"Lady Errington presents her compliments to Mrs. Veilsturm, and returns the enclosed card, which was evidently left to-day at the Hall by some mistake."
"So I was right, you see," observed Griff, leisurely folding up this short epistle and letting his eyeglass drop down. "Mostyn did tell her about you after all--damn him!"
The Major swore in a tranquil manner, without any sign of anger, but that he was greatly annoyed could be seen by the twitching of his thin lips under his grizzled moustache. As for Mrs. Veilsturm, her temper had got the better of her discretion, and having left her seat, she was sweeping up and down the little room like an angry panther in its cage.
"Well Maraquita," said Griff quietly, after a pause, "you see Lady Errington has declared war, as I knew she would."
"You knew no more than I did," hissed Maraquita viciously.
Major Griff smiled at her in a pitying manner.
"Instinct, my dear! Instinct! I told you what was in that letter before you opened it."
"I should like to kill her," said Cleopatra, glaring at him in a kind of cold fury.
"I've no doubt you would, but, as you can't, why waste time in useless threats?"
"That she, a school-girl--a brainless fool--should dare to put such an insult on me," raged Mrs. Veilsturm, clenching her fan tightly. "How dare she? How dare she? Does she know what I am?"
"She does," replied the Major drily, "her letter shows she does."
Maraquita looked from left to right in wrathful despair, then throwing all prudence to the wind, snapped her fan in two, threw it on the ground, and stamped on the fragments.
"I wish she was there! I wish she was there! What can I do to punish her? What can I do?"
"You can do nothing," replied Griff, examining his nails. "To make war on Lady Errington would be like throwing feathers at a granite image in order to hurt it. She has an assured position in Society. You have not. She has a past that will bear looking into--you have not. She has everything in her favour--you have nothing, so be a philosopher, my dear Maraquita. Grin and bear it. Vulgar certainly, but sound advice, very sound advice."
Mrs. Veilsturm turned on her dear friend in a fury, and stamped her foot on the broken fan, looking like a demon with her blazing eyes and clenched white teeth, which showed viciously through her drawn lips.
"Hold your tongue," she shrieked wrathfully, "don't stand sneering there you fool. Tell me what I'm to do."
The Major poured out another glass of sherry from the decanter on the table and advanced towards her.
"Have a glass of sherry, and keep your temper," he said soothingly.
Cleopatra glared at him in speechless anger, then struck the glass from his hand with such violence that it shattered to pieces on the carpet. Griff shrugged his shoulders, and walked back to the fireplace.
"You're acting like a fool, Mrs. Veilsturm," he observed, tranquilly; "first you broke a fan, now you break a glass--silly, my dear, very silly! It doesn't hurt Lady Errington, but only yourself. By-the-way," glancing at his watch, "it's seven o'clock. I wonder when dinner will be ready, I'm dreadfully hungry."
His partner, however, was not listening to him, but a sudden thought seemed to have struck her, for the fire died out of her eyes and her complexion resumed its usual rich hue of health. After a pause, a gratified smile broke over her face, and bending down she picked up the fan.
"I'm sorry I broke this," she said, quietly, advancing towards the Major; "it was such a pretty fan. Dolly Thambits gave it to me. Never mind, I'll make him give me another."
She spoke quite cheerfully, and the Major stared at her in silent surprise at this sudden change from intense anger to languid tranquillity.
"Upon my word, you puzzle me, Maraquita," he said doubtfully. "A moment ago you were like a devil, now you are within reasonable distance of an angel. What is the meaning of this change?"
The beautiful widow put one slender foot on the fender, looked in the glass, touched some ornaments in her hair, then replied, in a wonderfully calm manner:
"Simply this, that I see my way to punishing Lady Errington."
"The deuce you do."
"Yes; she is newly married, and, no doubt, loves her husband--he's a fool, for I've seen him in London, so through her husband I'll punish her."
"Oh, I see," said the Major, grimly; "you intend to make love to the husband."
"What acute penetration, my dear Griff! That's exactly what I intend to do."
"No good," answered the man, shaking his head. "Errington is newly married, and can see no beauty in any woman save his wife."
"He's a fool I tell you," retorted Mrs. Veilsturm, coolly, "and I never met a man yet I couldn't twist round my finger. He may be difficult to manage in his character of a newly married man, but I'll gain my ends somehow."
"And then?" queried Major Griff.
"And then," echoed Cleopatra, viciously, "when I've estranged him from her and possibly led to a divorce, I'll have my revenge."
"At the cost of your own position."
"Don't you be afraid. I'll look after that! I'll keep my position and ruin her happiness at the same time."
"You're playing with fire."
