Aboutan hour later, Tom Sedley, in solitude, meditated thus—
"I wonder whether the Etherages"—(meaning pretty Miss Agnes)—"would think it a bore if I went up to see them. It's too late for tea. I'm afraid they mightn't like it. No one, of course, like Cleve now. They'd find me very dull, I dare say. I don't care, I'll walk up, and if I see the lights in the drawing-room windows, I'll try."
He did walk up; he did see the lights in the drawing-room windows; and he did try, with the result of finding himself upon the drawing-room carpet a minute after, standing at the side of Agnes, and chatting to Miss Charity.
"How is your father?" asked Tom, seeing the study untenanted.
"Not atallwell,Ithink; he had an accident to-day. Didn't you hear?"
"Accident!No, I didn't."
"Oh! yes. Somehow, when Lord Verney and the other people were coming up here to-day, he was going to meet them, and among them they overturned his bath-chair, and I don't know really who's to blame. Captain Shrapnell says he saved his life; but, however it happened, he was upset and very much shaken. I see you laughing, Thomas Sedley! What on earthcanyou see in it to laugh at? It's so exactly like Agnes—shelaughed! you did,indeed, Agnes, and if I had notseenit, with myown eyes, Icouldnot havebelievedit!"
"I knew papa was not hurt, and I could not help laughing, if you put me to death for it, and they say he drove over Lord Verney's foot."
"That would not break my heart," said Sedley. "Did you hear the particulars from Cleve?"
"No, I did not see Mr. Verney to speak to, since the accident," said Miss Charity. "By-the-by, who was the tall, good-looking girl, in the seal-skin coat, he was talking to all the way to the jetty? I think she was Lady Wimbledon's daughter."
"So she was; has she rather large blue eyes?"
"Yes."
"Oh! it must be she; that's Miss CarolineOldys. She's such a joke; she's elder than Cleve."
"Oh! that's impossible; she's decidedly younger than Mr. Cleve Verney, and, I think, extremely pretty."
"Well, perhaps sheisyounger, and Idobelieve she's pretty; but she's a fool, and she has been awfully in love with him for I don't know how many years—every one was laughing at it, two or three seasons ago; sheissuch a muff!"
"Whatdoyou mean by a muff?" demanded Charity.
"Well, a goose, then. Lord Verney's her guardian or trustee, or something; and they say, that he and Lady Wimbledon had agreed to promote the affair. Just like them. She is such a scheming old woman; and Lord Verney is such a—I was going to say, such amuff,—but he is such aspoon. Cleve's wide awake, though, and I don't think he'll dothatfor them."
I believe there may have been, at one time, some little foundation in fact for the theory which supposed the higher powers favourable to such a consummation. But time tests the value of such schemes, and it would seem that Lady Wimbledon had come to the conclusion that the speculation was a barren one: for, this night, in her dressing-gown, with her wig off, and a silken swathingabout her bald head, she paid a very exciting visit to her daughter's room, and blew her up in her own awful way, looking like an angry Turk. "She wondered how any person with Caroline'sexperiencecould be such anidiotas to let that young man go on making a fool of her. He had no other idea but the one of making afoolof her before the world. She, Lady Wimbledon, would have no more of any such insensate folly—her prospects should not be ruined, if she could prevent it, and prevent it shecouldandwould—there should be an end of that odious nonsense; and if she chose to make herself the laughing-stock of the world, she, Lady Wimbledon, would do her duty and take her down to Slominton, where they would be quiet enough at all events; and Cleve Verney, she ventured to say, with a laugh, would not follow her."
The young lady was in tears, and blubbered in her romantic indignation till her eyes and nose were inflamed, and her mamma requested her to look in the glass, and see what a figure she had made of herself, and made her bathe her face for an hour, before she went to bed.
There was no other young lady at Ware, and Cleve smiled in his own face, in his looking-glass, as he dressed for dinner.
"My uncle will lose no time—I did not intendthis; but I see very well what he means, and he'll be disappointed and grow suspicious, if I draw back; and she has really nothing to recommend her, poor Caroline, and he'll find that out time enough, and meanwhile I shall get over some months quietly."
