir Charles; though lookin' more like after the coats and humbrellas in the 'all. The naval party as served with you on board some ship, Sir Charles."
"Oh," said Mitford hurriedly, "I recollect now; one of--one of my sailors from my old yacht--yes, yes, of course. You can show him into my own room, Banks. I'll go up there at once."
"'Sailor,'" said Mr. Banks to himself as he walked down the passage, "'from my hold yacht,' did he say? Why, if what they say at the Club is right, the honly naval concern which he knew of before comin' in for the title was the Fleet Pris'n! This is a queer start about this feller, this is. I wonder why he wants to see Mitford, and why Mitford can't refuse hisself to him?--This way, young man." And he beckoned haughtily to Mr. Effingham, and preceded him to his master's room. Sir Charles had already arrived there, and was seated in his large armchair when the visitor was shown in.
Ah, what a different visitor from the Mr. Effingham who called in Eaton Place! Then full of vulgar confidence and brazen audacity; now, flinching, slouching, cowardly. His dress bedraggled from the previous day's wretched journey, his manner downcast from the preconceived notion of failure in his mission, and the impossibility of enforcing his previous demands. A very wretched specimen of humanity was Mr. Effingham as he stood before Sir Charles Mitford, shifting his limp hat from hand to hand, and waiting to be asked to sit down.
When Banks had retired and closed the door, Sir Charles looked up quietly and steadily at his visitor, and said, "Well, Mr.--I forget your name--you've broken your promise, as I expected, and come to try and extort money from me again!"
"Extort, Sir Charles! that's not the word, sir; I--"
"Thatisthe word, sir! Sheer barefaced robbery and extortion--that's what has brought you down here; deny it if you can! Have you come to ask me for money, or have you not?"
"Well, Sir Charles, I--that is--"
"No shuffling, sir! no prevarication! Have you or not?"
"Well, suppose I have?"
"Suppose you have! And suppose that I, as a justice of the peace and magistrate for the county, make out a warrant for your committal to prison as a rogue and vagabond? We're a long way from London, and justice's law is to be had down in these parts. Besides, how could you appeal? to whom could you refer? I've made a point of having a few inquiries made about you since you last did me the honour of a call, and I find that if not a regular gaol-bird, you could at all events be recognized by the police as a swindler and an utterer of base coin. What do you think of that Mr.--Butler?"
What did he think of it? The realization of his worst fears, the overthrow of his strongest hopes! He ought to have relied on the presentiment which had told him that the man would take this course, though not so promptly or so strongly. He thought he would try one more bit of bounce, and he shook himself together and put as much impudence as he could command into his look as he said,
"How do you know I've not got that forged bill in my pocket?"
"By your face, sir! I can see that as plainly as if it were written there in big black letters! Ah, I knew I was right! Now, what have you got to say to this, Mr. Butler?"
Mr. Effingham fairly collapsed. "Nothing, Sir Charles," he stammered. "I've nothing to say-only have mercy, Sir Charles! I have not brought the bill with me, but I know where it is, and could lay my hand on it at any time, Sir Charles. And as to what you said about committing me as a rogue and a vagabond, O Lord! don't do it, Sir Charles! pray don't! I'm a poor miserable devil without a rap; but if you'll only let me go, I'll find my way back to town, and never intrude on you again, Sir Charles; I--"
All this time Mr. Effingham had been backing, and with his hand behind him feeling for the handle of the door. Having secured it, he was about to vanish, when Sir Charles called out to him "Stop!" and he stopped at once.
"You say you're hard-up, Mr. Butler?"
"I'm positively stumped, Sir Charles."
"Then you'd be glad to earn a little money?"
"If I could do so--" Mr. Effingham was about to say "honestly," but he thought this would be a little too glaring, so he finished his sentence by substituting "without incurring any danger, I should be delighted."
"There would not be the slightest danger--"
"By danger I mean, punching of heads and that kind of thing."
"Precisely; there would be nothing of that. The only person with whom you would be brought into contact would be a woman."
Mr. Effingham's barometrical mercury rose as quickly as it fell. "A woman!" he said, as he settled his limp collar and gave a pull at his dirty wristbands,--"a woman, Sir Charles! Oh, then, I've no fear."