"Fire that will burn them, not myself! Come, dinner is ready, give me your arm."
"One moment! When do you intend to begin the business?"
"That depends on Sir Guy Errington. As a newly married man, I dare say I can do nothing with him. Newly married men sometimes get tired of honey. When he does, then I will step in."
"Suppose he does not get tired?"
"But he will. I tell you he's a fool."
"Time flies onward with tireless wings.Divers gifts to us all he brings,Joy and sorrowOn every morrow,A thousand pleasures, a thousand stings."Love he hath brought to a maiden fair,Hate hath sundered a loving pair,Gauds that glitter,And memories bitter,Each of us born hath his fated share."Life is evil, the wise man saith.Joy comes but at the last-drawn breath,Earth's false pleasuresYield no treasures,There is no gift like the gift of death."
"Time flies onward with tireless wings.Divers gifts to us all he brings,
Joy and sorrowOn every morrow,
A thousand pleasures, a thousand stings.
"Love he hath brought to a maiden fair,Hate hath sundered a loving pair,
Gauds that glitter,And memories bitter,
Each of us born hath his fated share.
"Life is evil, the wise man saith.Joy comes but at the last-drawn breath,
Earth's false pleasuresYield no treasures,
There is no gift like the gift of death."
Perhaps it is due to the way we live now, or possibly to the inherent restlessness of the present generation, but Time certainly seems to pass more rapidly with us than it did with our grandfathers.
They lived in a delightfully leisurely fashion, not without its charm, and either stayed complacently at home, or, if they did travel, went in a sober-sides mode by stage coach and sailing vessel. If they did make a journey through Europe, it was called a Grand Tour, and seemed to have been somewhat after the style of a royal progress, Judging from the stately manner in which it was conducted. Ah, there is, no doubt, our steady-going ancestors knew the value of being idle, an art which we have quite lost, and took life in a wonderfully sedate way, sauntering, as it were, in an idle fashion, from the cradle to the grave.
We, alas, have changed this somnolent existence, and made the latter end of this nineteenth century somewhat trying to a man whose health is not of the best, or to him who desires to shine among his fellow creatures. The struggle for existence is keener, the survival of the fittest more certain than ever, and the art of enjoyment has resolved itself into a series of hurried glances at a multiplicity of things.
If we want to travel, steam whirls us from one end of the world to the other, giving us no time to examine things; if we wish to read, hundreds of books, fresh from the press, call for attention; if we desire to enjoy ourselves, theatres, balls, picture galleries, all offer their attractions in such profusion, that it is difficult to know where to begin. We have gained many aids to enjoyment, yet it is questionable if those very aids have not lost us the faculty itself; for a breathless scamper after pleasure, with a hurried glance here, and a momentary pause there, can hardly be called true enjoyment. The world, and we who live therein, are so busy getting things in order for the beginning of the next century, that all hands are pressed into the service, and no one has a moment to be idle, or to admire the profusion of good things spread before him.
Therefore, amid all this hurry and bustle, Time flies much more quickly than formerly; our ancestors yawned through twelve hours of leisurely work, we scarcely find twenty-four long enough for all we want to do. We eat, drink, marry, and give in marriage, welcome the newly born, and forget the newly dead, with the utmost despatch and rapidity, and no sooner is one year, with all its troubles and breathless enjoyment, at an end, than we have mapped out the cares of the next twelve months before they are fairly started.
Eighteen months had, therefore, passed very rapidly since the Erringtons took possession of the Hall, and a good many important events, both to nations and individuals, had happened in the meantime. It was now the middle of the London season, and those who had parted months before at Como, were now about to meet again under widely different circumstances.
Victoria Sheldon had duly returned home with Mrs. Trubbles, and taken up her abode once more with Aunt Jelly, who was privately very glad to see her, although she took good care that the girl should not know of such weakness on her part. She asked Victoria a good many questions concerning the people she had met abroad, and particularly about Otterburn, of whom Miss Sheldon gave an account quite at variance with the real state of affairs, carefully suppressing the fact that the young man had proposed and been refused. In fact, she passed over her acquaintance with him so very lightly, that she succeeded in deceiving lynx-eyed Miss Corbin as to her feelings towards him, and never, by word or deed, hinted that he had any interest for her in any way.
But although she might deceive the world, she could not deceive herself, and in reality she thought a good deal about the man she had rejected, regretting, with the curious caprice of a woman, that she had done so. The manner in which he had received her refusal had greatly impressed her, for it differed greatly from the behaviour of her other suitors, and if Angus had only asked her again a few months after her arrival in England, he would doubtless have gained her consent to the marriage.