There was no great difficulty in seeing, indeed, that the noble host distinguished Lady Wimbledon and her daughter. And Lord Verney, leaning on Cleve's arm, asked him lightly what he thought of Miss Caroline Oldys; and Cleve, who had the gift of presence of mind, rather praised the young lady.
"My uncle would prefer Ethel, when he sees a hope in that direction, I shan't hear much more of Caroline, and so on—and we shall be growing older—and the chapter of accidents—and all that."
For a day or two Lord Verney was very encouraging, and quite took an interest in the young lady, and showed her the house and the place, and unfolded all the plans which were about to grow into realities, and got Cleve to pull her across the lake, and walked round to meet them, and amused the young man by contriving that little opportunity. But Lady Wimbledon revealed something to Lord Verney, that evening, over their game ofecarté, which affected his views.
Cleve was talking to the young lady, but he saw Lord Verney look once or twice, in the midst of a very serious conversation with Lady Wimbledon, at Caroline Oldys and himself, and now without smiling.
It was Lady Wimbledon's deal, but she did not deal, and her opponent seemed also to have forgotten the cards, and their heads inclined one toward the other as the talk proceeded.
It was about the hour when ladies light their bed-room candles, and ascend. And Lady Wimbledon and Caroline Oldys had vanished in a few minutes more, and Cleve thought, "She has told him something that has given him a new idea." His uncle was rather silent and dry for the rest of that evening, but next morning seemed pretty much as usual, only Lord Verney took an opportunity of saying to him—
"I have been considering, and I have heard things, and, with reference to the subject of my conversation with you, in town, I think you ought to direct your thoughts toEthel, about it—you ought to have money—don't you see? It's very important—money—very well to bele fils de ses [oe]uvres, and that kind of thing; but a little money does no harm; on the contrary, it is very desirable. Other people keep that point in view; I don't see why we should not. I ask myself thisquestion:—How is it that people get on in the world? And I answer—in great measure by amassing money; and arguing fromthat, I think it desirable you should have some money to begin with, and I've endeavoured to put it logically, about it, that you may see the drift of what I say." And he made an excuse and sent Cleve up to town next day before him.
I have been led into an episode by Miss Charity's question about Miss Caroline Oldys; and returning to Hazelden, I find Tom Sedley taking his leave of the young ladies for the night, and setting out for the Verney Arms with a cigar between his lips.
Next morning he walked down to Malory again, and saw old Rebecca, who seemed, in her odd way, comforted on seeing him, but spoke little—almost nothing; and he charged her to tell neither Dingwell, of whom he had heard nothing but evil, nor Jos. Larkin, of whom he had intuitively a profound suspicion,—anything about her own history, or the fate of her child, but to observe the most cautious reserve in any communications they might seek to open with her. And having delivered this injunction in a great variety of language, he took his leave, and got home very early to his breakfast, and ran up to London, oddly enough, in the same carriage with Cleve Verney.
Tom Sedley was angry with Cleve, I am afraid not upon any very high principle. If Cleve had trifled with the affections of Miss Caroline Oldys, I fear he would have borne the spectacle of her woes with considerable patience. But if the truth must be told, honest Tom Sedley was leaving Cardyllian in a pet. Anger, grief, jealousy, were seething in his good-natured heart. Agnes Etherage—hislittle Agnes—she had belonged to him as long as he could remember; she was gone, and he never knew how much he had liked her until he had lost her.
Gone?No; in his wanton cruelty this handsome outlaw hadslainhis deer—hadshothis sweet bird dead, and there she lay in the sylvan solitude she had so beautified—dead; and he—heartless archer—went on his way smiling, having darkened the world for harmless Tom Sedley. Could he like him ever again?
Well, the world brooks no heroics now; there are reserves. Men cultivate a thick skin—nature's buff-coat—in which, with little pain and small loss of blood, the modern man-at-arms rides cheerily through life's battle. When point or edge happen to go a little through, as I have said, there are reserves. There is no good in roaring, grinning, or cursing. The scathless only laugh at you; therefore wipe away the blood quietlyand seem all you can like the rest. Better not to let them see eventhat. Is there not sometimes more of curiosity than of sympathy in the scrutiny? Don't you even see, at times, just the suspicion of a smile on your friend's pitying face, as he prescribes wet brown paper or basilicon, or a cob-web, according to his skill?