"Wait and hear what you're required to do, sir, before you give an opinion. The person to whom I allude is at the present moment in this house. She is therefore, although not invited by me, to a certain extent my guest, and it would be impossible for me to appear in the matter. You comprehend me?"
"Perfectly."
"Especially as she is to be got rid of at once and for ever. When I say 'got rid of,' I don't mean it in the slang phrase of the penny romances--I don't mean that the woman is to be killed; but simply that she is to be told that she must remain here no longer, and the danger of doing so must be strongly pointed out to her."
"Exactly, je twig! Now will you please to tell me the name of this good lady, and what reason I'm to give for insisting on her leaving such a very swell and pleasant crib as this appears to be?"
"She is called here Miss Gillespie," said Sir Charles; "but You will have heard of her under a very different name--Lizzie Ponsford."
"What!" exclaimed Mr. Effingham, leaping from his chair; "Lizzie Ponsford here! She whom I've been--"
"Well, sir?" asked Sir Charles in astonishment.
"Whom I've been hearing so much about!" said Mr. Effingham, recovering himself. "Lizzie Ponsford here!" he continued, going off again. "Well, that is a rum start!"
"Be good enough to attend to me, sir. She is here, and she is in my way. Her presence worries me, bringing back all sorts of hideous associations that I thought I had got rid of, and never want to have revived. You must see her, talk to her, and get her to go at once; once gone, I could so arrange matters as to leave little chance of her returning."
"I see!" said Mr. Effingham. "Now the question is, how to work her out of this. What would be the best way to frighten her and get her under your thumb?"
"What is your notion on that point?"
"I scarcely know yet! It will want a little thinking over, but I've no doubt I shall be able to hit upon something. Is she pretty comfortable where she is--likely not to give it up without a struggle?"
"You may take your oath she will not move unless compelled--it is for you to find the something that will compel her."
"Exactly. Well, I don't think that there will be much difficulty about that--at least," said he, correcting himself, for he feared that comparative facility might lessen the reward--"at least, not much difficulty for a man whose head's screwed on the right way. Now about the payment?"
Sir Charles opened a drawer in his desk, and from a littlerouleauof gold counted out ten sovereigns. The chink of the money sounded deliciously in Mr. Effingham's hungry ears.
"I will give you these ten sovereigns now," said Sir Charles; "and if you succeed in carrying out all I have told you, I will give you fifty more."
"Will you? Well, I always say what I think, and I say that's liberal. Now look here! Very likely I shan't see you again; perhaps I shall have to step it with her, in order to be sure she's safe off, and not dodging, or likely to walk back again. So when you find she's really gone, just you send a cheque for the fifty, made payable to bearer, mind, and not crossed, to this address;" and bending down over the table he took a pen and scrap of paper and wrote: Mr. Effingham, Mr. Johnson's, The Brown Bear, Shakespeare Street, Strand, London. "Will you do that?"
"I will."
"Having said so as an honourable gent, I know you'll keep your word. Now how am I to see her?"
"She walks out every day at three o'clock with her pupil--"
"Her pupil! Lizzie Ponsford's pupil! My eye!"
"With her pupil," repeated Sir Charles sternly, "in the chestnut avenue leading from the lodge-gate. A tall woman with very large eyes, and crisp wavy °hair over her forehead; a peculiar-looking woman--you couldn't mistake her."
"All right! As I go out of the lodge-gate now, I'll just say a few words to the old lady that keeps it, that she may know me again--don't you see?--and not be surprised at my coming in and out. And now, as I shall probably have to hang about here for two or three days, where can I put up?"
"You mustn't remain here in the house--"
"Lor' bless you, that would never do! isn't there a public near?"
"There is the Mitford Arms, within a quarter of a mile of the lodge."
"I saw it; the carrier's-cart which brought me over from Torquay stopped there. That'll do. I'll be a littery gent gettin' up information about the old county families, or an artist sketchin'--that'll do. Now give me a week clear: if nothing's done by then, you'll have spent ten pound very badly, and I shall have lost my time. But if within that time--and it might be to-morrow or any day--you find she's clean gone, you've got the address, and you'll send the cheque to it?"
