Running the Gauntlet: A Novel

Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source: Web Archive
https://ia801701.us.archive.org/19/items/
15553140.2979.emory.edu/15553140_2979.pdf
(Emory University)

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.

A Novel,

BY

EDMUND YATES,

AUTHOR OF "BLACK SHEEP," "KISSING THE ROD," ETC.

FORTITER--FIDELITER--FELICITER.

New Edition.

LONDON:
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,
THE BROADWAY, LUDGATE.
NEW YORK: 416, BROOME STREET.
1867.

JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS.

TO

NICHOLAS HERBERT HARRINGTON,

OLD COMRADE AND TRIED FRIEND.

RUNNING THE GAUNTLET.

[CHAPTER I.]

NEWS.

Throughout the length and breadth of this London of ours there were few legal firms, no matter of how old standing, doing a better, larger ready-money business than that of Moss and Moss of Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane. Looked down upon? Well, one could hardly say that. Old Mr. Trivett, of the firm of Trivett, Coverdale, and Trivett of Bedford Row, who had the secrets of half the first families in England locked up in his dusty japanned boxes; young Mr. Markham, who, besides being nominally a solicitor, was a high-bailiff somewhere, and had chambers in the Albany, and rode a very maney and taily light chestnut cob in the Row; and a few others,--might shrug their shoulders when the names of Moss and Moss were mentioned; but that did no harm to Moss and Moss, who, on the whole, were very well respected throughout the profession. At Mrs. Edward Moss's Sunday-evening parties in the Regent's Park were to be met many people whose names were pleasantly familiar to the public. Mr. Smee, Q. C., known as "Alibi Smee" from his great success in proving that his clients never had been within fifty miles of the spot where the crime with which they were charged was committed; Mr. Sergeant Orson; Mr. Tocsin, who bullied a witness admirably, but who gave more trouble to Edward Moss than any other man at the bar, wanting perpetual cramming and suggestions, and having the face of brass and the lungs of steel and the head of wool; Mr. Replevin, the most rising junior at the O.B.; and others, amongst them. Gilks, the marine painter, some of whose choicest bits adorned Mrs. Moss's walls; Kreese, the editor of the great sporting, literary, and theatrical Sunday print, The Scourge; O'Meara of the Stock Exchange; and actors, actresses, and singers too numerous to mention. These last were invited through Mr. Marshall Moss, Edward's brother and junior partner, who was a bachelor, and who, though he gave occasional excellent Greenwich and Richmond dinners, yet had no house of his own to entertain in. Marshall Moss attended to the more convivial portion of the clients; the actors who had differed from their managers; the ladies who wanted certain settlements arranged; the sporting publicans who wanted "the screw put upon certain parties;" the fast young gents requiring defence from civil process,--were shown up to Marshall's room on the first-floor, a comfortable room with several armchairs, and a cupboard never without sherry and soda-water; a room where some of the best stories in London were from time to time told, and which was fenced off with thick double doors, to prevent the laughter caused by them penetrating to Edward's sanctum downstairs.

For Edward attended to the real clients of the house--those for whom it was originally established--those by whom its fame had been made. And these were--thieves. Yes, there is no blinking the word. If a burglar were "in trouble," if a forger had been apprehended, if some very heavy turf-robbery had come to light, Edward Moss's busy brain was at work, and Edward Moss's hours of sleep were ruthlessly curtailed. He did not care about the heaviest kind of business, though two or three murderers unquestionably owed their necks to his skill and forethought; and he refused all petty cases of magsmen, skittle-sharps, and card-swindlers. They would have longed to have him; but they knew it was impossible. He did not like their style of business, and, above all things fatal to a chance of their engaging him, he never did anything on spec. When a man was "in trouble" he knew that it was no use sending for Mr. Moss without being able to tell him that at such-and-such a tavern or lodging-house he would find a landlord willing and ready to advance the fee for the prisoner's defence. Then Mr. Moss would step into the first hansom outside the station, and hie away to St. Luke's, Cripplegate, Drury Lane, or any other locality indicated, and returning with the money in his pocket, would hear all that the prisoner had to say, and straightway--determine on the line of defence. A wonderful little man, Edward Moss! wonderful to look at! without the smallest sign of colour in his shrunken, baggy, parchmenty face, with small gray eyes under overhanging bristly brows, with a short stubbly head of gray hair, a restless twitching mouth, thin wiry figure, and dirty hands with close-bitten dubby nails. In these respects a very different man from his brother Marshall, who was a by-no-means bad-looking Hebrew, with a handsome beard and moustache, full scarlet lips, prominent brown eyes, and in face and figure showing a general liking for the flesh-pots and other good things of this life. Where Edward Moss wore dirt, Marshall Moss sported jewelry, and each brother was sufficiently vain of his display. Each knew his business perfectly, and neither interfered with the other. Marshall's clients drove up in broughams or rattled in hansoms to the front-door, went up the broad staircase to the first-floor, and either passed straight into the presence, or beguiled the necessary interval in the perusal of the daily papers handed to them by obsequious clerks. Edward's clients sneaked in through a narrow door up a side-court; had their names and business wrung from them by the most precocious and most truculent of Jew boys; were left to rub their greasy shoulders up and down the whitewashed walls of a ghastly waiting-room until "Mithter Edward" chose to listen to the recital of their distress and wishes.

Occasionally, however, visitors to Mr. Edward Moss came in at the large front-door, and afterwards made the best of their way to his sanctum. They were generally people who would not have been regarded with much favour by the greasy-shouldered clients in the court. This was one of them who entered Cursitor Street on a warm June afternoon, and made straight for the front-door blazing with the door-plate of "Moss and Moss." A middle-sized fattish man, ill-dressed in an ill-fitting blue frock-coat and gray trousers, and a very innocent-looking small hat with a black mourning-band; a sodden-faced sleepy-looking man with mild blue eyes and an undecided mouth; a man like a not very prosperous publican; a man, who, with a fresher complexion, and at another time of year, might have been taken for a visitor to the Cattle Show; who looked, in fact, anything but what he was--chief officer of the City detectives and the terror of all the evil-doers of the East-end. He walked through the hall, and, leaving the staircase leading to Mr. Marshall Moss's rooms on his right, passed to the end of the passage and tapped at a door on which was inscribed the word "Private" in large letters. It must have been a peculiar knock which he gave, for the door was immediately opened merely wide enough to admit him, and closed as he passed through.

"Ah, ah!" said a little man in an enormous pair of spectacles; "ah, ah! 'ith you, inthpector! The governor'th been athkin' after you to-day. Let'th have a look," he continued, lifting a corner of a green-baize curtain; "ah! he'th jutht shakin' off that troublethome perjury. Now I'll give him your name."

This was Mr. Amedroz, Edward Moss's right-hand man, who knew all his master's secrets, and who was so reticent that he never opened his mouth where he could convey as much by writing. So Mr. Amedroz inscribed "Stellfox" in large round-text on a slip of paper, laid it before his principal, and, receiving an affirmative nod, ushered the inspector into the presence.

"Morning, Stellfox," said Mr. Edward, glancing up from a mass of papers in front of him; "report?"

Inspector Stellfox, unbuttoning his blue frock-coat, produced from his breast-pocket a thick notebook, and commenced:

"Sorry to say, nothing new about Captain Congreve, sir. We've tried--"

"Now look here, Stellfox," interrupted Mr. Moss; "you've had that business in hand a fortnight. If you don't report by Wednesday, I'll give that to Scotland Yard. Your men are getting lazy, and I'll try what Sir Richard Mayne's people can do. What next?"

Crestfallen, Inspector Stellfox continued,--"Slimy William, sir."

"Well," said Mr. Moss keenly, "what of him?"

"I think that's all right, sir. We've found out where his mother lives,--Shad's Row, Wapping, No. 3; bill up in the window, 'a room to let.' If you've no objection, one of my men shall take that room, sir, and try and work it that way."

"No," said Mr. Moss; "must put a woman in there. Don't you know a woman up to that sort of thing?"

"There's Hodder's wife, sir, as helped us in Charlton's case; she'd do."

"I recollect; she'll do well. Furnished or unfurnished?"

"Unfurnished room, sir."

"All right; hire some furniture of the broker. Tell Mrs. Hodder to get in at once. Widow; or husband employed on railway in the country. Must keep a gin-bottle always open, and be generous with it. Old lady will talk over her drink; and Mrs. Hodder must find out where Slimy William is, what name he's going under, and must notice what letters old lady receives. Tell her to take a child with her. Has she got a child?"

"Not of her own, sir."

"Never mind; must get one of some one else's. Must see you, or one of your men, every morning. Child will want air--excuse for her taking him out. If Slimy William is coming home on the sudden, child must be taken ill in the middle of the night; she can take it to the doctor, and come down to you."

"Right, sir. Now about Coping Crossman."

"Well?"

"Markham will have him to-night, sir. That girl 'Liza Burdon blew his gaff for him last night. He's a comic singer, he is. Goes by the name of Munmorency, and sings at the Cambridge Music-hall."

"Good! What of Mitford?"

"Well, nothing yet, sir. You're hard upon me, Mr. Moss, and that you are. We've only had that case three days, and you're expecting information already."

"Stellfox," said Mr. Moss rising, and taking a sonorous pinch of snuff, "you detectives are mere shams. You've been spoilt by the penny press, and the shilling books, and all that. You think you're wonderful fellows, and you know nothing--literally nothing. If I didn't do your work as well as my own, where should we be? Don't answer; listen! Mitford has been three times within the last week to the Crown coffee-house in Doctors' Commons. There's very little doubt that he'll go there again; for it's a quiet house, and he seems to like it. You've got his description; be off at once."

Inspector Stellfox had transacted too much business with Mr. Edward Moss to expect any further converse, so he took up the child's hat and quietly bowed and departed.