So Tom and Cleve talked a little—an acquaintance would have said, just as usual—and exchanged newspapers, and even laughed a little now and then; but when at Shillingsworth the last interloper got out, and Tom and Cleve were left to themselves, the ruling idea asserted itself, and Sedley looked hurriedly out of the window, and grew silent for a time, and pretended not to hear Cleve when he asked him whether he had seen the report of Lord Verney's visit to Cardyllian, as displayed in the county paper of that day, which served to amuse him extremely.
"I don't think," said Tom Sedley, at last, abruptly, "that nice, pretty little creature, Agnes Etherage—the nicest little thing, by Jove, I think I ever saw—I say she is not looking well."
"Is not she really?" said Cleve, very coolly cutting open a leaf in his magazine.
"Didn't you observe?" exclaimed Tom, rather fiercely.
"Well, no, I can't say I did; but you knowthem so much better than I," answered Cleve; "it can't be very much; I dare say she's well by this time."
"Howcanyou speak that way, Verney, knowing all you do?"
"Why,whatdo I know?" exclaimed Cleve, looking up in unaffected wonder.
"You know all about it—whyshe's out of spirits,whyshe's looking so delicate,whyshe's not like herself," said Tom, impatiently.
"Upon my soul I donot," said Cleve Verney, with animation.
"That's odd, considering you've half broken her heart," urged Tom.
"I broken her heart?" repeated Cleve. "Now, really, Sedley, do pray think what you're saying."
"I say I think you've broken her heart, and her sister thinks so too; and it's an awful shame," insisted Tom, very grimly.
"I really do think the people want to set me mad," said Cleve, testily. "If anyone says that I have ever done anything that could have made any of that family, who are in their senses, fancy that I was in love with Miss Agnes Etherage, and that I wished her to suppose so, it is simply anuntruth. I never did, and I don't intend; and I can't see, for the life of me, Tom Sedley, what business it is of yours. But thus much I do say,upon my honour, it is a lie. Miss Charity Etherage, an old maid, with no more sense than a snipe, living in that barbarous desert, where if a man appears at all, during eight months out of the twelve, he's a prodigy, and if he walks up the street with a Cardyllian lady, he's pronounced to be over head and ears in love, and of course meditating marriage—I say she's not the most reliable critic in the world in an affair of that sort; and all I say is, that I've givennogrounds for any such idea, and I mean it, upon my honour; and I've seldom been so astonished in my life before."
There was an air of frank and indignant repudiation in Cleve's manner and countenance, which more even than his words convinced Tom Sedley, who certainly was aware how little the Cardyllian people knew of the world, and what an eminently simple maiden in all such matters the homely Miss Charity was. So Tom extended his hand and said—
"Well, Cleve, I'm so glad, and I beg your pardon, and I know you say truth, and pray shake hands; but though you are not to blame—I'm now quitesureyou're not—the poor girl is very unhappy, and her sister very angry."
"I can't helpthat. How on earth canIhelp it? I'm very sorry, though I'm not sure that Iought to care a farthing about other people's nonsense, and huffs, and romances. I could tell you things about myself, lots of things you'd hardly believe—real dreadfulannoyances. I tell you Tom, I hate the life I'm leading. You only see the upper surface, and hardly that. I'm worried to death, and only that I owe so much money, and can't get away, I can tell you—I don't care two pins whether you believe it or not—I should have been feeding sheep in Australia a year ago."
"Better where you are, Cleve."
"How the devil doyouknow? Don't be offended with me, Tom, only make allowances, and if I sometimes talk a bit like a Bedlamite don't repeat my ravings; that's all. Look at that windmill; isn't it pretty?"
Cleve Verneywas in harness again—attending the House with remarkable punctuality; for the eye of the noble peer, his uncle, was upon him. He had the division lists regularly on his table, and if Cleve's name was missing from any one of even moderate importance, his uncle took leave to ask an explanation. Cleve had also reasons of his own for working diligently at the drudgery of public life. His march was not upon solid ground, but over a quaking bog, every undulation and waver of which was answered by a qualm at his heart.