"You may rely on me."
"I do thoroughly. Now how am I to get out? It wouldn't do for you to be seen with me--my togs, though just the sort of thing for the littery gent, ain't very swell."
"You can go down this staircase," said Sir Charles, leading him to a landing; "it guides on to the garden, take the first to the right, and you'll come at last to the avenue."
Mr. Effingham put his finger to the limp brim of his hat and departed.
But when he arrived in the chestnut avenue, and had looked carefully round, and found that he was out of sight of any one in the house, and that there was no one near enough to observe his conduct, he rubbed his hands together, and almost cut a caper in the air with delight.
"To think of it!" he said. "There never, never was such luck! D'Ossay, my boy, you've got the trick of it somehow. What will Griffiths say now? To think that I've been hunting for this woman all this time, and that she's now placed in my hands--and by this very swell too! Two birds with one stone now. Oh, there's a much bigger game than the Bart.'s cheque for fifty! But it'll take a deal of thinking over and planning; and if there's any one to do that, it's you, D'Ossay, my boy, and no one else!"
What was Laurence Alsager doing at Redmoor? He was beginning to ask himself that question very frequently. And that question led to another--why had he come down there at all? He had "done" country-houses and their amusements and had tired of them years before; he had not the slightest liking for any of the guests; he had a vague dislike of the host. Why, then, had he come? He was a man who rarely tried to deceive himself; and when he put this question point-blank to himself the answer was, Why? Why, because you take a certain interest in Lady Mitford--no, I allow that perfectly; nothing dishonourable, nothing which at present could even be described as a love-passion; but a certain interest. You think from all you have seen that she is not merely very charming in her innocence and simplicity, but really good; and you expect from certain signs which you detect, and with the nature of which you are familiar, that she will have to pass through a very perilous ordeal. It is obvious to you that in society, as it is now constituted, a woman of Lady Mitford's personal attractions and position must incur a very great deal of temptation. This, of course, would be to a great extent avoided if she were secure in the affections and certain of the attentions of her husband; but in the present instance you are constrained to admit, contrary to the opinion which you once publicly expressed, that Sir Charles Mitford is a weak, silly, vain person, who has fallen a victim to the wiles of a thoroughly heartless coquette, and who appears to be going from bad to worse as rapidly as possible. So that your certain interest has brought you down here to watch over the lady. Quixotic and ultra-romantic, is it not? You do not mean it to be so, I know--I give you full credit for that; but still that is the designation it would probably receive from any of your friends. The truth is, that this--I was almost going to call it parental, but we will say fraternal--this fraternal regard for a very handsome woman is a novelty to you; and hence your enjoyment of it. I said expressly a very handsome woman, because I don't believe that the fraternal sentiment could possibly blossom for an ugly one. Beware of it, my friend, if you please! it's the trickiest, most treacherous elf, this fraternal friendship, that exists; it goes on for a certain period perfectly steadily and properly, and then one morning you find it has deserted you, and left in its place a hot flaming riotous passion that scorches you into tinder, makes you miserable, takes away your appetite, and, in fact, possesses all the qualities which, at one time, you knew so well.