To say that of all the intensely-quiet and respectable houses in that strange portion of the City of London known as Doctors' Commons the Crown coffee-house is the most quiet and respectable, is making a strong assertion, but one which could yet be borne out by facts. It is a sleepy, dreamy neighbourhood still, although its original intense dulness has been somewhat enlivened by the pedestrians who make Paul's Chain a passage to the steamboats calling at Paul's Wharf; and the hansom cabs which find a short cut down Great St. Andrew's Hill to the South-Western Railway. But it is still the resort of abnormal individuals,--ticket-porters, to wit; plethoric individuals in half-dirty white aprons and big badges like gigantic opera-checks, men whose only use seems to be to warn approaching vehicles of the blocking-up of the narrow streets; and sable-clad mottled-faced proctors and their clerks. There are real green trees in Doctors' Commons; and flies and butterflies--by no means bad imitations of the real country insect--are seen there on the wing in the sultry summer days, buzzing round the heads of the ticket-porters, and of the strong men who load the Bottle Company's heavy carts, and who are always flinging huge fragments of rusty iron into the capacious hold of the Mary Anne of Goole, stuck high and dry in the mud off Paul's Wharf before mentioned. Life is rampant in the immediate vicinity,--in enormous Manchester warehouses, perpetually inhaling the contents of enormous Pickford's vans; in huge blocks of offices where the representatives of vast provincial firms take orders and transact business; in corn-stores and iron-companies; in mansions filled from basement to roof with Dresden china and Bohemian glass in insurance-offices and banks; and in the office of the great journal, where the engines for six days out of the seven, are unceasingly throbbing. But in the Commons life gives way to mere existence and vegetation. The organ-man plays unmolested on Addle Hill, and the children's shuttlecocks flutter in Wardrobe Place; no Pickford's vans disturb the calm serenity of Great Knightrider Street; and instead of warehouses and offices, there are quaint old dumpy congregationless churches, big rambling old halls of City Companies, the forgotten old Heralds' College with its purposeless traditions, a few apparently nothing-doing shops, a number of proctors' offices into which man is never seen to enter, and two or three refreshment-rooms. Of these the Crown is the oldest and the dirtiest. It was established--if you may trust the half-effaced legend over its door--in 1790, and it has ever since been doing the same quiet sleepy trade. It cannot understand what Kammerer's means by it. Kammerer's is the refreshment-house at the corner, which has long since escaped from the chrysalis state of coffee-shop, and now, resplendent with plate-glass and mahogany bar, cooks joints, and draws the celebrated "Crm Grw" Llangollen ale, and is filled with a perpetual stream of clattering junior clerks from the adjacent warehouses. The Crown--according to its proprietor, in whose family its lease has been vested since its establishment--don't do nothin' of this sort, and don't want to. It still regards chops and steaks as the most delicious of human food, and tea and coffee as the only beverages by which their consumption should be accompanied. Across its window still stretches an illuminated blind representing an Italian gentleman putting off in a boat with apparently nothing more serviceable for navigation purposes than a blue banjo; and it still makes a gorgeous display of two large coffee-cups and saucers, with one egg in a blue egg-cup between them. Its interior is still cut up into brown boxes with hard narrow seats, on which you must either sit bolt upright, or fall off at once; its narrow old tables are scarred and notched and worm-eaten; and it holds yet by its sawdusted floor.

About seven o'clock in the evening of the same day on which Inspector Stellfox had consulted Mr. Moss, the green-baize door of the Crown was gently swung open, and a man slinking in dived into the nearest box then vacant. He was a young fellow of not more than three-and-twenty, with well-cut regular features, and who would have been handsome had not his complexion been so sallow and his cheeks so pinched. His gaunt attenuated frame, thin hands, and eyes of unnatural brightness and restlessness, all told of recent illness; and though it was summer time his threadbare coat was tightly buttoned round his throat, and he shivered as he seated himself, and looked hungrily at the cooking-fire burning in the kitchen at the other end of the shop. After furtively glancing round him he beckoned the proprietor, gave him an order for some small refreshment, and then taking down an old volume of the Gentleman's Magazine from a neighbouring shelf, began to turn over its pages in a listless, purposeless manner. While he was thus engaged, the green-baize door swung open again, admitting a portly man with a child's hat perched on the top of his round head, who, walking into the middle of the shop, ordered from that post of vantage "a large cup of coffee and a rasher," then looked round the different boxes, and finally settled himself with his back to the light in that box where the last arrival was seated. The portly man made the other visitor a very polite bow, which was scarcely returned, and the first comer bent more earnestly over his book and shrouded his face with his hand. But the portly man, who was no other than Inspector Stellfox, had been too long in his profession not to know his business thoroughly, and so he hung up the child's hat on a peg immediately over his friend's head, and he took hold of a newspaper which lay directly under his friend's elbow; and taking advantage of each opportunity to look his friend over and over, saw that he was on the right track, and thoroughly made up his mind what to do when the chance arrived. The chance arrived simultaneously with the refreshment ordered by the haggard man: he had to put down his hand to reach the tray, and in so doing his eyes met those of the inspector, who at once winked and laid his finger on his lip.

"Mr. Mitford?" said he in a fat voice; "ah! I thought so. No, you don't, sir," he continued, pushing back the man, who had attempted to start up; "it's all right; that little matter at Canterbury's been squared up long since. I wanted to see you about something else. Look here, sir;" and the inspector took from his pocketbook a printed slip of paper, and handed it across the table to his companion, who read as follows:

"Fatal and Appalling Accident.

"We (Bridgewater Mercury) deeply regret to hear that a telegram has been received from Malta stating that Sir Percy Mitford of Redmoor near this town, and his two sons, aged twelve and nine, were drowned by the upsetting of a little boat in which they were proceeding to Sir Percy's well-known yacht Enchantress, then anchored off Valetta. By this dreadful accident the title and estates pass into another branch of the family; the heir being Sir Percy's nephew, Mr. Charles Wentworth Mitford, now studying abroad."

"There, sir! there's news for you!" said Inspector Stellfox; "we know what studying abroad means, don't we? We knows--" but Inspector Stellfox stopped suddenly; for his companion, after glaring at him vacantly for an instant with the paper outstretched in his rigid hand, fell forward in a fit.

[CHAPTER II.]

MORE NEWS.

Twenty years ago the Maecenas Club, which is now so immensely popular, and admission to which is so difficult, was a very quiet unpretending little place, rather looked down upon and despised by the denizens of the marble palaces in Pall Mall and the old fogies in St. James's Street. The great gaunt stuccoed mansion, with the bust of Maecenas in the big hall, then was not; the Club was held at a modest little house, only differing from a private residence in the size of its fanlight, in the fact of its having a double flight of steps (delicious steeple-chase ground for the youth of the neighbourhood), and from its hall-door being always open, typical of the hospitality and good-fellowship which reigned within. Ah! a glorious place in those days, the Maecenas! which, as it stated in its prospectus, was established "for the patronage of literature and the drama, and the bringing together of gentlemen eminent in their respective circles;" but which wisely left literature, the drama, and the eminent gentlemen to take care of themselves, and simply brought together the best and most clubbable fellows it could get hold of. There was something in the little M., as the members fondly abbreviated its name, which was indescribably comfortable and unlike any other club. The waiters were small men, which perhaps had something to do with it; there was no billiard-room, with noisy raffish frequenters; no card-room, with solemn one-idea'd fogies; no drawing-room for great hulking men to lounge about, and put up their dirty boots on yellow satin sofas. There was a capital coffee-room, strangers'-room, writing-room, reading-room, and the best smoking-room in London; a smoking-room whence came three-fourths of the best stories which permeated society, and whither was brought every bit of news and scandal so soon as it was hatched. There was a capital chef who was too true an artist to confine himself to made-dishes, but who looked after the joints and toothsome steaks, for which the M. had such a reputation; and there was a capital cellar. Furthermore, the members believed in all this, and believed intensely in one another.

That a dislike to clubs is strongly rooted in the female breast is not a mere aphorism of the comic writer, but is a serious fact. This feeling would be much mitigated, if not entirely eradicated, one would think, if women could only know the real arcana of those much-loathed establishments. Life wants something more than good entrées and wine, easy-chairs, big waiters, and a place to smoke in: it wants companionship and geniality--two qualities which are very rare in the club-world. You scowl at the man at the next table, and he scowls at you in return; the man who wants the magazine retained by your elbow growls out something, and you, raising your arm, growl in reply. In the smoking-room there is indeed an attempt at conversation, which is confined to maligning human nature in general, and the acquaintance of the talkers in particular; and as each man leaves the room his character is wrested from him at the door, and torn to shreds by those who remain.

It was its very difference from all these that made the Maecenas so pleasant. Everybody liked everybody else, and nobody objected to anybody. It was not too pleasant to hear little Mr. Tocsin, Q.C., shrieking some legal question across the coffee-room to a brother barrister; to have your mackerel breathed over by Tom O'Blather, as he narrated to you a Foreign-Office scandal, in which you had not the smallest interest; to have to listen to Dr. M'Gollop's French jokes told in a broad-Scotch accent, or to Tim Dwyer's hunting exploits with his "slash'n meer;" but one bore these things at the M., and bore them patiently. How proud they were of their notable members in those days; not swells, but men who had distinguished themselves by something more than length of whisker and shortness of head--the very "gentlemen eminent in their respective circles" of the prospectus! They were proud, and justly so, of Mr. Justice Ion, whose kindly beaming face, bright eye, and short-cropped gray hair would often be seen amongst them; of Smielding and Follett, the two great novelists of the day, each of whom had his band of sworn retainers and worshippers; of Tatterer, the great tragedian, who would leave King Lear's robes and be the delight of the Maecenas smoke-room; of Gilks the marine-painter; of Clobber, who was so great in cathedral interiors; and Markham, afterwards the great social caricaturist, then just commencing his career as a wood-draughtsman. The very reciprocity of regard was charming for the few swells who at that time cared for membership; they were immensely popular; and amongst them none so popular as Colonel Laurence Alsager, late of the Coldstream Guards.

By the time that Laurence Alsager was gazetted as captain and lieutenant-colonel, he had had quite enough of regimental duty, quite enough of transition from Portman Barracks to Wellington Barracks, from Winchester to Windsor; quite enough of trooping the guard at St. James's and watching over the treasures hidden away in the Bank-cellars; of leaning out of the little window in the old Guards Club in St. James's Street; quite enough of Derby drags and ballet balls, and Ryde pier and Cowes regatta, and Scotch moor and Norway fishery, and Leamington steeple-chase and Limmer's, and all those things which make up the life of a properly-regulated guardsman. The younger men in the Household Brigade could not understand this "having had quite enough." They thought him the most enviable fellow in the world. They dressed at him, they walked like him, they grew their whiskers as nearly like his as they could (mutton-chop whiskers were then the fashion, and beards and moustaches were only worn by foreign fiddlers and cavalry regiments), they bragged of him in every possible way, and one of them having heard him spoken of, from the variety of his accomplishments, as the Admirable Crichton, declared that he was infinitely better than Crichton, or any other admiral that had ever been in the sister service. The deux-temps valse had just been imported in those days, and Alsager danced it with a long, quick, swinging step which no one else could accomplish; he played the cornet almost as well as Koenig; while at Windsor he went into training and beat the Hammersmith Flyer, a professional brought down by the envious to degrade him, in a half-mile race with twelve flights of hurdles; he was a splendid amateur actor; and had covered the rough walls of the barrack-room at Windsor with capital caricatures of all his brother officers. He knew all the mysteries of "battalion drill" too, and had been adjutant of the regiment. When, therefore, he threw up his commission and sold out, everybody was utterly astonished, and all sorts of rumours were at once put into circulation. He had had a quarrel with his governor, old Sir Peregrine Alsager, some said, and left the army to spite him. He was bitten with a theatrical mania, and going to turn actor ("Was he, by G--!" said Ledger, the light comedian, hitherto his warmest admirer; "we want none of your imitation mock-turtle on the boards!"); he had got a religious craze, and was going to become a Trappist monk; he had taken to drinking; he had lost his head, and was with a keeper in a villa in St. John's Wood. All these things were said about him by his kind friends; but it is probable that none of them were so near the mark as honest Jock M'Laren, of the Scots Fusiliers, a great gaunt Scotchman, but the very best ferret in the world in certain matters; who said, "Ye may depen' upon it there's a wummin in it. Awlsager's a deevil among the sax; and there's a wummin in it, I'll bet a croon." This was a heavy stake for Jock, and showed that he was in earnest.