Otterburn, however, had been deeply wounded at what he deemed her unjustifiable coquetry, and being intensely proud, resolved not to submit himself to a second slight, therefore kept out of her way. If some kind fairy had only brought these two foolish young people together, everything would doubtless have been arranged in a satisfactory manner between them, but as such aid was not forthcoming, seeing we live in times when Oberon has resigned his sceptre, they remained apart, each in ignorance of the other's feelings, and mutually blamed one another for the position of affairs.
Absence, in this case, made Victoria's heart grow fonder, and she felt that she was really and truly in love with Angus, but as she neither saw nor heard of him, she had to lock up her secret in her own breast, which did not add to the pleasures of life.
At the invitation of Lady Errington, she went down to the Hall at Christmas, and had a very pleasant time, despite her heart-ache, as her hostess made a great deal of her, and the young Nimrods of the county quite lost their heads over "Such a jolly girl who rode so straight to hounds, taking the fences like a bird, by Jove." She could have been married three or four times had she so chosen, but neither her suitors nor their possession of houses and lands tempted her, so she returned to town and Aunt Jelly still heart-whole, except as regarding the little affair of Angus Macjean.
During the season she kept a keen look-out for him at all the places she went to under the wing of Mrs. Trubbles, but Otterburn did not make his appearance, and it was only by chance that she heard he had gone to America for some big game shooting in the Rockies. Evidently there was no chance of his proposing a second time, and Victoria should have put all thought of his doing so out of her heart, but she felt that she loved him too much to do so, and hugged her secret with all its pain closer to her breast, until she grew pale and thin, so that Aunt Jelly became alarmed about her lungs, thinking she was going into consumption. With this idea the old lady, who hated change, took a villa at San Remo and stayed there for some months with Victoria and Minnie Pelch. The change did both girls good, and when the trio returned to Town, Aunt Jelly took Victoria a round of visits to several country houses, which proved so successful that Miss Sheldon quite recovered her lost spirits and came back to London eager for the pleasures of her third season in the great city.
While Victoria was thus paying the penalty of her prompt rejection of Otterburn's suit, that young gentleman was having by no means a pleasant time of it himself. The shooting expedition to the Carpathians had been a great success, and the excitement of sport had for the time quite put Victoria out of his head, notwithstanding the genuine love he had for the brilliant Australian beauty. Returned to England, however, he found his thoughts constantly running on her, and with her piquant face constantly in his mind he felt inclined to seek her and try his luck a second time, but his pride forbade him to do so, which was certainly a very foolish view to take of the subject.
Angus, however, was remarkably obstinate in some things, and, as he was determined not to run the chance of a second refusal, put himself out of the way of temptation by going up to Scotland on a visit to his father, thinking that at Dunkeld Castle, at least, he would have peace of mind. He was mistaken in this supposition, for his father, being delighted to find him so improved, immediately urged on him the necessity of a speedy marriage with Miss Cranstoun.
The Master, however, to his father's dismay, proved very obstinate on this point and flatly refused to marry the lady, which refusal brought down on him the wrath of both Lord Dunkeld and Mr. Mactab, who tried to bully the young reprobate into acquiescence. Plain-looking Miss Cranstoun, however, proved too much for Otterburn, seeing that the charming face of Victoria Sheldon was constantly haunting his fancy, and notwithstanding all the arts which were brought to bear on him, he held out against the match in the most stubborn manner.
Lord Dunkeld raved, and Mactab quoted Scripture, all to no purpose, and at length, becoming weary of dour looks and continual lectures, Otterburn abruptly left his ancestral home in company with Johnnie, and, together with the chum whom he had met in Venice, started for America in order to have some sport in the Rocky Mountains. The wrath of the home authorities at this unexpected revolt of the hitherto obedient Angus can be better imagined than described, but as there seemed to be absolutely no way of bringing the young man to reason, they were forced to let him do as he pleased. For very shame Lord Dunkeld could not cut off the allowance of his only son, so he had to acquiesce in impotent anger in Otterburn's disobedience, hoping that a lengthened tour in America would bring the young prodigal to reason and induce him to return to Dunkeld Castle and matrimony.
Submission such as this, however, was very far from Otterburn's thoughts, as he had made up his mind not to marry Miss Cranstoun, and moreover considered he was perfectly entitled to choose his own wife, seeing it was he who would have to live with her, so he went off to the States with a light heart. His adventures and that of his friends would take a long time to describe, as they had a splendid time of it in the Rockies after big game, and becoming quite enamoured of the uncivilized life drifted down Montana way, where they met with cow-boys and plenty of young Englishmen who were cattle ranching in the wilds.