Such was the result of Laurence Alsager's self-examination, and he fully admitted its truth. It was the interest which he took in Lady Mitford that had induced him to visit Redmoor; it was the same feeling which kept him lingering there. Then the interest must have increased; for the necessity for his self-imposed task of protection and supervision had certainly diminished. The actual fact which had decided his coming was the announcement that Lord Dollamore was to be among the guests. He had always had his own opinion of Lord Dollamore's morality; and the way in which that nobleman had spoken of Lady Mitford in the smoking-room of the Maecenas had jarred horribly on Alsager's nerves. There was something too in Laura Hammond's look and in the tone of her voice when she spoke of the probability of Dollamore's being left constantly with the ladies, at which Laurence had taken alarm. But Lord Dollamore seemed to be perfectly innocuous. Laurence had watched him narrowly from the first, and, as in the case of the drive to Egremont Priory, he seemed rather to avoid than to seek opportunities of being in Lady Mitford's companyen tête-à -tête, and, judging from that and one or two other instances, was apparently desirous of keeping in the background, and of pushing Laurence forward. Could he--? No; he was a man utterly without principle where women are concerned; but he would never attempt such a game as that, more particularly if he, Laurence Alsager, were involved in it. Certainly Sir Charles was going to the bad more rapidly than Alsager had anticipated; but then it was to be said for him that he clearly had fallen into able hands. There had been few such adepts in the art of flirtation in Europe as Laura Molyneux; and she seemed to have become even more fertile in resources and skilful in their development since her marriage. Anything like the manner in which she had flirted with Mitford during the first few clays of her visit to Redmoor, Laurence, in all his experience, had never seen; and he thought at the time of the Egremont Priory expedition that things were coming rapidly to an end. Lady Mitford had evidently noticed something that day, sometendressebetween her husband and Mrs. Hammond, which had annoyed her very much; so much that she had almost called her friends' attention to her disgust. But the sweetness of her disposition had come to the rescue. Laurence knew, as well as if he had been able to read her thoughts, all that had passed in her mind during that drive in the pony-phaeton; he saw how she had reasoned with herself, and how she had finally determined that she had been hasty, inconsiderate, and in the wrong. He had seen her, immediately on alighting, slip away to join her husband; and he could fully understand that she had made silent atonement for what she imagined to be an outburst of groundless jealousy.
An extraordinary change had come over Mitford within the last few days. Before the picnic, and at the picnic, he had been enthralled,entêté, eagerly waiting for Mrs. Hammond's every look, every word, and scarcely able to behave with decency to anybody else. Since then he had acted quite differently. Had his conscience smitten him for neglecting his wife? No; Laurence did not believe in sudden conscience-smites with such men as Sir Charles Mitford; and he had further noticed that though there was no open flirtation, there was plenty of eye-telegraphy of a very peculiar and significant kind. They had come to some understanding evidently, for Mrs. Hammond now seldom addressed her conversation to her host, but kept her hand in by practising on the susceptible heart of Major Winton, or by coquetting with some of the officers who were invariably to be found dining at Redmoor. She had tried toréchauffera little of the old story with Laurence, but had encountered something so much more marked than mere disinclination, that she suspended operations at once.
However, be this as it might, the necessity for Alsager's stay at Redmoor, even judged by his own peculiar notions, was at an end. The Dollamore question never had been mooted; the Hammond difficulty seemed entirely in abeyance. What further need was there for him to keep watch and ward over the Redmoor household? He could be back in town as soon as they could, go where they might;somethingwould occur during the season, he thought, and he might as well be there on guard; but that was a matter of only a few hours from wherever he might happen to be.
Whither should he go, then? Not back to London--that was impossible. The week or two he had passed there had thoroughly sickened him of London for some time to come. Paris? No, he thought not! Thebals d'opérawould be on then,--Frisotte and Rigolette, Celestine and Mogador, Brididi and the Reine Pomaré--O yes, he knew it all; it was a very long time since those exercitations of thecancan, rebuked by thesergents-de-villein a low grumble of "Pas si fort! pas si fort! point du télégraphe!" had afforded him the slightest pleasure. Leicestershire? No, though he had purchased Sir Launcelot, and from merely that short experience of him at Acton, felt sure that he would "show them the way"--no, not Leicestershire this year, he thought, nor anywhere else, unless he went down to Knockholt to see his father. Yes, by Jove! he ought to have done that long since, and now he would do it at once.
He settled this in his own mind as he was dressing for dinner about a week after the winter picnic. Settled it not without long deliberation and a little sleep, for he began to give the matter his careful consideration after returning from a long day's shooting; and it was not until he had steamed and lathered himself in a warm bath, had pulled the little sofa in front of the fire, and was contemplating his evening clothes neatly arranged on an adjacent chair, that he began to consider the question. His deliberation involved the putting up of his feet on the sofa, and that proceeding caused him at once to drop helplessly off to sleep, only to be roused by the loud clanging of the second dinner-bell.