Still it was only some nice management of time and persons; it was a mere matter of presence of mind, of vigilance, of resource, to which he felt—at least hoped he might be found equal, and allmustend well. Was not his uncle sixty-six his last birthday? People might natter and say he looked nothing like it; but the red book so pronounced, and there is no gainsaying that sublime record. After all, his uncle was not an everlasting danger. Time and the hour will end the longest day; and then must come the title, and estates, and a quiet heart at last.
When the House did not interfere, Cleve was of course seen at all the proper places. On the night of which I am now speaking there was among others Lady Dorminster's ball, and a brilliant muster of distinguished persons.
On that crowded floor, in those celebrated salons, in an atmosphere of light and music, in which moved so much of what is famous, distinguished, splendid, is seen the figure of Cleve Verney. Everyone knew that slight and graceful figure, and the oval face, delicate features, and large, dark, dreamy eyes, that never failed to impress you with the same ambiguous feeling. It was Moorish, it was handsome; but there was a shadow there—something secret and selfish, and smilingly, silently insolent.
This session he had come out a little, and made two speeches of real promise. The minister had complimented his uncle upon them, and had also complimented him. The muse was there; something original and above routine—genius perhaps—and that passion for distinction which breaks a poor man's heart, and floats the rich to greatness.
A man of Cleve's years, with his position, with his promise, with London life and Paris life all learned by rote, courted and pursued, wary, contemptuous, sensual, clever, ambitious—is not young. The whole chaperon world, with its wiles, was an open book for him. For him, like the man in the German legend, the earth under which they mined and burrowed had grown to his eyes transparent, and he saw the gnomes at work. For him young ladies' smiles were not light and magic—only marsh fires and tricks. To him old and young came up and simpered or fawned; but they dimpled, or ogled, or grinned, all in the Palace of Truth. Truth is power, but not always pretty. For common men the surface is best; all beyond is knowledge—an acquisition of sorrow.
Therefore, notwithstanding his years, the clear olive oval of his handsome face, the setting—void of line or colour—of those deep dark eyes, so enthusiastic, yet so cold, the rich wave of his dark hair, and the smooth transparency of temples and forehead, and all the tints and signs of beautiful youth, Cleve Verney was well stricken in years of knowledge; and of that sad gift he would not have surrendered an iota in exchange for the charms and illusions of innocence, so much for the most part do men prefer power to happiness.
"How d'ye do, Miss Oldys?" said this brilliant young man of actualities and expectations.
"Oh, Mr. Verney,youhere!"
This Miss Caroline Oldys was just nine-and-twenty. Old, like him, in the world's dismal psychology, but with one foolish romance still at her heart; betrayed into a transient surprise, smiling in genuine gladness, almost forgetting herself, and looking quite country-girlish in the momentary effusion. It is not safe affecting an emotion with men like Cleve, especially when it does not flatter them. He did not care a farthing whether she was surprised or not, or glad or sorry. But her very eye and gesture told him that she had marked him as he stood there, and had chosen the very seat on which her partner had placed her of malice aforethought. Fine acting does it need to succeed with a critic like Cleve.
"Yes, I here—and where's the wonder?"
"Why,—who was it?—someone told me only half an hour ago, you were somewhere in France."
"Well, if it was a man he told a story, and if a lady she made a mistake," said Cleve, coolly but tartly, looking steadily at her. "And the truth is, I wanted a yacht, and I went down to look ather, tried her, liked her, and bought her. Doesn't it sound very like a marriage?"
Caroline laughed.
"That's your theory—we're all for sale, and handed over to the best bidder."
"Pretty waltz," said Cleve, waving his slender hand just the least in the world to the music. "Pretty thing!"
He did not use much ceremony with this young lady—his cousin in some remote way—who, under the able direction of her mother, Lady Wimbledon, had once pursued him in a barefaced way for nearly three years; and who, though as we have seen, her mother had by this time quite despaired, yet liked him with all the romance that remained to her.
"And who are you going to marry, Caroline? There's Sedley—I see him over there. What do you say to Sedley?"
"No, thanks—much obliged—but Sedley, you know, has seen his fate in that mysterious lady in Wales, or somewhere."
"Oh? has he?" He signed to Sedley to come to them.