During this wild existence, which had such an ineffable charm for them, Otterburn told his chum, a merry young fellow called Laxton, of his admiration for Victoria, whereupon Laxton, being versed in affairs of the heart, lectured his friend and advised him to once more try his luck.
"And I'll lay two dollars," said this sagacious young man, who had Americanised his speech, "that she won't say 'no' a second time."
With this idea in his head, Otterburn became anxious to return home, and Laxton, being somewhat tired of primeval simplicity, consented to leave the wide rolling prairies for the delights of Pall Mall. Laxton wanted to return in a leisurely fashion by making for San Francisco and going home again by New Zealand and Australia, but then he was heart-whole and had not the vision of a charming face constantly in his mind's eye. This fact being urged by Otterburn as an argument in favour of taking the shortest route possible to London, Laxton, being really a good-natured young fellow, consented, and leaving their delightfully savage life behind they went to New York. After a few days' stay in that city they went across to Liverpool by one of the big Cunarders, and duly arrived after a pleasant passage.
Laxton went off to see his people in Yorkshire, but Otterburn did not venture to trust himself within the grim walls of Dunkeld Castle, well knowing the stormy reception he would meet with, so journeyed straight to the Metropolis, where he engaged a comfortable set of chambers in the neighbourhood of Piccadilly, and started on his matrimonial campaign with a dogged determination to succeed in winning Victoria Sheldon for his wife, or, in case of failure, to depart for an uninhabited island and live a Robinson Crusoe misogamistic existence till he died.
Many events had happened in the Errington household since the young couple had arrived at the Hall, the most important being the birth of a little boy, which had greatly rejoiced Guy's heart, as he now had an heir to succeed to the estates. Aunt Jelly also signified her approval in her own grim way, and actually stood godmother to the child, whom she insisted on christening Henry, after her old love, Sheldon, although no one knew or guessed her reason for doing so.
Eustace Gartney had been right in his estimate of Alizon's character, for the birth of the child transformed her from a cold statue into a loving, breathing woman, rendered perfect by her motherhood. No one who saw her, with her delicate face flushed with joy bending over the cradle of the child, would have thought it was the same woman who had been so chill and impassive in her appearance and demeanour. The cold, white snow-drop had changed into the warm, red rose, and the passionate idolatry she had for the child seemed to fill out and complete her life, hitherto so void and empty for the want of something to love.
Guy adored his little son, to whom, for some inexplicable reason, he gave the name of "Sammy," and laughingly averred that Alizon bestowed so much love on the son that she had none left for the father, which assertion his wife smilingly denied, though it was true in the main. Lady Errington gave up going out a great deal, devoting herself entirely to the child, so Guy was left to a great extent to himself, which he by no means relished; yet he made no complaint, as it would have seemed ridiculous to blame a mother for being over fond of her first born. Still, Guy felt a little sore on this point, and much as he had desired an heir and loved his son, he almost wished the child had never been born, so much did it seem to come between them. Had Alizon been a wise woman, she would have seen the folly of loving her child to the exclusion of her husband, but blinded by maternal love she neither saw nor felt anything that did not pertain to the tiny babe she clasped so ardently to her breast.
Mrs. Veilsturm made no further attempt to force her friendship on Lady Errington, but shortly after the rebuff she had received--the knowledge of which she kept to herself--departed for a trip on the Continent, which, for her, meant Monte Carlo, where she was afterwards joined in the most casual way by Major Griff. The partners were too clever to travel together, as it might have attracted attention, but when one was at any special place the other was sure to turn up a few weeks later on business connected with the West Indian estates. So on her return to England for the season, Mrs. Veilsturm told her dear friends that she had sold one estate, although, as a matter of fact, the money she averred she had received therefor was due to luck at the green tables.
Cleopatra and her friend were much more circumspect in their second season in London. They did not wish to run the risk of any more disagreeable reports, and as their winnings at Monte Carlo had been very large the firm was enabled to dispense, to some extent, with baccarat on Sunday evenings. Mrs. Veilsturm fully re-established her position in London, and the Major was more devoted than ever, so the charming widow departed for her health to Algiers with the good wishes of everyone.
"Next year, Maraquita," said the Major in a satisfied tone, as they discussed their plans in a pleasant room looking out on to the blue waters of the Mediterranean, "we will go in for making money and then we can go off to America."
"I don't like giving up London," objected Mrs. Veilsturm angrily.
"You must, sooner or later," replied Major Griff shrewdly. "However, we will get together as much cash next season as we can, and if no one says anything so much the better, if they do--well, there is always America."