An addition accrued to the dinner-party that day, in the persons of Sir Thomas Hayter, a country neighbour, his wife and daughter. Sir Thomas was a hearty old Tory country squire, who during his one season in London had been captivated by and had married her ladyship; at the time of her marriage apasséebeauty, now a thin chip of an old woman, still affecting girlish airs. Miss Hayter was a fine, fresh, dashing, exuberant girl, inclined to flirting, and fulfilling her inclination thoroughly. They infused a little new life into the party; for though Sir Thomas did not talk a great deal, he listened to everything that was said, and threw in an occasional "Ha! dear me!" with great vigour and effect, while Lady Hayter chirped away to Sir Charles Mitford, asking him about all sorts of London people of whom he had never heard, and quite bewildering him with her volubility. She succeeded better with Mr. Hammond, whose health was fast improving in the soft Devon air, and who, in spite of the strongly-expressed opinion of his wife, had come down to dinner that day. He was seated next to Lady Hayter; and shortly after dinner commenced, he found out that he had known her before her marriage, when she was Miss Fitzgibbon; "used to have the pleasure of meeting you at the Silvesters' in South Audley Street;" and then they entered upon a very long conversation about the acquaintances of their youth, while all the time each was stealing covert glances at the other, and wondering how it was possible--she, that that cadaverous, parchment-faced, bent invalid could be the handsome boy who in those days had just come up from Haileybury, and was going to India with such good prospects; he, that the old woman with the palpably-dyed purple hair, the scraggy neck, and the resplendent teeth--the gold springs of which were so very visible--could have been Emily Fitzgibbon, about whose beauty every one was raving in '25. Miss Hayter too was very happy; she was immensely taken by Laurence Alsager, next to whom she was seated. She had heard of him often; and two years before, when she was in London, he had been pointed out to her at the Opera; and she, then a young lady of seventeen, had gone home and written about him in her diary, and drawn portraits of him in her blotting-book, and thought him the handsomest creature in the world. She told him this, not of course in so many words, but with that charming quiet way of paying a compliment which some well-bred women possess; and she had also heard of the catastrophe with the ponies at Acton, and of his gallant conduct.
"For it was very gallant, you know, Colonel Alsager; any one could see that, even through that ridiculous newspaper report; and it was a splendid jump too. I was talking about it the other day to my cousin Fred Rivers, who knows you, I think; and he said he'd seen the place, and Mr. ----, I forget his name; the head man up there--said it was as fine a thing as ever was done in Leicestershire; and Fred said he thought so too; 'bar none,' he said, in that sporting way, don't you know, which he has of talking."
"You make a great deal too much of it, Miss Hayter," said Laurence, smiling; "I've seen Fred Rivers take many such jumps himself, for a better horseman never crossed country."
"Ah, yes, during a run, I daresay; but this was in cold blood, wasn't it?--not that I wonder at your doing anything for Lady Mitford. Isn't she lovely? I declare I never saw such a perfect face in my life."
Alsager was about to answer, when Major Maxse spoke from the other side of the table, "Oh, by the way, Colonel Alsager, what Miss Hayter was saying reminds me that you ought not to have driven that day we went to Egremont; you should have gone on horseback. There's a very neat country if you do but know it."
"Did youdriveover, Colonel Alsager?" asked Miss Hayter in astonishment.
"Yes; I drove Lady Mitford in her pony-phaeton." ("Oh!" in a subdued tone from Miss Hayter.) "Sir Charles was the only one who rode."
"And Mrs. Hammond,--I beg your pardon, and Mrs. Hammond!" said Major Winton, the first words he had spoken since he sat down to dinner. "I too was on horseback, but I can scarcely be said to have ridden. But, coming back, they went away splendidly. I never saw anything better than the manner in which the first fence was cleared by them both. I daresay it was as good all over the course; but they got away after the first, and we never saw any more of them."
And Major Winton sipped his first glass of post-prandial claret with great gusto. He had paid off Mrs. Hammond for using him on the picnic-day, and throwing him off when she no longer required him. It was to be presumed, however, that Mrs. Hammond had not heard this remark; at least she gave no signs of having done so, being occupied in conversation with Captain Bligh. Sir Charles Mitford grew very red; Miss Hayter looked round, enjoying the fun; and an awkward pause ensued, broken by old Sir Thomas Hayter.