Be this as it may, how that Laurence Alsager sold out from her Majesty's regiment of Coldstream Guards, and that he was succeeded by Peregrine Wilks (whose grandfather, par parenthèse, kept a ham-and-beef shop in St. Martin's Court), is it not written in the chronicles of the London Gazette? Immediately after the business had been settled, Colonel Alsager left England for the Continent. He was heard of at Munich, at Berlin, at Vienna (where he remained for some considerable time), and at Trieste, where all absolute trace of him was lost, though it was believed he had gone off in an Austrian Lloyds' steamer to the Piraeus, and that he intended travelling through Greece, the Holy Land, and Egypt, before he returned home. These were rumours in which only a very few people interested themselves; society has too much to do to take account of the proceedings of its absent members; and after two years had elapsed Laurence Alsager's name was almost forgotten, when, on a dull January morning, two letters from him arrived in Loudon,--one addressed to the steward of the Maecenas ordering a good dinner for two for the next Saturday night at six; the other to the Honourable George Bertram of the Foreign Office, requesting that distinguished public servant to meet his old friend L. A. at the Maecenas, dine with him, and go with him afterwards to the Parthenium Theatre, where a new piece was announced.

Honest Mr. Turquand, the club steward, by nature a reticent man, and one immersed in perpetual calculation as to ways and means, gave his orders to the cook, but said never a word to any one else as to the contents of his letter. George Bertram, known among his colleagues at the Foreign Office as "Blab Bertram," from the fact that he never spoke to anybody unless spoken to, and even then seldom answered, was equally silent; so that Colonel Alsager's arrival at the Maecenas was thoroughly unexpected by the members. The trimly-shaved old gentlemen at the various tables stared with wonder, not unmixed with horror, at the long black beard which Alsager had grown during his absence. They thought he was some stranger who had entered the sacred precincts by mistake; some even had a horrible suspicion that it might be a newly-elected man, whose beard had never been mentioned to the committee; and it was not until they heard Laurence's clear ringing voice, and saw his eye light up with the old fire, that they recognized their long-absent friend. Then they crowded round him, and wanted to hear all his two-years' adventures and wanderings told in a breath; but he laughingly shook them off, promising full particulars at a later period; and went over to a small corner-table, which he had been accustomed to select before he went away, and which Mr. Turquand had retained for him, where he was shortly joined by George Bertram.

It is probable that no man on earth had a greater love for another than had George Bertram for Laurence Alsager. When he saw his old friend seated at the table, his heart leapt within him, and a great knot rose in his throat; but he was a thorough Englishman, so he mastered his feelings, and, as he gripped Laurence's outstretched hand, merely said, "How do?"

"My dear old George," said Laurence heartily, "what an age since we met! How splendidly well you seem to be! A little stouter, perhaps, but not aged a day. Well, I've a thousand questions to ask, and a thousand things to tell you. What the deuce are you staring at?"

"Beard!" said Mr. Bertram, who had never taken his eyes off Laurence's chin since he sat down opposite to him.

"O, ah, yes!" said Laurence. "That's a relic of savage life which I shall get rid of in a few days; but I didn't like to have him off suddenly, on account of the change of climate. I suppose it shocks the old gentlemen here; but I can't help it. Well, now, you've got oceans of news to tell me. It's full a twelvemonth since I had letters from England; not a line since I left Jerusalem; and--ah, by Jove! I've never told you how I happened to come in such a hurry. It's horribly absurd and ridiculous, you know; I hadn't the least idea of returning for at least another year. But one sultry evening, far up the Nile, as I was lying back in my kandjia,--boat, you know,--being towed up by three naked chaps, pulling away like grim death, we met another kandjia coming down. In it were two unmistakable Englishmen; fellows in all-round collars and stiff wideawakes, with puggerees put on all the wrong way. They were chattering to each other; and I thought, under that burning sky and solemn stillness, and surrounded by all the memorials of the past, they would probably be quoting Herodotus, or Gardner Wilkinson, or, better than all, Eothen; but, just as they passed me, what do you think I heard one of them say to the other? 'No, no, Jack,' said he, 'you're wrong there: it was Buckstone that played Box!' He did, by Jove! Under the shadow of the Pyramids, and close by the Sphinx, and the vocal Memnon, and Cheops and Cephrenes, and all the rest of it, to hear of Buckstone and Box and Cox! You can't tell the singular effect it had on me. I began to feel an awful longing for home; what the Germans call Heimweh came upon me at once. I longed to get back once more, and see the clubs and the theatres, and all the old life, which I had fled from so willingly; and I ordered the Arabs to turn the boat round and get me back to Cairo as quickly as possible. When we got to Cairo, I went to Shepherd's, and found the house full of a lot of cadets and fellows going out; and one of them had a Times, and in it I saw the announcement of the new piece at the Parthenium; and, I don't know why,--I fixed upon that as a sort of date-mark, and I said, I'll be back in England to see that first night;' and the next day I started for Alexandria. And on board the P.-and-O. boat I made the acquaintance of the post-office courier in charge of the Indian mail, a very good fellow, who, when he found my anxiety to get on, took me with him in his fourgon, brought me through from Marseilles to Calais without an instant's delay; let me come on board the special boat waiting for him, and landed me at London Bridge last night, having got through my journey wonderfully. And I'm in time for the first night at the Parthenium; and--now tell me all your news."

"Blab" Bertram had been dreading the command, which he knew involved his talking more in twenty minutes than he was in the habit of doing in a month. He had been delighted to hear Laurence rattling on about his own adventures, and fondly hoped that he should avoid any revelations for that night at least. But the dread edict had been issued, and George knew his friend too well not to obey. So he said with a sigh, drawing out a small notebook, "Yes, I knew you'd be naturally anxious to hear about people, and what had happened since you've been away; and so, as I'm not much good at telling things, I got Alick Geddes of our office--you know him, Lord M'Mull's brother--to put down some notes, and I'll read them to you."

"That'll do, George," said Laurence, laughing; "like the police, 'from information you have received,' eh? Never mind, so long as I hear it.--Mr. Turquand, they've not finished that bin of Thompson and Crofts' 20 during my absence? No. Then bring us a bottle, please. --And now, George, fire away!"

For the purposes of this story it would be needless to recount all the bits of scandal and chit-chat, interesting and amusing to those acquainted with the various actors in the drama, but utterly vapid to every one else, which the combined memories of Messrs. Alexander Geddes and George Bertram, clerks in the Foreign Office, and gentlemen going a great deal into all kinds of society, had furbished up and put together for the delectation of Colonel Alsager. It was the old, old story of London life, known to every one, and, mutatis nominibus, narrated of so many people. Tom's marriage, Dick's divorce, and Harry's going to the bad. Jack Considine left the service, and become sheep-farmer in Australia. Little Tim Stratum, of the Treasury, son of old Dr. Stratum the geologist, marrying that big Indian widow woman, and becoming a heavy swell, with a house in Grosvenor Square. Ned Walters dead,--fit of heart disease, or some infernal thing,--dead, by Jove; and that pretty wife of his, and all those nice little children, gone--God knows where! Lady Cecilia married? Oh, yes; and she and Townshend get on very well, they say; but that Italian chap, Di Varese, with the black beard and the tenor voice, always hanging about the house. Gertrude Netherby rapidly becoming an old woman, thin as a whipping-post, by George! and general notion of nose-and-chinniness. Florence Sackville, as lovely and as jolly as ever, was asking after you only last night. These and a hundred other little bits of gossip about men in his old regiment, and women, reputable and disreputable, formerly of his acquaintance, of turf matters and club scandals, interspersed with such anecdotes, seasoned with gros sel, as circulate when the ladies have left the dinner-table, did Laurence Alsager listen to; and when George Bertram stopped speaking and shut up his notebook, he found himself warmly complimented on his capital budget of news by his recently-arrived friend.

"You've done admirably, old fellow," said Laurence. "'Pon my oath I don't think there's hardly any one we know that you haven't had something pleasantly unpleasant to say about. Now," taking out his watch, "we must be off to the theatre, and we've just time to smoke a cigarette as we walk down there. You took the two stalls?"

"Well--no," replied George Bertram, hesitating rather suspiciously; "I only took one for you; I--I'm going-that is--I've got a seat in a box."

"George, you old vagabond, you don't mean to say you're going to desert me the first night I come back?"

"Well, I couldn't help it. You see I was engaged to go with these people before you wrote; and--"

"All right; what people are they?"

"The Mitfords."

"Mitfords? Connais pas."

"Oh, yes; you know them fast enough; Oh, I forgot--all since you left; only just happened."

"Look here, George: I've had quite enough of the Sphinx during the last six months, and I don't want any of the enigma business. What has only just happened?"

"Mitford--and all that. You'll give me no peace till I tell you. You recollect Mitford? with us at Oxford--Brasenose man, not Christ Church."

"Mitford, Mitford! Oh, I recollect; big, fair man, goodish-looking. His father failed and smashed up; didn't he? and our man went into a line regiment. Oh, by Jove, yes! and came to grief about mistaking somebody else's name for his own, and backing a bill with it; didn't he? at Canterbury, or somewhere where he was quartered?"

"Same man. Had to leave service, and came to awful grief. Ran away, and nothing heard of him. His uncle, Sir Percy, and two little boys drowned off Malta, and title came to our man. Couldn't find him anywhere; at last some Jew lawyer was employed, put detectives on, and hunted up Mitford, nearly starved, in some public in Wapping, or somewhere in the East-end. When he heard what a swell he'd become, he had a fit, and they thought he'd die. But he's been all square ever since; acted like a gentleman; went down to the place in Devonshire where his people lived before the smash; married the clergyman's daughter to whom he had been engaged in the old days; and they've just come up to town for the winter."

"Married the clergyman's daughter to whom he had been engaged in the old days, eh? George Bertram, I saw a blush mantle on your ingenuous cheek, sir, when you alluded to the lady. What is she like?"

"Stuff, Laurence! you did nothing of the kind. Lady Mitford is a very delightful woman."

"Caramba, Master George! If I were Sir Mitford, and heard you speak of my lady in that earnest manner, I should keep a sharp eye upon you. So you've not improved in that respect."

George Bertram, whose amourettes were of the most innocent description, but to accuse whom of the wildest profligacy was a favourite joke with his friends, deeper than ever, and only uttered an indignant "Too bad, too bad!"

"Come along, sir," said Laurence: "I'll sit in the silent solitude of the stalls while you are basking in beauty in a box."

"But you'll come up and be introduced, Laurence?"

"Not I. thank you; I'll leave the field clear for you."

"But Sir Charles Mitford would be so glad to renew his old acquaintance with you."

"Would he? Then Sir Charles Mitford must reserve that delight for another occasion. I shall be here after the play, and we can have a further talk if you can descend to mundane matters after your felicity. Now come along." And they strolled out together.

[CHAPTER III.]

AT THE PARTHENIUM.