At the end of this eighteen months Eustace Gartney returned to Town, having heralded his appearance by a book of travels entitled "Arabian Knights," in which he described all his wanderings in the native land of Mahomet. Judging from the brilliant descriptions given in this book with its bizarre title, he seemed to have made good use of his time, and the fascinating pages of the volume opened an enchanted land to Western readers. The mysterious deserts with their romantic inhabitants, the lonely cities far in the interior, whose very names were suggestive of the fantastic stories of the "Thousand and One Nights," the poetic descriptions of the melancholy wastes of sand, whose sadness seemed akin to his own sombre spirit, and the wayward fierceness of the Arab love-songs scattered like gems through the book all made up a charming volume, and even the critics, much as they disliked Eustace for the contempt and indifference with which he treated them, were fain to acknowledge that this "Arabian Knights," whose punning title they ridiculed, was a worthy addition to English literature.
Eustace himself, in spite of the wide interval of time which had elapsed, was now returning to England in very much the same frame of mind as that in which he had set out. He had gone away to forget Alizon Errington, and he came back more in love than ever, not with the real woman exactly but with an ideal woman whom he had created out of her personality. He was in love with a phantom of delight, conjured up by his vivid imagination, and fancied that she dwelt on earth in the guise of his cousin's wife, but, having still some feelings of honour left, he determined to avoid the earthly representation of his ideal, as he hardly judged himself strong enough to withstand the temptation.
With his usual egotistical complacency--a trait which all his travelling had failed to eradicate--he never for a moment thought of looking at the question from Lady Errington's point of view. He was Sultan, and if he threw the handkerchief she would follow, so he would be merciful both to this woman and to her husband, and put a curb on his desire to take her to himself. He came back to England it is true, but with the resolve only to stay a month, and then go to Egypt, as he had an idea of exploring the land of the Pharoahs in a new direction.
He loved Alizon Errington, or rather the glorified Alizon Errington of his imagination, and determined neither to see nor speak to her while in England, because he did not wish to ruin Guy's happiness. He heard she was a mother, and wondered if the change he had prophesied at Como had come over her. If so he would like to see it for himself; still the flesh was weak, and he did not know but that he might be tempted to make love to her, which would be distinctly wrong.
So Eustace Gartney, blinded by self-complacency, prosed on to himself as he travelled homeward in one of the Orient steamers, and the curious part of it was that he actually believed that he was talking sense. A few sharp words from a sensible man or woman might have dispelled his visions of being an irresistible lover and have shown him that Lady Errington was not likely to give up everything for the sake of a man she cared nothing about; but Eustace made a confidant of no one, and, absorbed in his ridiculous dreamings, deemed himself quite a hero for resisting a dishonourable impulse, which, had he given way to it, would certainly have resulted in a manner vastly different to that which he anticipated.
So the puppets were all on the stage, and it only remained for Fate in the guise of a showman to move them hither and thither according to their several destinies.
"If friends are poor and you can't use 'em,'Tis always pleasant to abuse 'em,Although in their turn it is true,They're sure to speak the worst of you.The pot may call the kettle black,But kettle pays the favour back,And useless is all indignation,For 'tis the law of compensation."
"If friends are poor and you can't use 'em,'Tis always pleasant to abuse 'em,Although in their turn it is true,They're sure to speak the worst of you.The pot may call the kettle black,But kettle pays the favour back,And useless is all indignation,For 'tis the law of compensation."
Otterburn's chambers in a pleasant street off Piccadilly were furnished in a very comfortable fashion, having been the property of an extravagant young man who came to grief on the turf, and thereupon disposed of his rooms and their contents to Angus Macjean, who was looking for apartments. As the Master had not much idea of arranging furniture according to individual taste, beyond banishing some rather "rapid" pictures from the walls and replacing them by hunting trophies from his American trip, he left the rooms in their original state, which was by no means a bad one.
Johnnie Armstrong indeed had been moved to wrath by seeing such a lot of money spent on costly trifles, for the charming little statuettes in bronze, the delicate ornaments in Dresden china, and the thousand and one nick-nacks suggestive of cultured taste were all so many objects of horror in the eyes of Mr. Armstrong, being evidence of sinful waste on the part of their purchaser. In spite of his love for the turf, the former proprietor of these rooms must have had a cultured mind, rare among the gilded youth of to-day, as Angus during the earlier days of his occupancy often came across some tiny water-colour, or some rare edition of a book which showed both good taste and critical judgment.
"What a pity for such a clever fellow as Bamfield to go to the dogs through racing, when he could appreciate all this sort of thing," he said half aloud one day, on turning over a charming edition of Villon's poems.