"Didn't I hear you say you were over at Egremont the other day, Mitford?"
"Yes, Sir Thomas; we went over there, and had a kind of winter picnic."
"You didn't see anything of Torn Boscastle, I suppose?"
"No; we only went to the ruins, and lunched in the keep. Besides, I don't know him."
"Ah! you wouldn't have seen him if you had known him. He keeps quite to himself just now."
"What's the matter? is he ill?"
"No, not ill in body, you know. What's that we used to learn in the Latin grammar--'magis quam corpore, aegrotat'--his mind, you know."
"That's bad; what has brought that about?"
"Well, you see, he's got a son, a wild extravagant fellow, who has run through I can't tell how much money, which poor Tom could very ill afford, as we all know; and the last thing the vagabond did was to get hold of his father's cheque-book, and forge his name to a terrible amount."
Had Sir Thomas been a gentleman of quick perception--a charge which had never been brought against him--he would have been very much astonished at the effect of his anecdote. Sir Charles Mitford turned deadly white. Colonel Alsager frowned heavily, and glanced towards Lady Mitford, who, pale as her husband, looked as if she were about to faint; Lord Dollamore glanced sharply at Sir Thomas Hayter, to see whether he had spoken innocently or with malice prepense. Mrs. Hammond was the only one who seemed to keep her wits thoroughly about her. She glanced at Lady Mitford, and then pushing her chair back sharply, as though obeying a signal from her hostess, rose from the table, followed of course by all the other ladies.
After their departure, and so soon as the door closed behind them, Lord Dollamore addressed himself to Sir Thomas, asking him if he had heard the report that the Whig Ministry intended to impose a new duty on cider--a subject which he knew would engross the old gentleman's attention, to the exclusion of Tom Boscastle and every one else. And, as Lord Dollamore said afterwards, it was an illimitable subject, for he himself invented the report as a herring across the scent; but under old Hayter's fostering care it grew into a perfect Frankensteinian monster. While they were talking, Sir Charles Mitford filled a bumper of claret, and after swallowing half of it, looked round the table to see the extent of the calamity. Then, for the first time, he acknowledged to himself how right the girl Lizzie Ponsford had been in what she had said. Dollamore evidently knew the story, and Alsager--perhaps Hammond, who was leaning back in his chair, enjoying his Madeira; but he could tell in an instant, by the expression of their faces, that none of the others had heard it. Another link had been forged this evening in the chain of his attachment to that charming Mrs. Hammond! how nobly she had behaved! Poor Georgie had lost her bead of course, and had very nearly made a mess of it by fainting, or screaming, or something; but that other woman did just exactly the right thing at the right time. And all for him! He was more infatuated with her than ever. He wondered whether he should ever have the chance of telling her so. He wondered how Butler was progressing in his mission.
By the time the gentlemen arrived in the drawing-room, all trace of the little awkwardness at the dessert-table had passed away. Indeed, Miss Hayter was the only one of all the ladies who had noticed Georgic's uneasiness, and she had not attributed it to its right cause. Now Lady Mitford was looking as serenely lovely as ever, listening to Mrs. Charteris warbling away at the piano; and she looked at her husband with such loving solicitude as he entered the room, that he could not refrain from going up to her, smiling kindly, and pressing her hand, as he whispered, "All right! quite blown over."
Then Sir Charles went in search of Mrs. Hammond. She was sitting in a low chair near the fire, with a little table bearing a shaded lamp close by her hand, and was amusing herself by turning over an album of prints. She never gave herself the smallest trouble when left alone with women; she did not care what they thought of her, and, save under peculiar circumstances, she made no effort to please them. She wished to stand well with Lady Mitford, but she considered she had done enough to that end for one day by executing the masterly retreat from the dinner-table. So she sat there idly under the shade of the lamp, and Sir Charles Mitford thought he had never seen her to such advantage. Her rounded figure showed to perfection in her violet-velvet dress trimmed with soft white lace; her head reclined lazily on the back of her chair, and her eyes rested with calm indifference on the pages of the album--indifference which was succeeded by bright vivacity as she raised them and marked her host's approach.