The Parthenium Theatre at the time I write of was a thing by itself. Since then there have been a score of imitations of it, none of them coming up to the great original, but sufficiently like to have dimmed the halo surrounding the first attempt, and to have left the British public undecided as to whom belonged the laurels due to those who first attempted to transform a wretched, dirty, hot building into an elegant, well-ventilated, comfortable salon. It was at the Parthenium that stalls were first introduced. Up to that time they had been only known at the Opera; and it was the triumph of the true British playgoer,--the man who had seen Jack Bannister, sir, and Munden and Dowton, and all those true performers who have never had any successor, sir,--that he always sat in the front row of the pit, the only place in the house whence the performance could be properly seen. When Mr. Frank Likely undertook the lesseeship of the Parthenium, he thought he saw his way to a very excellent improvement founded on this basis. He hated the true British playgoer with all his heart. In the style of entertainment about to be produced at the Parthenium, he had not the smallest intention of pandering to, or even propitiating, the great historic character; but he had perfect readiness to see that the space immediately behind the orchestra was the most valuable in the theatre; and so he set carpenters at once to work, and uprooted the hard black deal pit-benches, and erected in their stead rows of delicious fauteuils in crimson velvet, broad soft padded-backed lounges with seats which turned upon hinges, and left a space underneath for your hat and coat; charming nests where you could loll at your ease, and see and hear to perfection. The true British playgoer was thus relegated to a dark and dismal space underneath the dress-circle, where he could see little save the parting of the back-hair of the swells in the stalls, and the legs, from the knee downward, and feet of the people on the stage; where the ceiling seemed momentarily descending on him, as on the prisoner in the story of the "Iron Shroud;" and where the knees of the orange-sellers dug him in the back, while their baskets banged him in front. It is needless to say that on the Saturday after the opening of the Parthenium under the new regime, the columns of the Curtain, the Thespian Waggoner, and the Scourge were found brimming over with stinging letters from the true British playgoer, all complaining of his treatment, and all commencing, "By what right, sir, I should like to know." But Mr. Frank Likely cared little enough for this, or for anything else indeed, so long as he could keep up his villa at Roehampton, have his Sunday parties, let his wife dress like a duchess, have two or three carriages, and never be compelled to pay anybody anything. Not to pay was a perfect mania with him. Not that he had not the money. Mr. Humphreys, the treasurer, used to come round about half-past ten with bags of gold and silver, which were duly deposited in Mr. Likely's dressing-room, and thence transferred to his carriage by his dresser, a man whose pound-a-week wages had been due for a month; but if ever he were to ask for a settlement Mr. Likely would look at him with a comic surprise, give a short laugh, say, "He, he! you don't mean it, Evans; I haven't a fourpenny-piece;" and step into the brougham to be bowled away through the summer night to lamb-cutlets and peas and Sillery Mousseux at the Rochampton villa, with a prime cigar on the lawn or under the conservatory afterwards. He took the money, though he never paid any one, and no one knew what became of it; but when he went through the Court the Commissioner complimented him publicly, as he gave him his certificate, and told him in his private room that he, the Commissioner, had experienced such pleasure from Mr. and Mrs. Likely's charming talent, that he, the Commissioner, was really glad it lay in his power to make him, Mr. Likely, some little return.

It is, however, only in his position as lessee of the Parthenium Theatre that we have to do with Mr. Frank Likely, and therein he certainly was admirable. A man of common-sense and education, he saw plainly enough that if he wished to amuse the public, he must show them something with which they were perfectly familiar. They yawned over the rage of Lear, and slept through Belvidera's recital of her woes; the mere fact of Captain Absolute's wearing powder and breeches precluded their taking any interest in his love affairs; but as soon as they were shown people such as they were accustomed to see, doing things which they themselves were accustomed to do, ordinarily dressed, and moving amongst ordinary surroundings, they were delighted, and flocked in crowds to the Parthenium. Mr. Likely gave such an entertainment as suited the taste of his special visitors. The performances commenced at eight with some trifle, during the acting of which the box-doors were perpetually banging, and early visitors to the stalls were carefully stamped upon and ground against by the club-diners steadily pushing their way to their seats. The piece of the evening commenced about nine and lasted till half-past ten; and then there came forty minutes of a brilliant burlesque, with crowds of pretty coryphées, volleys of rattling puns and parodies, crackling allusions to popular topics, and resplendent scenery by Mr. Coverflats, the great scenic artist of the day. When it is recollected that though only two or three of the actors were really first-rate, yet that all were far above the average, being dressed under Mr. Likely's eye, and taught every atom of their "business;" that the theatre was thoroughly elegant, and unlike any other London house in its light-blue-and-gold decorations and airy muslin curtains, and that its foyer and lobbies were happy meeting-grounds for wits and men of fashion,-no wonder that "first-nights" at the Parthenium were looked forward to with special delight.

On the occasion on which Colonel Alsager and Mr. Bertram were about to be present, a more than ordinary amount of curiosity prevailed. For some weeks it had been vaguely rumoured that the new comedy, Tried in the Furnace, about to be produced, was written by Spofforth, that marvellous fellow who combined the author with the man of fashion, who was seen everywhere, at the Premieress's receptions, at the first clubs, always associating with the best people, and who flavoured his novels and his plays in the most piquante manner with reproductions of characters and stories well known in the London world. It was rumoured that in Tried in the Furnace the plot strongly resembled the details of a great scandal in high life, which had formed the plat de résistance of the gossips of the previous season; and it was also said that the hero, an officer in the Guards, would be played by Dacre Pontifex, who at that time had turned all women's heads who went regularly into society, and who, to a handsome face and figure and a thoroughly gentlemanly bearing, seemed to add great natural histrionic genius.

All these reports, duly set afloat in the various theatrical journals, and amongst the particular people who think and talk of nothing else but the drama and its professors,--a set permeating every class of society,--had whetted the public appetite to an unparalleled amount of keenness; and long before its representation, all the retainable stalls, boxes, and seats generally, for the first night of Tried in, the Furnace had been secured. The gallery-people were certain to come in, because Mugger, the low comedian, had an exceedingly humorous part, and the gallery worshipped Mugger; and the diminished area of the pit would probably be thronged, as it had been whispered in the columns of the Scourge that the new play was reported to contain several hits at the aristocracy, invariably a sure "draw" with the pittites. It was only of the upper boxes that the manager felt doubtful; and for this region he accordingly sent out several sheaves of orders, which were duly presented on the night by wild weird-looking women, with singular head-dresses of scraps of lace and shells, dresses neither high nor low, grimy gloves too long in the fingers, and bonnets to be left with the custodian.

It was a great night; there could be no doubt of that; Humphreys had said so, and when Humphreys so far committed himself, he was generally right. Humphreys was Mr. Likely's treasurer, confidential man, factotum. He stood at the front of the theatre to receive the important people,--notably the press,--to settle discord, to hint what was the real strength of the forthcoming piece, to beg a little indulgence for Miss Satterthwaite's hoarseness, or for the last scene of the second act, which poor Coverflats, worn off his legs, had scarcely had time to finish. He knew exactly to whom to bow, with whom to shake hands. He knew exactly where to plant the different representatives of the press, keeping up a proper graduation, yet never permitting any critic to think that he was not sufficiently honoured. He knew when to start the applause, when to hush the house into silence. Better than all, he knew where to take Mr. Likely's acceptances to get them discounted; kept an account of the dates, and paid the renewal fees out of the previous night's receipts. An invaluable man Humphreys; a really wonderful fellow!

When Laurence Alsager flung away the end of his cigarette under the Parthenium portico, and strolled leisurely into the house, he found Humphreys standing in exactly the same position in which he had last seen him two years since; and he almost quailed as, delivering up his ticket, he returned the treasurer's bow, and thanked him for his welcome. "Glad to see you back, Colonel. Something worth showing to you to-night!" and then Laurence laughed outright. He had been away for two years; he had seen the Sphinx and the Pyramids, and all the wonders of the East, to say nothing of the European continent; and here was a man congratulating himself that in a three-act tinpot play they had something worthy of his observation. So he nodded and laughed, and passed on into the theatre. Well, if there were no change in Humphreys, there was little enough in any one else. There they were, all the old set: half-a-dozen newspaper critics dotted over the front rows of the stalls; two or three attached to the more important journals in private boxes; celebrated author surrounded by his family in private box; other celebrated author scowling by himself in orchestra stall; two celebrated artists who always came to first-nights amusing themselves by talking about art before the curtain goes up; fat man with vulgar wife with wreath of roses in her head,--alderman, wholesale stationer, said to be Mr. Frank Likely's backer, in best stage-box; opposite stage-box being reserved by Jewish old party, landlord of the theatre, and now occupied by the same, asleep and choking. Lady Ospringe of course, with (equally of course) the latest lion of the day by her side--on this occasion a very little man, with long fair hair, who, as Laurence afterwards learned, had written a poem all about blood and slaughter. The Duke and Duchess of Tantallan, who are mad about private theatricals, who have turned the old northern feudal castle into an uncomfortable theatre, and whose most constant guests are little Hyams (the costumier) and Jubber ('heavy old man') of the Cracksideum Theatre, who 'gets up' the duke's plays. Sir Gerald Spoonbill and Lord Otho Faulconbridge, jolly old boys, flushed with hastily-eaten dinner at Foodle's, but delighting in the drama; the latter especially having inherited taste for it, his mother having been--well, you know all about that. That white waistcoat which glistens in the stalls could belong to no one but Mr. Marshall Moss, next to whom sit on either side Mr. Gompertz, the stockjobber, and Mr. Sergeant Orson, the last-named having entertained the other gentlemen at a very snug little dinner at the Haresfoot Club. Nor was pipe-clay wanting. The story of the plot, the intended character to be assumed by Mr. Pontifex, had been talked over at Woolwich, at Brompton,--where the sucking Indian heroes, men whose names long afterwards were household words during the Mutiny campaigns, were learning soldiering,--at the Senior and the Junior, and at the Rag, the members of which, awaiting the completion of their present palatial residence, then occupied a modest tenement in St. James's Square. There was a boxful of Plungers, big, solemn, heavy men, with huge curling moustaches, conspicuous among whom were Algy Forrester and Cis Hetherington of the Blues; Markham Bowers of the Life Guards, who shot the militia-surgeon behind the windmill at Wimbledon; and Dick Edie of the 4th Dragoon Guards--Dick Edie, the solicitor's son, who afterwards ran away with Lady Florence Ormolu, third daughter of the house of Porphyry; and on being reconciled and introduced to whom on a future occasion, the Dowager Countess of Porphyry was good enough to make the remark that she "had no idea the lower orders were so clean."

Where are ye now, lustrous counts, envied dandies of that bygone time? Algy Forrester, thirty-four inches round the girth, has a son at Oxford, breeds fat sheep, and is only seen in London at cattle-show time. Cis Hetherington, duly heralded at every outlawry proclamation, lies perdu in some one of the barren islands forming the Hebrides cluster. Markham Bowers fell in the Balaklava charge, pierced through and through by Cossack spearmen; and Major-general Richard Edie, M.P., is the chief adviser and the trusted agent of his mother-in-law, the Dowager Countess of Porphyry. In the next box, hiding behind the muslin curtains, and endeavouring to hide her convulsions of laughter behind her fan, sat little Pauline Désirée, première danseuse at the Opera Comique, with Harry Lindon of the Coldstreams, and Prothero of the Foreign Office, and Tom Hodgson the comic writer; none of them one atom changed, all of them wonder-struck at the man in the big beard, all of them delighted at suddenly recognizing in him an old friend, not much thought of perhaps during his absence, as is the way of the world, but certainly to be welcomed now that he was once more among them.