Looking through the chinks and chasms that now and then opened in the distinguished mob of which he formed a unit, he occasionally saw the stiff figure and small features of his pompousuncle, Lord Verney, who was talking affably to Lady Wimbledon. Lord Verney did not wear his agreeable simper. He had that starch and dismal expression, rather, which came with grave subjects, and he was tapping the fingers of his right hand upon the back of his left, in time to the cadence of his periods, which he did when delivering matter particularly well worth hearing. It plainly did not displease Lady Wimbledon, whatever his discourse might be. "I'm to be married to Caroline, I suppose. I wish that old woman was at the bottom of the Red Sea."
Cleve looked straight in the eyes of the Honourable Miss Caroline Oldys, and said he, with a smile, "Lady Wimbledon and my uncle are deep in some mystery—is it political? Have you an idea?"
Caroline Oldys had given up blushing very long ago indeed; but there was the confusion, without the tint of a blush in her face, as he said these words.
"I dare say—mamma's a great politician."
"Oh! I know that. By Jove, my uncle's looking this way. I hope he's not coming."
"Would you mind taking me to mamma?"
"No—pray stay for a moment. Here's Sedley."
And the young man, whom we know pretty well, with the bold blue eyes and golden moustaches, and good frank handsome face, approached smiling.
"How are you, Sedley?" said Cleve, giving him two fingers. "Caroline Oldys says you've had an adventure. Where was it?"
"The lady in black, you know, in Wales," reminded Miss Oldys.
"Oh! to be sure," said Sedley, laughing. "A lady in gray, it was. I saw her twice. But that's more than a year old, and there has been nothing ever since."
"Dogo on."
Sedley laughed.
"It was at Cardyllian, in the church. She lived at Malory—that dark old place you went to see with the Verneys, the day you were at Cardyllian—don't you remember?"
"Oh, yes,—what a romantic place!"
"What an awfully cross old fellow, old enough to be her father, but with the air of her husband, guarding her like a dragon, and eyeing every fellow that came near as if he'd knock him down; a lean, white-whiskered, bald old fellow, with bushy eyebrows, and a fierce face, and eyes jumping out of his head, and lame of one foot, too. Not a beauty, by any means."
"Where did you seehim?" said Cleve.
"I did not see him—but Christmass Owen the boatman told me."
"Well, and which is your fate—which is to kill you—the husband or wife?" inquired Cleve, looking vaguely among the crowd.
"Oh, the wife, as he calls her, is really quite beautiful, melancholy and that, you know. I'd have found out all about them, but they left before I had time to go back, but Verney was at Cardyllian, when I was there."
"When was that?" asked Cleve.
"I mean when these people were at Malory. Cleve was much more gone about her than I was—at least so I've heard," answered Sedley.
"That's very ungrateful of you, Sedley. I never interfered, upon my honour. I saw her once in church, and accompanied him in his pursuit at his earnest request, and I never saw her again. Are you going on to the Halbury's, Caroline?"
"Yes; are you?"
"No, quite used up. Haven't slept since Wednesday night."
Here a partner came to claim Miss Caroline.
"I'll go with you," said Sedley.
"Very well," answered Cleve, without looking back. "Come to my lodgings, Sedley—we'llsmoke, shall we? I've got some capital cigars."
"I don't care. I'm going on also."
"What a delicious night!" exclaimed Tom Sedley, looking up at the stars. "Suppose we walk—it isn't far."
"I don't care—let us walk," said Cleve.
So walk they did. It was not far to Cleve's lodgings, in a street off Piccadilly. The young men had walked rather silently; for, as it seemed to Sedley, his companion was not in a temper to talk a great deal, or very pleasantly.
"And what about this gray woman? Did you ever follow it up? Did the romance take fire where it ought? Is it a mutual flame?" asked Cleve, like a tired man who feels he must say something, and does not care what. "I don't think you mentioned her since the day you showed me that Beatrice Cenci, over your d——d chimney-piece."
"Of course I'd have told you if there had been anything to tell," said Tom.
"They haven't been at Malory since?"