He dropped quietly into a chair close by hers and said, "You have increased my debt of gratitude to you a thousand-fold."
"Have I?" she replied; "it has been very easily increased. So easily that I don't know how it has been done."
"Don't you? Then your natural talent is wonderful. I should think there were few better or more useful stratagems in warfare than the diversion of the enemy's attention from your weak point."
"Oh," she said, "that is not worth remembering; certainly not worth mentioning again. I am so glad," she added, dropping her voice, "to see you by my side again. I have gone through all kinds of self-examination, imagining that I had in some way offended you; going over in my own mind all that I had said or done since that delicious ride home from Egremont, and I could not tax myself with having wittingly given you any cause for offence. But you seemed to avoid me, to shrink from me, and I cannot tell you how I felt it."
Voice very low here, looks downcast, and general depression.
"Don't speak in that way," said Sir Charles in the same tone; "you don't understand my position. I could explain, and I will some time or other when I have the chance; not now, because--Yes, you are quite right, Mrs. Hammond, Sir Thomas is a thorough specimen of the good old English--"
"Very sorry to interrupt so pleasant a talk, specially when on so charming a subject as Sir Thomas Hayter," said Lord Dollamore, approaching; "but I come as a deputation from the general company to beg that Mrs. Hammond will sing to us."
"Mrs. Hammond would be charmed," said that lady; "but to-night she is out of voice, and really cannot."
"Do, Mrs. Hammond; as a matter of mere charity, do," said Lord Dollamore. "That delightful person Mrs. Charteris,--most delightful, and kind, and all that,--has been trilling away every evening until one is absolutely sick of her thin little voice. Do, for pity's sake, change the note, and let us have a little of your contralto. Do."
"You're very polite, Lord Dollamore; and 'as a matter of mere charity' I should be delighted to help you, but really I am out of voice and cannot. Stay; the old rule in convivial societies was, or I am mistaken, that one should sing or find a substitute. Now I think I can do the latter. Miss Hammond's companion, governess, what you will,--Miss Gillespie,--sings charmingly. If Lady Mitford will permit me, I will send for her."
Georgie, appealed to, was only too well pleased to secure such an aid to the evening's entertainment; so a message was sent to Miss Gillespie, and she was requested to "bring some songs;" Miss Hayter filling up the interval by playing, sufficiently brilliantly, apot-pourriof dance-music.
Towards the end of this performance the door opened and Miss Gillespie entered. All eyes were instantly turned towards her, and--in the case of all the men at least--the casual glance grew into a lengthened gaze. She was a very striking-looking woman, with her sallow cheeks, her large eyes, her brown hair rolling in crisp waves on her forehead. She was dressed in a tight-fitting brown-silk dress with handsomely-worked collar and sleeves, and in her hand she carried a roll of music, of which Lord Dollamore stepped forward to relieve her; but she thanked him with a slight bow and sat down on the chair close to the door, still retaining her roll of music in her hand.
When Miss Hayter had ceased playing, Lady Mitford crossed the room and shook hands with Miss Gillespie, offered her refreshment, thanked her very sweetly for the promptitude with which she had acceded to their request, and told her that Mrs. Hammond had already raised their expectation very high. Then Sir Charles Mitford came up somewhat stiffly, and offered his arm to Miss Gillespie and led her to the piano; and there, just removing her gloves, and without the smallest hesitation or affectation, she sat down, and with scarcely any prelude plunged at once into that most delightful of melodies, "Che faró senza Eurydice," from Glück'sOfeo. Ah, what a voice! clear, bell-like, thrilling, touching not merely the tympanum of the ear, but acting on the nerves and on the spinal vertebrae. What melody in it! what wondrous power! and as she poured out the refrain, "Eurydice, Eurydice!" what deep passionate tenderness! The company sat spell-bound; Lord Dollamore, an accomplished musician himself, and one who had heard the best music everywhere, sat nursing his knee and drinking-in every note. Laurence Alsager, rapt in admiration, had even been guilty of the discourtesy of turning his back on Miss Hayter, whose chatter began to annoy him, and was beating time with his head and hand. Tom Charteris had crept behind his wife, who, far too good a little woman to feel professional jealousy, was completely delighted; and the big tears were rolling down Lady Mitford's face. She was still a child, you see, and had not gone through the Clanronald furnace, where all tears are dried up for ever.