Not one atom changed; all of them just the same. What were his two years of absence, his wanderings in burning solitudes, or amongst nomadic tribes? His sudden rushing away had been undertaken with a purpose; and whether that purpose had been fulfilled was known to himself alone. He rather thought it had, as, without an extra heart-beat, he looked into a box on the pit-tier, and his grave face flashed into a sardonic grin as his eyes lit on the bald forehead and plaited shirt-frill of an elderly gentleman, instead of the light-chestnut bands and brilliant bust which once reigned dominant there on every "first night." But all the others were just the same; even the people he did not know were exactly like those whom he had left, and precisely answered to those whom he should have expected to find there. No, not all. The door of a box on the grand tier next the dress-circle opened with a clang, and a lady whom he had never seen before, coming to the front, settled herself opposite the corner in the stage. The noise of the door attracted the attention of the house; and Ventus, then playing his celebrated cornet-solo in the overture, cursed the interruption; a whisper ran round the stalls; the arrival was telegraphed to the Guards' box: this must be some star that had risen on the horizon since Laurence's absence. Ah, there is Blab Bertram at the back of the box! This, then, must be Lady Mitford!

She was apparently about twenty, and, so far as could be judged from her sitting position, tall and slight. Her complexion was red and white, beautifully clear,--the white transparent, the red scarlet,--and her features regular; small forehead, straight Grecian nose, very short upper-lip, and mouth small, with lips rather thin than pouting. Her dark-brown hair (fortunately at that time it was not considered necessary for beauty to have a red head), taken off behind the ears in two tight bands, showed the exquisite shape of her head, which was very small, and admirably fitted on the neck, the only fault of which was its excess in length. She was dressed entirely in white, with a green necklace, and a tiny wreath of green ivy-leaves was intertwined among the braids into which her hair was fastened at the back of her head. She took her seat gracefully, but looked round, as Laurence noticed, with a certain air of strangeness, as though unaccustomed to such scenes; then immediately turned her eyes, not on the other occupants of the theatre, not on the stage, nor on George Bertram, who, after some apparent demur, took the front seat opposite to her, but towards a tall man, who relieved her of her cloak, and handed her a fan, and in whom Alsager recognized the Charles Mitford of his Oxford days. A good realization of Tennyson's Sir Walter Vivian,--

"No little lily-handed baronet he; A stout broad-shouldered genial Englishman,"--

was Sir Charles Mitford, with strongly-marked, well-cut features, bright blue eyes, curling reddish-brown hair, large light breezy whiskers, and a large mouth gleaming with sound white teeth. The sort of man who, you could tell at a glance, would have a very loud hearty laugh, would grip your hand until your fingers ached, would be rather awkward in a room, but who would never flinch across country, and never grow tired among the turnips or over the stubble. An unmistakable gentleman, but one to whom a shooting-coat and gaiters would be more becoming than the evening-dress be then wore, and who evidently felt the moral and physical restraint of his white choker, from the way in which he occasionally tugged at that evidence of civilization. Shortly after they had settled themselves, the curtain went up, and all eyes were turned to the stage; but Laurence noticed that Lady Mitford was seated so as to partly lean against her husband, while his left hand, resting on her chair-back, occasionally touched the braids of her hair. George Bertram seemed to be entirely overlooked by his companions, and was able to enjoy his negative pleasure of holding his tongue to the fullest extent.

They were right who had said that Spofforth had put forth all his power in the new piece, and had been even more than usually personal. The characters represented were, an old peer, wigged, rouged, and snuff-box bearing, one of those wonderful creations which have never been seen on the English stage since Farren left it; his young wife, a dashing countess, more frequently in a riding-habit than anything else, with a light jewel-handled whip, with which she cut her male friends over the shoulders or poked them in the ribs,--as is, we know, the way of countesses in real life; a dashing young cavalry-officer very much smitten with the countess, excellently played by Dacre Pontifex, who admirably contrived to do two things at the same time--to satisfy the swells by his representation of one of their class,--"Doosid good thing; not like usual dam cawickachaw," they said,--and simultaneously to use certain words, phrases, and tones, to fall into certain attitudes and use certain gestures, all of which were considered by the pittites as a mockery of the aristocracy, and were delighted in accordingly. It being an established fact that no play at the Parthenium could go down without Mugger the low comedian, and there being in the "scandal in high life," which Spofforth had taken for his plot, no possible character which Mugger could have portrayed, people were wondering what would be done for him. The distribution of the other characters had been apparent to all ever since it was known that Spofforth had the story in hand: of course Farren would be the marquis, and Miss Amabel the marchioness (Spofforth had lowered his characters one step in rank, and removed the captain from the Guards to the cavalry--a great stroke of genius), and Pontifex the military lover. But what could be done for Mugger? The only other character in the real story, the man by whom the intrigue was found out, and all the mischief accidentally caused, was a simple old clergyman, vicar of the parish close by my lord's country estate, and of course they could not have introduced a clergyman on to the stage, even if Mugger could have played the part. This was a poser. At first Mugger proposed that the clergyman should be turned into a Quaker, when he could appear in broad-brim and drab, call everybody "thee," and snuffle through his nose; but this was overruled. At last Spofforth hit upon a happy idea: the simple old clergyman should be turned into a garrulous mischief-making physician; and when Mugger appeared at the back of the stage, wonderfully "made up" in a fluffy white hat, and a large shirt-frill protruding from his waistcoat, exactly like a celebrated London doctor of the day, whose appearance was familiar to all, the shouts of delight rose from every part of the house. This, with one exception, was the hit of the evening; the exception was when the captain, in a letter to his beloved, writes, "Fly, fly with me! These arms once locked round you, no blacksmith shall break them asunder." Now this was an expression which had actually been used by the lover in the "scandal in high life," and had been made immense fun of by the counsel in the trial which ensued, and by the Sunday newspapers in commenting on that trial. When, therefore, the phrase was spoken by Pontifex in his most telling manner, it created first a thrill of astonishment at the author's daring, then a titter, then a tremendous roar of laughter and applause. Mr. Frank Likely, who was standing at the wing when he heard this, nodded comfortably at Spofforth, who was in the opposite stage-box anxiously watching the effect of every line; and the latter shut up his glass, like the Duke of Wellington at Waterloo, and felt that the battle was won. "It was touch-and-go, my boy," Likely said to the author afterwards; "one single hitch in that speech, and the whole thing would have been goosed off the stage."

There were, however, a few people in the theatre who were not so intensely delighted with Mr. Spofforth's ingenuity and boldness. Laurence Alsager, whose absence from England had prevented his hearing the original story, thought the whole play dreary enough, though he appreciated the art of Pontifex and the buffoonery of Mugger; but the great roar of delight caught him in the middle of a yawn, and he looked round with astonishment to see how a very silly phrase could occasion such an amount of laughter. Glancing round the house, his eyes fell upon Lady Mitford, and he saw that her cheeks were flushed, her looks downcast, and her lips compressed. She had been in the greatest wonderment, poor child, during the whole of the piece: the manners of the people represented were to her as strange as those of the Ashantees; she heard her own language and did not understand it; she saw men and women, apparently intended to be of her own nation and station, conducting themselves towards each other in a manner she had never heard of, much less seen; she fancied there had been a laxity of speech and morals pervading the play, but she only knew it when the roar of welcome to Mr. Pontifex's hint about the blacksmith fell upon her ear. She had never heard the origin of the phrase, but her natural instinct told her it was coarse and gross; she knew it from the manner in which her husband, unable to restrain a loud guffaw, ended with "Too bad, too bad, by Jove!" She knew it by the manner in which Mr. Bertram studiously turned his face away from her to the stage; from the manner in which the ladies all round endeavoured to hide their laughter behind their fans, oblivious of the betrayal afforded by their shaking shoulders; she knew it from the look of intense disgust in the face of that curious-looking bearded man in the stalls, whose glances her eyes met as she looked down.

Yes, Laurence Alsager was as thoroughly disgusted as he looked, and that was saving much; for he had the power of throwing great savageness of expression into his bright eyes and thin lips. Here had a sudden home-sickness, an indescribable longing, come upon him, and he had hurried back after two years' absence; and now within half-a-dozen hours of his arrival he had sickened at the change. He hated the theatre, and the grinning fools who laughed at the immodest rubbish, and the grinning fools who uttered it; he hated the conventionality of dress and living; he could not stand going in with a regular ruck of people again, and having to conform to all their ways. He would cut it at once; go down to Knockholt to-morrow, and stay a couple of days with Sir Peregrine just to see the old governor, and then be off again to South America, to do prairies and bisons and that sort of thing.

As he made this resolution, the curtain fell amidst a storm of applause, and rose again to show the actors in a row, bowing delightedly with their hands on their waistcoats; Spofforth "bowed his acknowledgments from a private box," and kissed his hand to Alsager, who returned the salute with a very curt nod, then rose and left the theatre. In the lobby he met the Mitford party, and was quietly slipping by when Sir Charles, after whispering to Bertram, touched his shoulder, saying, "Colonel Alsager, let me renew our old acquaintance." There was no escape from this big man's cheery manner and outstretched hand, so Laurence, after an instant's admirably-feigned forgetfulness, returned the grasp, saying, "Ah, Mitford, I think? of Brasenose in the old days?"

"Yes, yes, to be sure! All sorts of things happened since then, you know."

"O yes, of course; though I've only been in England six hours, I've heard of your luck and the baronetcy. George Bertram here is such a terrific talker, he couldn't rest until he had told me all the news."

This set Sir Charles Mitford off into one of his great roars again, at the finish of which he said, "Let me introduce you to my wife; she's just here with Bertram.--Here, Georgie darling, this is Colonel Alsager, an old acquaintance of mine."

Of any one else Mitford would have said "an old friend;" but as he spoke he glanced at Laurence's stern, grave expression, and changed the word. Perhaps the same feeling influenced Lady Mitford, as her bow was constrained, and her spirits, already depressed by the performance, were by no means raised by the introduction to this sombre stranger.

Sir Charles tried to rally. "Hope we shall see something of you, Alsager, now you're back. You'll find us in Eaton Place, and--"

"You're very good; but I shall leave town to-morrow, and probably England next week."

Probably no man had ever been more astonished than was George Bertram as he stood by and heard this; but, true to his creed, he said never a word.

"Leave England!" said Sir Charles. "Why, you've only just come back. You're only just--All right; we're coming!" This last in answer to roars of "Lady Mitford's carriage!" surging up the stairs. "Thank you if you'll give my wife your arm."

Lady Mitford accepted this courtesy very frigidly, just touching Laurence's arm with the tips of her fingers. After she had entered the brougham, Alsager stood back for Sir Charles to follow; but the latter shut the door, saying, "Goodnight, Georgie dear; I shan't be late."

"Oh, Charley, are you not coming with me?" she said.

"No, dear, not just yet. Don't put on such a frightened face, Georgie, or Colonel Alsager will think I'm a perfect Blue-beard. I'm going to sup with Bligh and Winton; to be introduced to that fellow who acted so well,--Pontifex, you know. Shan't be late, dear.--Home, Daniell's."

And as the carriage drove off, Sir Charles Mitford, forgetting to finish his civil speeches to Laurence, shook hands with him and Bertram, and wishing them goodnight, walked off with his companions.

"Chaff or earnest," said Mr. Bertram, when they were left alone, "going away again?"