"Oh! no—frightened away—you'll never see them there again. There's nothing absolutely in it, and never was, not even an adventure. Nothing but the little that happened long ago—and you know all about that," continued Sedley. "She's a wonderfully beautifulcreature, though; I wish you saw her again, Cleve. You're such a clever fellow, you'd make a poem of her, or something—she'd bring you back to the days of chivalry, and that style of thing. I'm a sort of fellow, you know, that feels a lot, and I think, Ithinksome too; but I haven't the knack of saying it, or writing it—I'm not particularly good at anything; but I went that morning, you know, into the Refectory—you know—there are such a lot of stairs, and long places and doors, it makes a fellow quite foolish—and there she was—don't you remember?—I wish I could describe her to you gardening there with her gloves on."
"Don't try—you've tried so often—there's a good fellow; but just tell me her name?" said Cleve, looking straight before him, above the lamps and the slanting slates and chimneys, into the deep sky, where brilliantly, spite of London smoke, shone the clear sad moon.
"Her name?—I never found out, except Margaret—I don't know; but I believe they did not want their name told."
"That did not look well—did it?" suggested Cleve.
"Well, no more it generally does; but it is not her fault. It was—in fact it was—for Ididfind it out, I may as well tell you—old SirBooth Fanshawe, you know he's broken—not worth a guinea—and always running about from place to place to avoid pursuit, in fact. It can't signify, you know, now that I think of it, mentioning him, because, of course, he's gone somewhere else long ago."
So said romantic little Sedley, and Cleve sneered.
"I see you can tell a fib on occasion, Tom, like another man. So you found out the name, and knew it all the time you were protesting ignorance. And who told youthat? People here thought Sir Booth had gone to Italy."
"Well, it was—but you mustn't tell him I told you. There was a Jew fellow down at Malory, with a writ and a lot of fellows to nab him; but the old fellow was off; and the Jew, thinking that Wynne Williams knew where he was, came to his office and offered him a hatfull of money to tell, and he was going to kick him out; and that's the wayhefound out it was old Sir Booth; and he is awfully afraid of getting into a scrape about it, if the old people heard who the tenant was."
"So he would—the worst scrape he ever was in, with myuncle, at all events. And that d—d Larkin would get into the management of everything, I suppose. I hope, you have not been telling everyone?"
"Not a soul—not a human being."
"There are some of the Cardyllian people that hardly come under that term; and, by Jove, if you breathe it to one of them, it's all over the town, and my uncle will be sure to hear it; and poor Wynne Williams!—you'll be the ruin of him, very likely."
"I tell you, except to you, Iswearto you, I haven't mentioned it to a soul on earth," exclaimed Tom.
"Well, I do think, as a matter of conscience and fairness, you ought to hold your tongue, and keep faith with poor Wynne," said Cleve, rudely, "and I think he was a monstrous fool to tell you. You know I'm interested," continued Cleve, perceiving that his vehemence surprised Tom Sedley; "because I have no faith in Larkin—I think him a sneak and a hypocrite, and a rogue—of course that's in confidence, and he's doing all in his power to get a fast hold of my uncle, and to creep into Wynne Williams's place, and a thing like this, with a hard unreasonable fellow like my uncle, would give him such a lift as you can't imagine."
"But, I'm not going to tell; unlessyoutell, orhe, I don't know who's to tell it—Iwon't, I know."
"And about Sir Booth—of course he's not inEngland now—but neither is he in Italy," said Tom.
"It's well he has you to keep his 'log' for him," said Cleve.
"He's in France."
"Oh!"
"Yes, in the north of France, somewhere near Caen," said Tom Sedley.
"I wonder you let him get so near England. It seems rather perilous, doesn't it?"
"So one would think, buttherehe is. Tom Blackmore, of the Guards—you know him?"
"No, I don't."
"Well he saw old Fanshawe there. He happened to be on leave."
"Old Fanshawe?"
"No, Tom Blackmore. He likes poking into out-of-the-way places."
"I dare say."
"He has such a turn for the picturesque and all that, and draws very nicely."
"The long bow, I dare say."
"Well, no matter, he was there—old Fanshawe I mean—Blackmore saw him. He knows his appearance perfectly—used to hunt with his hounds, and that kind of thing, and often talked to him, so he could not be mistaken—and there he was as large as life."
"Well?"