"It's an ill wind that blaws naebody ony guid," observed Johnnie, who overheard this remark, "an' ye got the hail thing cheap enow."
This view of the situation was quite characteristic of Johnnie. He despised the costly furnishing of the room as sinful waste, but was quite content that all this splendour should be paid for by someone else, seeing that his master had got it cheap. Economy in Johnnie's eyes was the greatest of virtues, and he delighted to make bargains for things which he did not want for the mere sake of getting the better of the seller. This was not strictly speaking economy at all, seeing that the things bought were superfluous, but it pleased Johnnie and amused Angus, so the dour old man pottered on in his own narrow-minded way without interruption.
The rooms, therefore, were furnished in a fashion calculated to please the most fastidious critic, and Angus was very comfortably settled in Town for the season. He had not yet seen Victoria, as he intended to woo his lady love in a somewhat cautious fashion, but had asked Dolly Thambits to breakfast with a view to finding out her movements in Society.
Mr. Thambits was a good-natured young fool, with the comfortable income of thirty-thousand a year and not the slightest idea how to spend it. His father having been an inventor, had made a large fortune by genuine talent and dexterous advertising, and resolved to make his son a gentleman, in which laudable ambition he succeeded fairly well, for Adolphus Thambits was not a bad sort of fellow on the whole, although a monstrous fool in many ways. Not all the tuition of Harrow and Cambridge could put any sense into his silly head, and his father having died suddenly, he was left alone in the world with this large income and not the slightest idea how to guide his life.
For the sake of his money he was asked everywhere, and as he always conducted himself well, and was very good-natured, people liked him after a fashion, although they despised and profited by his weakness of character. Cleopatra had taken him up, and, assisted by Major Griff, was teaching him experience of the world in a manner beneficial to herself and partner, but decidedly detrimental to the pocket of the unfortunate Dolly.
As Angus heard that Thambits was rather smitten with Victoria, he foresaw in him a possible rival, so had invited him to breakfast to find out Victoria's movements, which Dolly would be sure to know, and also to ascertain if he had any intention of offering himself and his large fortune to the Australian beauty. So Dolly, who liked Otterburn in his own weak way, arrived at that young man's rooms, accompanied by Mr. Jiddy, a fat, little man, with a timid manner and a frightened eye in his head, who imposed upon Thambits' good nature by borrowing money from him.
While the three were seated at breakfast, somewhere about eleven o'clock, Laxton made his appearance, having returned from Yorkshire, where he had been playing the part of the prodigal son. Being tired of the domestic veal, he had looked up Angus, to propose another hunting expedition to the wilds of Africa.
Laxton, having had his breakfast, sat in a comfortable arm-chair and smoked, while Angus and his two guests proceeded with their meal under the vigilant eye of Johnnie Armstrong, who hovered around with an air of strong disapproval of breakfast at such a late hour of the day.
"Well, Angus, old fellow," observed Laxton, when he had made himself at home with a pet meerschaum of his host's, "aren't you tired of civilization yet?"
"Hardly?" replied Angus drily, "seeing that I've only had three weeks of it. What do you want to do now."
"Try Africa--we'll get some elephant shooting."
"Isn't that rather dangerous?" said Thambits mildly.
"Dangerous!" echoed Laxton with contempt. "Pooh! nonsense--not a bit of it. Jolliest thing out. It's life, my boy--life!"
"Yes, and on some occasions it's death, my boy--death," rejoined Angus with a laugh.
"I have always heard," remarked Mr. Jiddy, who sat curled up on the edge of a chair like a white rabbit, "that there is no pleasure without an element of danger."
"Who said there was," said Laxton, who hated Jiddy as a parasite and a milksop. "What do you know about danger?"
"Nothing," replied Mr. Jiddy, who never took offence, being essentially milk and water in his nature, "but I've read a good deal about it."
"Sunday-school books, I suppose?" said Laxton with a sneer. "'Little Henry and his Bearer' is about your style, I think."
"I've read that book," observed Dolly with a gratified chuckle, "but it is rather a slow story isn't it?"
"Not quite so rapid as Zola," said Otterburn, who was beginning to find both Thambits and his friend a trifle tiresome. "By-the-way, Laxton, have you read the 'Arabian Knights'?"
"I have," said Dolly again, "in my schooldays!'
"Oh, bosh!" returned Laxton with supreme contempt. "We're not talking of that."
"Oh, no," chirruped Mr. Jiddy, delighted at knowing something, "it's the Arabian Knights with a 'K.'"
"What on earth are the Arabian Nights with a K?" demanded Thambits blankly, whereupon both Angus and Laxton burst out laughing at the bewildered look on his face.