"I don't know yet; I can't tell; I've half a mind to--How horribly disappointed that little woman looked when that lout said he was going out to supper! He is a lout, your friend, George."

"Cubbish; don't know things yet; wants training," jerked out Mr. Bertram.

"Wants training, does he? He'll get it soon enough if be consorts much with Bligh and Winton, and that set. They'll sharpen him."

"Like Lady Mitford?" said Bertram, interrogatively.

"I think not; I don't know. She seems a little rustic and missish at present. Let's come to the Club; I want a smoke."

But as they walked along, Laurence wrung some further particulars about Lady Mitford from his friend; and as they ascended the club-steps, he said, "I don't think, if I had a pretty wife like that, I should leave her for the sake of passing my evening with Winton and Bligh, or even of being introduced to Mr. Pontifex. Would you, George?"

"Can't say. Never had one," was Mr. Bertram's succinct reply.

[CHAPTER IV.]

IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.

Among the advantages upon which I have not sufficiently dilated, the Maecenas Club had a smoking-room, of which the members were justly proud. Great improvements have been lately made; but in those days the smoking-room was a novel ingredient in club-comfort, and its necessity was not sufficiently recognized. Old gentlemen, generally predominant in clubs, were violently opposed to tobacco, save in the shape of the club snuff; regarded smoking as a sure sign of dissipation, if not of entirely perverted morality, and combined together in committee and out of committee to worry, harass, and annoy the devotees of the cigar. Consequently these last were in most clubs relegated to a big gaunt room at the top of the house, which had palpably been formed by the removal of the partition between two servants' attics, a room with bare walls, an oil-cloth-covered floor, like a hair-dresser's cutting-room, a few imitation-marble-topped tables, some windsor chairs, and a slippery black-leather ottoman stuck against the wall. Thither, to that tremendous height, the waiter, humorously supposed to be devoted to the room, seldom penetrated; and you sat and smoked your cigar, and sipped your gin-and-seltzer when you were lucky enough to get it, and watched your neighbour looming through a fog of his own manufacture in solemn silence. It required a bold man to penetrate to such howling wildernesses as the smoking-rooms of the Retrenchment, the True Blue, and the No Surrender in those days; nor were they much better off at the Rag, save in summer, when they rigged up a tent in the back-yard, and held their tabagie under canvas. At the Minerva they had no smoking-room; the bishops, and other old women in power there, distinctly refusing to sanction a place for any such orgies. But at the Maecenas the smoking-room was the room in the house. None of your attics or cock-lofts, none of your stair-climbing, to get into a bare garret at the end of your toil. At the Maecenas you went straight through the hall, past all the busts of the eminent gentlemen, through a well-lit stone passage, where, if you were lucky, you might see, in a little room on the right, honest Mr. Turquand the steward brewing a jorum of that gin-punch for which the Club was so renowned; past the housekeeper's room, where Mrs. Norris sat breast-high in clean table-linen, and surrounded by garlands of lemons and groves of spices; past the big refrigerator, into which Tom Custance threatened to dip little Captain Rodney one night, when that peppery light-weight had had too much of the Club claret; and then, built over what should have been the garden, you found the pride of the little M. A big square room, lit by a skylight in summer, or sun-burner in winter, with so much wall paper as could be seen of a light-green colour, but with the walls nearly covered with sketches in oil, crayon, and water-colour, contributed by members of the Club. From mantel-shelf to ceiling had been covered by Gilks, in distemper, with "Against Wind and Tide"--a lovely bit of seascape, to look at which kept you cool on the hottest night; opposite hung Sandy Clobber's hot staring "Sphinx and Pyramids;" Jack Long's crayon caricature of "King Jamie inditing the Counterblast" faced a charming sketch of a charming actress by Acton, R.A.; and there were a score of other gems of art. Such cosy chairs and luxurious lounges; such ventilation, watched over specially by Fairfax, the oldest and perhaps the jolliest member of the Club; such prime cigars and glorious drinks, and pungent anecdote and cheerful conversation, were to be had nowhere else.

The room was full when Laurence and Bertram entered, and the former was immediately received with what dramatic critics call "an ovation;" that is, the men generally shook hands with him, and expressed themselves glad to see him back.

"And I see by your dress that you've no sooner arrived than you've plunged into the vortex of society, Colonel," said old Fairfax from his post of honour in the chimney-corner.

"Not I, Mr. Fairfax," replied Laurence, laughing; "I've only been to the play."

"What! not to Spofforth's,-not to the Parthenium?"

"Why not? is there any harm? is it a riddle? what is it? Let me know at once, because, whatever it is, I've been there."

"No, no; only there's been a difference of opinion about the new piece. Billy Gomon thinks it capital, and gave us a flaming account of it; but since then Captain Hetherington has come in and spoken very strongly against it. Now, Colonel, you can act as umpire between these two referees."

"Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Gomon, a mild baldheaded little gentleman who did Boswell to Spofforth, and was rewarded for perpetually blowing his idol's trumpet by opera-ivories and first-night private boxes, and occasional dinners with pleasant theatrical people. "I merely said that there was--ah, an originality,--a cleverness,--and--a--above all a gentlemanly tone in the piece such as you never find in any one's writings but Spofforth's."

Most of the men sitting round laughed heartily as Billy Gomon uttered his sentiments in the mildest, most deprecatory manner, and with the pleasantest smile.

"Well, that's not bad to begin with; and now, Cis, what have you got to say?"

A big man, half sitting, half lolling on an ottoman at the other side of the room, wholly occupied in smoking a very large cigar, staring at the ceiling and pulling his long tawny moustaches, looked up at the mention of his name and said:

"Well, look here, Alsager I'm not clever, and all that sort of thing, you know; I'm not particularly sweet on my own opinion; of course, being a Plunger, I can't spell or write, or pronounce my r's 'cordin' to Punch and the other funny dogs, and so I've no doubt Billy Gomon's right; and it's doosid clever of Mr. Spofforth, a gentleman whose acquaintance I've not the pleasure of possessing--and don't want, by Jove, that's more!-doosid clever of Mr. Spofforth to rake up a dunghill story out of the newspapers when it had been forgotten, and to put the unfortunate devils who were concerned in it on to the stage, and bring back all the old scandal. I've no doubt it's doosid clever; and I'm sure it's a very gentlemanly thing of Mr. Spofforth to do; so gentlemanly that, if any of my people had been mixed up in it, I'd have tried the strength of my hunting-crop over Mr. Spofforth's shoulders!" And having concluded, Cis Hetherington leant back lazily, and resumed his contemplation of the ceiling.

There was a pause for a moment, and then Bertram said:

"Quite right, Hetherington; horrible piece, dreary and dirty. D--d unpleasant to think that one can't go to the theatre with a modest woman without having innuendoes and doubles entendres thrown at you."

"By Jove, a second edition of the miraculous gift of tongues!" said a man seated on Laurence's right. "I never heard the Blab so charmingly eloquent. You were with him at the theatre, Alsager; who was the lady whom he so deliciously described as a 'modest woman' that he escorted?" The speaker was Lord Dollamore, a man of good abilities and position, but a confirmed Sybarite and a renowned roué.

"Bertram escorted no one; he merely had a seat in a box with Lady Mitford and her husband," said Laurence coldly. He hated Lord Dollamore. As he himself said, he "didn't go in to be strait-laced; but Dollamore was a cold-blooded ruffian about women, and, worse still, a boaster."

"Ah, with Lady Mitford!" said Lord Dollamore, slowly expelling a mouthful of smoke; "I have the pleasure of her acquaintance. She's very nice, Alsager!"

There was a succulence in the tone in which these last words were spoken that sounded unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; so he said shortly, "I saw Lady Mitford for the first time to-night."

"Oh, she's very nice; a little too classical and statuesque and Clite-like for my taste, which leans more to the beauté-du-diable order; but still Lady Mitford's charming. Poor little woman! she's like the young bears, with all her troubles before her."

"Her troubles won't be many, one would think," said Laurence, who was growing irritated under his companion's half-patronizing, half-familiar tone in speaking of Lady Mitford.

"Won't they?" said Lord Dollamore, with another slow expulsion of smoke; this time in the shape of rings, which he dexterously shot one through the other.

"I can't see how they should. She has beauty, wealth, and position; a young husband who dotes on her,--Oh, you needn't grin; I saw him with her in the box."

"Yes, and I saw him without her, but with Bligh and Winton, the two Clarks, who are coryphées at Drury Lane, and Mdlle. Carambola from the cirque at Leicester Square, turning in to supper at Dubourg's. Now, then, what do you say to that?"

"Nothing. Mitford told his wife he was going to supper with Bligh and Winton. I heard him."

"Very likely; but you didn't hear him mention the female element. No, of course not."

"Sir Charles Mitford being, I presume, a gentleman, that suggestion is simply absurd."

"Pardon me, my dear Colonel Alsager, I never make any suggestion that can be called 'simply absurd.' The fact is, Alsager, that though I'm only, I suppose, five or six years older than you, I've seen a deal more of life."

"Of which side of it?"

"Well, the most interesting,--the worst, of course. While you've been mounting guard and saluting colours, and teaching bullet-headed recruits to form square, and all that kind of thing, I've been studying human nature."

"How delightful for human nature!"

"That may or may not be," said Lord Dollamore calmly, and without the smallest sign of irritation; "but this I know, that all boy-and-girl marriages invariably come to grief. A man must have his fling some time or other; if he does not have it before his marriage, he will after. And between ourselves, Alsager, this Mitford is a devilish bad egg. I've known of him all his life. He had a fast turn when he was a mere boy, and didn't stick at trifles to raise money, as you may have heard."

"I know all about that; but--"

"And do you think that, now that he has plenty of money and health and position, he won't go in for that style of pleasure which he formerly risked everything to obtain? Nonsense, my dear Alsager; cela va sans dire. Lady Mitford will have to run the gauntlet of society, as do most married women with loose husbands; and will certainly be more successful than most of her competitors."

Laurence put down his cigar, and looking steadily at his companion, said, "I don't envy the man who could be blackguard enough to attempt to throw a shadow on such a woman's life."

"Don't you?" said Lord Dollamore, as steadily returning the glance; "of course not." Then, in a somewhat lighter tone, he added, "By the way, have you seen the Hammonds lately?"

A flush, noticeable even through the red bronze, rose on Laurence's cheeks; but before he could speak, a man who was sitting on the other side of Lord Dollamore cut into the conversation by saying, "Oh, by the way, there was a brother of Percy Hammond's dining here last week; Prothero asked me to meet him. He's a sporting parson, and a tremendous character. He told us he always knew when woodcock came in by the lesson for the day."

"I know him," said Cis Hetherington, who had lounged up and joined the party; "Tom Hammond, a thundering big fellow. His vicarage, or rectory, or whatever it is, is close by Dursley; and at the last election Tom seconded my brother--Westonhanger, you know--for the county. The Rads brought over a lot of roughs, navvies and fellows who were working at the railway close by; and whenever Tom spoke these fellows kept yelling out all sorts of blackguard language. Tom roared to them to stop it; and when they wouldn't, he quietly let himself drop over the front of the hustings, right into the middle of 'em. He's a splendid bruiser, you know; and he let out--one two, one two--right and left, and sent half-a-dozen of 'em flying like skittles. Then he asked if any more was wanted, carefully settled his clerical white choker, and went back to the hustings again."