When the song was ended, there came a volley of applause such as is seldom heard in drawing-rooms, and far different from the usual languid "Thank you," which crowns the failure of the amateur. Miss Gillespie looked round elated, as though the sound was pleasant and not unfamiliar to her, and was about to rise from her seat, when Laurence Alsager, who was nearest the piano, advanced, and begged she would remain--he was sure he spoke in the name of all present. So Miss Gillespie, after looking him hard in the face, made him a little bow, and remained at the piano, this time starting off into one of Louis Puget's charming French ballads, "Ta main," which she sung with as much fire andchicas if she had never quitted Paris.
At the conclusion of the second song, Lady Mitford came across to the piano to thank the singer, and she was followed by Mrs. Charteris and Mrs. Masters. Mrs. Charteris was in the highest delight--a feeling; not at all decreased when Miss Gillespie assured her that she had frequently listened to her, Mrs. Charteris's, singing, and had often envied that lady her correct musical education. Mrs. Masters said her little complimentary say about the song, but was principally taken up by Miss Gillespie's costume. She was one of those women who never see anything new worn by any other woman without taking private mental notes of its every detail; thus setting at defiance any attempted extension of the Patent laws in regard to female apparel. So, with her eyes devouring Miss Gillespie's dress, Mrs. Masters said to her "Yes, so charming that Glück! so full of depth and power!--(Wonderfully good silk; stands by itself like a board!)--And the little Frenchchansonnette, so sparkling and melodious, and--(O yes, certainly French I should think! no English house could--) may I ask you where you got that collar and those cuffs, Miss--Miss Asplin? They are most peculiar!"
"My name is Gillespie, madam; and the collar and cuffs I worked myself." After which Mrs. Masters bowed, and went back to her seat.
During this examination Laurence Alsager, who had seated himself next to Miss Hayter, in the neighbourhood of the piano, was conscious that Miss Gillespie's looks constantly strayed towards him. It is very odd. There was nothing coquettish in the regard, he knew every one in that category of glances of old; but these were strangely earnest looks, always averted when she found they were remarked. While they were full upon him, Miss Hayter, in reply to something he had said about his delight in ferns, expressed a hope that they would see him at her father's place, the Arme Wood, where there was a splendid fernery. Laurence, in reply, thanked her, and said how happy he would have been to go, but that he feared it would be impossible, as he intended to leave Redmoor in a day or two. He must be a dutiful son, and visit his father, whom he had not seen since his return to England. As he said this Miss Gillespie's eyes were full on him.
They were very singular eyes, he thought, as he undressed himself lazily before the fire in his bed-room. Very singular eyes; so large, and dark, and speaking. What on earth made the woman look at him so perpetually! He was growing too old to inspire love at first sight, he felt, smiling grimly as he inspected himself in the looking-glass; besides, she was not the style of woman for any such folly. How magnificently she sung! what depth and pathos there was in her voice! "Eurydice, Eurydice!"--those notes were enough to go through any man's soul; those notes were enough to--hallo, what's this?
He had strolled across to the dressing-table, and taken up a small sealed Dote, addressed in a thin fine female hand to Colonel Alsager.
He broke the seal and read:
"I heard you talk of leaving Redmoor. If not impossible I pray you to stay. Your presence will be a check upon two people, who, liberated from that, will go headlong to ruin,dragging down a third in their fall. For the welfare of this third person both you and I are solicitous. But it seems probable that my sphere of usefulness is ended; so all devolves upon you. Remember this, and for her sake, stay on."
"Ah!" said Laurence Alsager when he had perused this mysterious note for the second time--"there's no doubt that my anonymous correspondent is the handsome woman with the eyes and voice. What she means I'll find out in the morning."