"It's Gartney's book about Arabia," explained Angus, rising from the table and lighting a cigarette, his example being followed by his guests.
"Oh, I've heard of it," said Thambits, complacently. "Billy Dolser tells me he does not think much of it."
"Is Billy Dolser a judge?" asked Laxton, with great scorn.
Thambits turned on him a look of mild reproach.
"Of course! Why he's got a paper of his own."
"Oh, that settles it!" returned Laxton, drily. "I thought myself it was a jolly good book, and written by a man who knew what he was talking about, but as that little blackguard Dolser hasn't been further East than Italy, he must be a capital judge of the book!"
"Why do you call him a blackguard?" asked Jiddy, removing his cigarette.
"Because he is one," growled Laxton, wrathfully--"a mean little sneak who vilifies people's character in that rag of a paper which ought to be burnt by the public hangman! Snakes and mosquitoes were created for some purpose, I suppose, but why such a little reptile as Dolser should be allowed to exist, I don't know."
Mr. Jiddy contributed himself to the "Pepper Box" in an underhand way, by listening to things he was not meant to hear, so he took up the cudgels on behalf of Mr. Dolser in a weakly, ferocious manner.
"Oh, I say, you know those words are actionable?"
"Are they," said Laxton, who had risen to his feet and was looking down from his tall height at the scrap of limp humanity in the chair, "you can repeat them to Dolser if you like, and if he doesn't think they are actionable I'll be happy to add a thrashing, so that he can have me up for assault."
Mr. Jiddy wriggled, not liking the turn the conversation had taken, and resumed his cigarette, while Otterburn, who agreed with every word Laxton said, but could hardly endorse it in his character of host, hastened to make an observation.
"By the way, Gartney's in London."
"Just come in time to hear Mr. Dolser's opinion about his book," said Laxton, grimly.
"I don't think that would trouble Gartney much," replied Otterburn, smiling, "but after eighteen months' travel in the wilds, I'll suppose he'll stay at home for some time."
"I'll lay you a level fiver he doesn't," said Mr. Laxton, removing his pipe, "he's got prairie fever."
"What's prairie fever?" demanded Dolly.
"Do you know what a prairie is?" said Laxton, answering one question by asking another.
"A large field, isn't it?" said Mr. Jiddy, complacently. Angus roared.
"Yes, a very large field," he replied, "much larger than any you'll get in England. I shot that buffalo on the prairie," he added, pointing to a huge shaggy head adorning the opposite wall.
"It's a very large head," observed Mr. Jiddy, wisely. "A buffalo--a kind of cow, isn't it?"
"Not exactly," returned Laxton, drily; "it's more like an enraged bull. But to return to prairie fever. It's the feeling a man gets when he once sees those undulating grass plains and which haunts him ever afterwards."
"What haunts him ever afterwards?" asked the intelligent Dolly, lighting another cigarette.
"Oh, damn!" retorted Laxton, politely, and turned on his heel, quite disgusted with the ignorance of the young man. Thambits was not in the least put out by Laxton's rudeness, but began to talk to Angus about Mrs. Veilsturm, while Jiddy tried to extract a paragraph out of Laxton by a series of mild little questions about buffaloes.
"Mrs. Veilsturm's an awfully jolly woman, Macjean," said Thambits--"real good sort, you know! I think you'd like her immensely."
"Would I?" replied Angus absently, wondering how he was to ask Dolly about Miss Sheldon.
"Yes; she's got awfully jolly Sunday evenings, you know. Are you fond of baccarat?"
"Not much. Are you?" asked Otterburn, fixing his keen grey eyes on the weak face of the young man.
"Yes, rather. Only I always lose. I'm so unlucky."
"Oh, you lose at Mrs. Veilsturm's?"
"Yes. We play there on Sunday evenings. It's awfully jolly!"
"It must be--for Mrs. Veilsturm!" retorted Otterburn, doubtfully, at once forming an unfavourable opinion of that lady; "but if you're so unlucky, you shouldn't play baccarat."
"Oh, but I'll win when I get to be a better player."
"Will you? I wish you all success. Do many people go to Mrs. Veilsturm's?"
"Yes, lots. All the jolliest people in town. She's quite in the swim you know. You meet all sorts of pretty girls there."
"Indeed! Not on Sunday evening, I presume?"
"Oh, no; on week-days. I met that pretty Australian girl there last Thursday for the first time this season."
"Eh? Miss Sheldon?"
"Yes. Awfully jolly girl. Do you know her?"
"Slightly," replied Angus, carelessly; "I met her once in Italy. She's quite the belle of London, I hear."