"He owed your brother a good turn after the way in which he astonished your governor a year or two ago, Cis," said Lord Dollamore.

"What was that? Did he pull the Duke up for coming late to the church, or for not hunting the county? The last most likely, I should think."

"Not at all. You all know what a tremendous swell Cis's brother, the Duke, is,--you know it, Cis, as well as anybody,--wants all the pavement to himself in St. James's Street, and finds the arch on Constitution Hill not quite high enough for his head. Well, a year or two ago Tom Hammond had a splendid roan horse which he used to drive in a light Whitechapel to cover. The Duke saw this animal, and thought it would make a splendid match for a roan of his; so he sent his coachman over to Tom's little place to ask if he'd sell. Tom saw the coachman, heard what he had to say, and then told him he never spoke to grooms, except to give them orders; if the Duke wanted the horse, he must come himself. I can't think what message the man can have given to his master; but two days after, the Duke's phaeton pulled up at the parsonage door, and the Duke himself bowed to Tom, who ran to the window with his mouth full of lunch. Tom's account of the interview was delicious. He imitates the Duke's haw-haw manner to perfection,--you don't mind, Cis? He asked him in, and told him that the Stilton was in prime cut; but the Duke declined, and said, I understand you wish to sell your roan, Mr. Hammond.' 'Then your grace understands a good deal more than I gave you credit for,' said Tom. 'Then you don't want to sell the horse? I want him particularly for a match-horse.' 'No,' said Tom, 'I won't sell him. I'm a poor parson, and I wouldn't take three hundred for him; but I'll tell you what I'll do, your grace. I'm always open to a bit of sporting; and I'll toss your grace for the pair; or, if that's not exciting enough, I'll get my curate to come in--he's only next door--and we'll go the odd man, the best of three. That's what I'll do.' Tom says he thought the Duke would have had a fit. He never spoke a word, but drove straight away, and has never looked at Tom since."

After the laugh which this story raised had ceased, Lord Dollamore said, "Did Tom say anything about his brother Percy the day he dined here?"

"O yes," said the man who had first spoken; "they're coming back at once. Mrs. Hammond finds Florence disagrees with her."

"Perhaps she'd find Laurence agree with her better," said Dollamore sotto voce; then aloud, "Ah! and so of course poor Percy is to be trotted back again. By Jove, how that woman rules him! She has only to whistle, and he comes to her at once. I should like to see a woman try that on me,--a woman that I was married to, I mean.--By the way, you haven't seen Mrs. Hammond since her marriage, have you, Alsager?"

"No; I left England just previously."

"Ah! she's as pretty as ever, and infinitely more wicked--I beg your pardon, though; I forgot we had turned purist since our Oriental experience."

"At all events we have learned one thing in our Oriental experience, Lord Dollamore."

"And that is--?"

"To keep our temper and--hold our tongue. Goodnight."

And as he said these words, Laurence Alsager rose from his seat and left the room; Bertram had previously taken his departure; so that Laurence walked off alone to his hotel, pondering on all he had seen and heard.

"So she's coming back," he said to himself as he strolled along; "coming back to bring back to me, whenever I may happen to meet her, all the sickening recollections of the old times, the heart-burnings, the heart-breaking, to escape from which I rushed away two years ago. She won the day then, and she'll be as insolent as she can be on the strength of her victory now, though she knows well enough that I did not shoot my best bolt then, but keep it in my quiver yet. It's impossible to fight with a woman; they can descend to so many dodges and meannesses where no man worthy of the name could follow them. No; I'll seek safety in flight. I'll be off again as soon as I've seen the governor; and then--And yet what a strange interest I seem to take in that girl I saw to-night! Poor little child! I wonder if Dollamore's right about her husband. Well, I'll wait a few days, and see what turns up."

While these thoughts were passing through Laurence Alsager's mind, Sir Charles Mitford was leaning against the jambs of the door leading from his dressing-room into his wife's bed-room. He had one boot off, and was vainly endeavouring to discover the hole in the bootjack in which to insert the other foot. The noise which he made in this operation awoke Lady Mitford, who called out, "Oh, Charley, is that you?"

"Course, my dear," said Sir Charles in a thick voice; "who should it be this time o' night? not that it's late, though," he said, correcting himself after a moment's reflection; then looking vacantly at her, added in a high-falsetto key, "quite early."

"You are not ill, Charley?" she asked, looking anxiously at him.

"Not I, my darling; never berrer.--Off at last, are you?" this last observation addressed to the conquered boot. "But you, what's marrer with you? Look all flushed and frightened like."

"I've had a horrid confused dream about the theatre, and people we saw there, and snakes, oh so dreadful! and that grave man, Colonel Somebody, that you introduced me to, was just going to rescue me. Oh, Charley, I feel so low and depressed, and as though something were going to happen. I'm sure we shan't be happy in London. Let's go away again.

"Nonsense, Georgie;--nonsense, my love! Very jolly place for--good supper,--Colonel Snakes;" and with these intelligible murmurings Sir Charles Mitford slipped into the land of dreams.

[CHAPTER V]

GEORGIE.

If, twelve months before the production of Mr. Spofforth's play (which necessarily forms a kind of Hegira in this story), you had told Georgie Stanfield that she was destined to be the wife of a baronet, the mistress of a house in one of the best parts of London, the possessor of horses and carriages, and all the happiness which a very large yearly income can command, your assertions would have been met, not with ridicule--for Georgie was too gentle and too well-bred for that--but with utter disbelief. Her whole life had been passed in the little Devonshire village of which her father was vicar, and it seemed to her impossible that she could ever live anywhere else. To potter about in the garden during the summer in a large flapping straw hat and a cotton gown, to tie up drooping flowers and snip off dead leaves; to stand on the little terrace dreamily gazing over the outspread sea, watching the red sails of the fishing-smacks skimming away to the horizon, or the trim yachts lying off the little port--the yachts whose fine-lady passengers, and gallant swells all blue broad-cloth and club-button, seen at a distance,--were Georgie's sole links with the fashionable world; to visit and read to the bed-ridden old women and the snuffling, coughing old men; to superintend the preparation of charitably-dispensed gruel and soup; to traverse Mavor's Spelling-book up and down, up and down, over and over again, in the company of the stupid girls of the village-school; to read the Cullompton Chronicle to her father on Thursdays, and to copy out his sermon on the Saturday evenings,--these had been the occupations of Georgie Stanfield's uneventful life.

She had not had even the excitement of flirtations, a few of which fall to the lot of nearly every girl, be she pretty or plain, rich or poor, town or country-bred. The military depots are now so numerous that it is hard, indeed, if at least a couple of subalterns cannot be found to come over any distance in the rumbling dog-cart hired from the inn in the provincial town where they are quartered; and though in Georgie's days there was no croquet,--that best of excuses for social gathering and mild flirtation,--yet there were archery-meetings, horticultural shows, and picnics. Failing the absence of the military, even the most-out-of-the-way country village can produce a curate; and an intending flirt has merely to tone-down certain notions and expand others, to modify her scarlets and work-up her grays, and she will have, if not a very exciting, at all events a very interesting, time in playing her fish. But there were no barracks within miles of Fishbourne, nor any temptations there to have attracted officers from them, if there had been. There were no resident gentry in the place, and the nearest house of any importance--Weston Tower, the seat of old Lady Majoribanks--was twenty miles off, and old Lady Majoribanks kept no company As for the curates, there was one, certainly; but Mr. Lucas had "assisted" Georgie's father for the last eighteen years, was fifty years old, and had a little wife as slow and as gray as the old pony which he used to ride to outlying parts of the parish.

Besides, if there had been eligible men in scores, what had they to do with Georgie Stanfield, or she with them? Was she not engaged to Charles Mitford?--at least, had she not been so affianced until that dreadful business about something wrong that brought poor Charley into disgrace? and was that sufficient to permit her to break her plighted word? Mr. Mitford, Charles's father, had been a banker and brewer at Cullompton, and had had a country cottage at Fishbourne, a charming little place for his family to come to in the summer; and Mr. Stanfield had been Charley's tutor; and when the family were away at Cullompton in the winter, Charley had remained at the vicarage; and what so likely as that Charley should fall in love with Georgie, then a tall slip of a girl in short petticoats and frilled trousers and very thin legs, with her hair in a net; or that Georgie should have reciprocated the attachment? Both the fathers were delighted at the arrangement; and there was no mother on either side to talk of extreme youth, the chance of change, or to interpose other womanly objections. There came a time when Charley, then a tall handsome fellow, was to go up to Oxford; and then Georgie, to whom the outward and visible frill period was long past, and who was a lovely budding girl of sweet seventeen, laid her head on his breast on the night before he went away, and promised never to forget him, but to be his and his alone.

Ah, those promises never to forget--those whispered words of love breathed by lips trembling under the thick cigar-scented moustache into delicate little ears trellised by braids fresh from the fingers of the lady's-maid! They are not much to the Corydons of St. James's Street, or the Phyllises of Belgravia. By how many different lips, and into how many different ears, are the words whispered and the vows breathed in the course of one London season! I declare I never pass through any of the great squares and streets, and see the men enclosing the balconies with striped calico, that I do not wonder to myself whether, amongst all the nonsense that has been talked beneath that well-worn awning-stuff, there has been any that has laid the foundation for, or given the crowning touch to, an honest simple love-match, a marriage undertaken by two people out of sheer regard for each other, and permitted by relatives and friends, without a single thought of money or position to be gained on either side. If there be any, they must be very few in number; and this, be it observed, not on account of that supposed favourite pastime of parents--the disposal of their daughters' hands and happiness to the highest bidder, the outcry against which has been so general, and is really, I believe, so undeserved. The circumstance is, I take it, entirely ascribable to the lax morality of the age, under which a girl engages herself to a man without the slightest forethought, often without the least intention of holding to her word, not unfrequently from the increased opportunities such a state of things affords her for flirting with some other man, and under which she can break her engagement and jilt her lover without compromising herself in the least in the eyes of society. Besides, in the course of a London life these vows and pledges are tendered so often as to be worn almost threadbare from the number of times they have been pledged; and as excess of familiarity always breeds contempt, the repetition of solemn phrases gradually takes from us the due appreciation of their meaning, and we repeat them parrot-wise, without the smallest care for what we are saying.

But that promise of love and truth and remembrance uttered by Georgie Stanfield on the sands at Fishbourne, under the yellow harvest-moon, with her head pillowed on Charles Mitford's breast and her arms clasped round his neck, came from a young heart which had known no guile, and was kept as religiously as was Sir Galahad's vow of chastity. Within a year after Charley's departure for Oxford, his father's affairs, which, as it afterwards appeared, had long been in hopeless confusion, became irretrievably involved. The bank stopped payment, and the old man, unable to face the storm of ignominy by which he imagined he should be assailed, committed suicide. The smash was complete; Charles had to leave the University, and became entirely dependent on his uncle, Sir Percy Mitford, who declined to see him, but offered to purchase for him a commission in a marching regiment, and to allow him fifty pounds a year. The young man accepted the offer; and by the same post wrote to Georgie, telling her all, and giving her the option of freeing herself from the engagement. It Was a gentlemanly act; but a cheap bit of generosity, after all. He might have staked the fifty pounds a year his uncle had promised him, on the fidelity of such a girl as Georgie Stanfield, more especially in the time of trouble. Her father, too, with his old disregard of the future, entirely approved of his daughter's standing by her lover under the circumstances of his altered fortune; and two letters--one breathing a renewal of love and trust, the other full of encouragement and hope--went away from Fishbourne parsonage, and brought tears into the eyes of their recipient, as he sat on the edge of a truckle-bed in a whitewashed room in Canterbury Barracks.