"He did not know Tom a bit, and Tom asked no questions—in fact, he did not care to know where the poor old fellow hides himself—he preferred not—but Madame something or other—I forget her name—gave him a history, about as true as Jack the Giant-Killer, of the eccentric English gentleman, and told him that he had taken a great old house, and had his family there, and a most beautiful young wife, and was as jealous as fifty devils; so you see Margaret must have been there. Of course that was she," said Tom.
"And you said so to your friend Blackmore?" suggested Cleve Verney.
"Yes," said Tom.
"It seems to me you want to have him caught."
"Well, I did not think—I hope not—and I did not know you took any interest in him," said Sedley, quite innocently.
"Interest!I—me! Interest, indeed! Why the devil shouldItake an interest in Sir Booth Fanshawe? Why you seem to forget all the trouble and annoyance he has cost me. Interest, indeed! Quite the contrary. Only, I think, one would not like to get any poor devil into worse trouble than he's in, for no object, or to besupposed to be collecting information about him."
"No one could suppose anything like that of me," said Tom Sedley.
"I beg your pardon; they can suppose anything of anybody," answered Cleve, and, seeing that Tom looked offended, he added, "and the more absurd and impossible, the more likely. I wish you heard the things that have been said ofme—enough to make your hair stand on end, by Jove!"
"Oh! I dare say."
They were now turning into the street where Cleve had taken lodgings.
"I could not stand those fellows any longer. My uncle has filled the house with them—varnish and paint and that stifling plaster—so I've put up here for a little time."
"I like these streets. I'm not very far away from you here," said Tom. "And talking of that affair at Caen, you know, he said, by Jove he did, that he sawyouthere."
"Who said?"
"Tom Blackmore of the Guards."
"Then Tom Blackmore of the Guardslies—that's all. I never saw him—I never spoke to him—I don't know him; and how should he know me? And if he did, I wasn't there; andif I had been, what the devil was it to him? So besides telling lies, he tellsimpertinentlies, and he ought to be kicked."
"Well, of course as you say so, he must have made a mistake; but Caen is as open to you as to him, and there's no harm in the place; and he knows you by appearance."
"He knows everybody by appearance, it seems, and nobody knows him; and, by Jove, he describes more like a bailiff than a Guardsman."
"He's a thorough gentleman in everyidea. Tom Blackmore is as nice a little fellow as there is in the world," battled Tom Sedley for his friend.
"Well, I wish you'd persuade that faultless gentleman to let me and my concerns alone. I have a reason in this case; and I don't mind if I tell you Iwasat Caen, and I suppose hedidsee me. But there was no romance in the matter, except the romance of the Stock Exchange and a Jew; and I wish, Tom, you'd just considermeas much as you do the old baronet, for my own sake, that is, forI'm pretty well dipped too, and don't want everyone to know when or where I go in quest of my Jews. Iwas—not very far from that about four months ago; and if you go about telling everyone, by Jove my uncle will guesswhat brought me there, and old fellows don't likepost-obitson their own lives."
"My dear Cleve, I had not a notion——"
"Well, all you can do for me now, having spread the report, is to say that Iwasn't there—I'm serious. Here we are."
Transcriber's NotePunctuation errors have been corrected.The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.Page 25: A word fragment 'stea' was removed as it seemed to be unecessary and out of context. ("I'm startled sir." stea)Page 79: Rumbble changed to Rumble. (are they Mrs Rumble—eh?)Page 90: aud changed to and. (and with a pen in his fingers)Page 139: and changed to an. (an old château)Page 151: sear changed to sere. (no bloom restores the sere)Page 184: Iv'e changed to I've. (I've had a word of trouble)Page 206: dog-skin changed to doe-skin. (her thin hand, in doe-skin glove)
Punctuation errors have been corrected.
The following suspected printer's errors have been addressed.
Page 25: A word fragment 'stea' was removed as it seemed to be unecessary and out of context. ("I'm startled sir." stea)
Page 79: Rumbble changed to Rumble. (are they Mrs Rumble—eh?)
Page 90: aud changed to and. (and with a pen in his fingers)
Page 139: and changed to an. (an old château)
Page 151: sear changed to sere. (no bloom restores the sere)
Page 184: Iv'e changed to I've. (I've had a word of trouble)
Page 206: dog-skin changed to doe-skin. (her thin hand, in doe-skin glove)