"Yes, rather. And such a nice girl! No humbug about her. Lots of fellows want to marry her."
"You among the number, I suppose?" said Otterburn, with an uneasy laugh.
"Eh? Oh, no! There's not much chance for me. I've got no brains, and she doesn't care for fellows who can't talk, you know."
"You're very modest, at all events," said Otterburn, feeling rather amused by this candid admission.
"Oh, no, I'm not," replied Mr. Thambits wisely; "people think I'm a fool because I've got lots of money, you know. But I see further than they think. But about Mrs. Veilsturm--you'll call and see her with me, won't you?"
"I don't know," said Angus, shortly; "perhaps."
"She's going to have a fancy dress ball, soon," rambled on Mr. Thambits in a weakly fashion. "I'm going as a Crusader. How do you think I'll look as a Crusader?"
"Oh, the usual thing, I suppose," replied Otterburn, good-naturedly suppressing a laugh at the idea of Dolly Thambits in chain armour. "I don't think any one at a fancy dress ball looks like what he pretends to be. I suppose Miss Sheldon will be there?"
"Rather. Everyone in London is going."
"Then I may as well follow the example of everyone in London," said Otterburn, quickly. "I'll call on Mrs. Veilsturm whenever you like."
"Oh, that's jolly! But, I say, I've got to meet a fellow at the Carnation Club, you know. Jiddy, I'm going."
"So am I," replied Mr. Jiddy, slipping off a chair where he had been seated like a whipped schoolboy under the severe eye of Mr. Laxton. "Thank you for telling me about your travels, Mr. Laxton; they're most entertaining."
"It's more than you are!" growled Laxton, grimly.
Dolly Thambits and his friend Jiddy took their departure, to the great relief of both Angus and Laxton, who were quite sick of their frivolous small talk and milk-and-water mannerisms.
"Good heavens, Macjean!" said Laxton, when the door closed on the pair, "what the deuce do you have such fools here for?"
"They are fools, aren't they?" replied Otterburn, selecting a pipe from his rack; "but the fact is, I asked Thambits to find out something, and Mr. Jiddy came uninvited."
"Like his cheek! Why didn't you drop him out of the window?"
"Because we're in London--not in America," replied Angus, mildly; "my dear Laxton, do remember that!"
"I never get a chance of forgetting that," groaned Laxton, sitting down. "I'm sick of this narrow humdrum life. Most of the men I meet are idiots, and the women worse. Let's go off to Africa, old chap. I've found out all about the country, and we'll get another man to join us--Helstone, you know. He's got a jolly yacht, and we can take our own time."
"It sounds tempting," said Angus, wistfully; "but you see, Laxton, I came here with a purpose, and until I carry out that purpose I can't leave England."
"It's that girl, I suppose?"
Angus nodded.
"Yes. I haven't seen her yet, but intend to shortly. If she refuses me, I'll go out to Africa with you, but if she accepts me----"
"Well?" demanded Laxton, grumpily.
"I'll ask you to be best man at the wedding," replied Angus, laughing.
His friend arose to his feet with a resigned expression of countenance, and held out his hand.
"It's no good arguing with a man in love," he said, in a dismal tone; "but fancy giving up a jolly expedition for the sake of a woman! Let me know soon, as if you don't go I will, for I'm dying to get out of these clothes."
He looked down with disgust at his well-fitting frock coat, grey trousers, and neat patent leather boots, all of which he was willing to change for a rough hunter's dress and a life of danger, such is the instinctive leaning of young Englishmen towards the barbaric delights of their woad-stained ancestors.
"Well, you are a queer stick, old fellow!" said Angus, laughing; "you'll give up all the comforts of life for what?--jungle fever, Liebig's Extract, and a dangerous existence!"
"Don't prose, my boy," retorted Laxton good-humouredly, taking up his hat, "you'd do the same if you weren't in love. Well, goodbye at present. I'll look you up again, and if you want to see me in the meantime, just drop a line to the Globe Trotters' Club.'"
When he departed Angus stood for a moment in deep thought, filling his pipe, with a strange smile on his face.
"I'm in love am I?" he said, striking a match. "Well, that's true enough, but whether it's a wise thing to be in love is quite another affair! Humph!" lighting his pipe, "it all depends on Victoria."
He picked up the morning paper, and was about to settle himself down for a good read, when a knock came to the door.
"Confound it!" grumbled Otterburn, folding up the paper, as he heard Johnnie Armstrong going to the door. "I wonder who that is?"
His question was answered in another moment by himself, for suddenly a massive figure appeared at the door of the small sitting-room, and Otterburn sprang to his feet with a cry of pleasure:
"Eustace Gartney."