The vow of constancy and its renewal were two little epochs in Georgie's quiet life. Then, not very long after the occurrence of the last,--some six months,--there came a third, destined never to be forgotten. There had been no letter from Charley for some days, and Georgie had been in the habit of walking across the lawn to meet the postman and question him over the garden-wall.

One heavy dun August morning, when the clouds were solemnly gathering up together, the air dead and still, the trees hushed and motionless, Georgie had seen the old man with a letter in his hand, and had hastened, even more eagerly than usual, across the lawn, to be proportionately disappointed when the postman shook his head, and pointing to the letter, said, "For the master, miss." The next minute she heard the sharp clang of the gate-bell, and saw her father take the letter from the postman's hand at his little study-window. Some inward prompting--she knew not what--kept Georgie's eyes on her father. She saw him take out his spectacles, wipe then, and carefully adjust them; then take the letter, and holding it at nearly arm's length, examine its address; then comfortably settling himself in his armchair at the window, prepare to read it. Then Georgie saw the old man fall backward in his chair, his hand dropping powerless by his side, and the letter fluttering from it to the ground. Without uttering a cry, Georgie ran quickly to the house; but when she reached the study, Mr. Stanfield was sitting upright in his chair, and had picked the letter from the floor.

"Papa dearest," said Georgie, "you gave me such a fright. I was watching you from the garden, and I thought I saw you faint. O papa, you are ill! How white and scared you look! What is it, papa darling?--tell me."

But to all this Mr. Stanfield only murmured, gazing up into his daughter's face, "My poor child! my poor darling child!"

"What is it, papa? Oh, I know--it's about Charley! He's not--" and then she blanched dead-white, and said in a scarcely audible voice, "He's not dead, papa?"

"No, Georgie, no. It might be better if he were,--be better if he were."

"He's very ill, then?"

"No, darling,--at least--there; perhaps you'd better read it for yourself; here, read it for yourself;" and the old man, after giving her the letter, covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud.

Then Georgie read in Sir Percy Mitford's roundest hand and stiffest style, how his nephew Charles, utterly ungrateful for the kindness which he, Sir Percy, had showered upon him, and regardless of the fact that he had no resources of his own nor expectations of any, had plunged into "every kind of vice and debauchery, notably gambling"--(Sir Percy was chairman of Quarter-Sessions, and you might trace the effect of act-of-parliament reading in his style)-how he had lost large sums at cards; and how, with the double object of paying his debts and retrieving his losses, lie had at length forged Sir Percy's signature to a bill for £200; and when the document became due had absconded, no one knew where. Sir Percy need scarcely say that all communication between him and this unworthy member of--he grieved to say--his family was at an end for ever; and he took that opportunity, while informing Mr. Stanfield of the circumstance, of congratulating him on having been lucky enough to escape any matrimonial connection with such a rogue and a vagabond.

Mr. Stanfield watched her perusal of the letter; and when she had finished it, and returned it to him calmly, he said:

"Well, my dear! it's a severe blow, is it not?"

"Yes, papa, it is indeed a severe blow. Poor Charley!"

"Poor Charley, my dear! You surely don't feel the least compassion for Charles Mitford; a man who has--who has outraged the laws of his country!"

"Not feel compassion for him, papa? Who could help it? Poor Charley, what a bitter degradation for him!"

"For him! degradation for him! Bless my soul, I can't understand; for us, Georgina,--degradation for us, you mean! However, there's an end of it. We've washed our hands of him from this time forth, and never--"

"Papa, do you know what you're saying? Washed our hands of Charles Mitford! Do you recollect that I have promised to be his wife?"

"Promised to be his wife! Why, the girl's going mad! Promised to be his wife! Do you know that the man has committed forgery?"

"Well, papa."

"Well, papa! Good God! I shall go mad myself! You know he's committed forgery, and you still hold to your engagement to him?"

"Unquestionably. Is it for me, his betrothed wife, to desert him now that he is in misery and disgrace? Is it for you, a Christian clergyman, to turn your back on an old friend who has fallen, and who needs your sympathy and counsel now really for the first time in his life? Would you wish me to give up this engagement, which, perhaps, may be the very means of bringing Charles back to the right?"

"Yes, my dear, yes; that's all very well," said the old gentleman,--"all very--well from a woman's point of view. But you see, for ourselves--"

"Well, papa, what then?"

"Well, my dear, of course we ought not to think so much for ourselves; but still, as your father, I've a right to say that I should not wish to see you married to a--a felon."

"And as a clergyman, papa?-what have you a right to say as a clergyman?"

"I--I: decline to pursue the subject, Georgina; so I'll only say this--that you're my daughter, and you're not of age yet; and I command you to break off this engagement with this--this criminal! That's all."

Georgie simply said, "You know my determination, papa." And there the matter ended.

This was the first quarrel that there had ever been between father and daughter, and both felt it very much indeed. Mr. Stanfield, who had about as much acquaintance with human nature, and as much power of reading character, as if he had been blind and deaf, thought Georgie would certainly give way, and laid all sorts of palpable traps, and gave all sorts of available opportunities for her to throw herself' into his arms, confess how wrong she had been, and promise never to think of Charles Mitford again. But Georgie fell in with none of these ways; she kissed her father's forehead on coming down in the morning, and repeated the process on retiring at night; but she never spoke to him at meal-times, and kept away from home as much as possible during the day, roaming over the country on her chestnut mare Polly, a tremendous favourite, which had been bought and broken for her by Charley in the old days.

During the whole of this time Mr. Stanfield was eminently uncomfortable. He had acted upon the ridiculous principle vulgarly rendered by the phrase, cutting off his nose to spite his face. He had deprived himself of a great many personal comforts without doing one bit of good. For a fortnight the Cullompton Chronicle had remained uncut and unread, though he knew there was an account of a bishop's visitation to the neighbouring diocese which would have interested him highly. For two consecutive Sundays the parishioners of Fishbourne had been regaled with old sermons in consequence of there being no one to transcribe the vicar's notes, which, save to Georgie, were unintelligible to--the world in general and to their writer in particular. He missed Georgie's form in the garden as he was accustomed to see it when looking up from his books or his writing; he missed her sweet voice carolling bird-like through the house, and always reminding him of that dead wife whose memory he so tenderly loved; and notwithstanding the constant horse-exercise, he thought, from sly glances which he had stolen across the table at her during dinner, that she was looking pale and careworn. Worst of all, he was not at all sure that the position he had taken up was entirely defensible on moral grounds. He was differently placed from that celebrated character in the Critic, who "as a father softened, but as a governor was fixed." As a father he might object to the continuance of an engagement between his child and a man who had proved himself a sinner not merely against religious ordinances, but against the laws of his country; but he was very doubtful whether, as a Christian and a clergyman, he was not bound to stretch out the hand of forgiveness, and endeavour to reclaim the penitent. If Mr. Stanfield had lived in these days, and been sufficiently before the world, he would probably have had "ten thousand college councils" to "thunder anathema" at him for daring to promulgate the doctrine that "God is love;" but in the little retired parish where he lived, he taught it because he believed it; and he felt that he had rather fallen away from his standard in endeavouring to coerce his daughter into giving up Charles Mitford.

So one morning, when Georgie came down to breakfast looking flushed and worried, and very little refreshed by her night's sleep, instead of calmly receiving the frontal kiss, as had been his wont during the preceding fortnight, the old man's arms were wound round her, his lips were pressed to hers, while he murmured, "Oh, Georgie! ah, my darling! ah, my child!" and there was a display of grandes eaux on both sides, and the reconciliation was complete. At a later period of that day Mr. Stanfield entered fully upon the subject of Charles Mitford, told Georgie that if the scapegrace could be found, he should be willingly received at the parsonage; and then the old gentleman concocted a mysterious advertisement, to the effect that if C. M., formerly of Fishbourne, Devon, would call on Mr. Stevens of Furnival's Inn, Holborn, London, he would hear something to his advantage, and be received with hearty welcome by friends who had forgiven, but not forgotten, him.

This advertisement, duly inserted through the medium of Mr. Stevens, the lawyer therein named, in the mystic second column of the Times Supplement, appeared regularly every other day during the space of a month; and good old Mr. Stanfield wrote twice a week to Mr. Stevens. inquiring whether "nothing had come of it;" and Mr. Stevens duly replied (at three shillings and sixpence a letter) that nothing had. It must have been two months after the concoction of the advertisement, and one after its last appearance in the columns of the Times, that there came a letter for Georgie, written in the well-known hand, and signed with the well-known initials. It was very short, merely saying that for the second time the writer felt it due to her to leave her unfettered by any past engagement existing between them; that he knew how he had disgraced and placed himself beyond the pale of society; but that he would always cherish her memory, and think of her as some pure and bright star which he might look up to, but to the possession of which he could never aspire.

Poor little Georgie was dreadfully touched by this epistle, and so was Mr. Stanfield, regarding it as a work of art; but as a practical man he thought he saw a chance for again working the disruption of the engagement-question--this time as suggested by Charles himself; and there was little doubt that he would have enunciated these sentiments at length, had he not been abruptly stopped by Georgie on his first giving a hint about it. Despairing of this mode of attack, the old gentleman became diplomatic and machiavelian; and I am inclined to think that it was owing to some secret conspiracy on his part, that young Frank Majoribanks, staying on a desperately-dreary three-weeks' visit with his aunt and patroness, Lady Majoribanks, took occasion to drive one of the old lady's old carriage-horses over to Fishbourne in a ramshackle springless cart belonging to the gardener, and to accept the vicar's offer of luncheon. He had not been five minutes in the house before Georgie found he had been at Oxford with Charley Mitford; and as he had nothing but laudatory remarks to make of his old chum (he had heard nothing of him since he left college), Georgie was very polite to him. But when, after his second or third visit, he completely threw aside Charley as his stalking-horse, and began to make running on his own account, Georgie saw through the whole thing in an instant, and treated him with such marked coldness that, being a man of the world, he took the hint readily, and never came near the place again. And Mr. Stanfield saw with dismay that his diplomacy succeeded no better than his threats, and that his daughter was as much devoted to Charles Mitford as ever.

So the two dwellers in the parsonage fell back into their ordinary course of life, and time went on, and Mr. Stanfield's hair grew gradually more gray, and his shoulders gradually more rounded, and the sweet girl of seventeen became the budding woman of twenty. Then one Thursday evening, in the discharge of her weekly task of reading to her father the Cullompton Chronicle, Georgie suddenly stopped, and although not in the least given to fainting or "nerves," was obliged to put her hand to her side and wait for breath. Then when a little recovered she read out to the wondering old gentleman the paragraph announcing the fatal accident to Sir Percy Mitford and his sons, and the accession of Charles to the title and estates. Like Paolo and Francesca,--though from a very different reason,--"that night they read no more," the newspaper was laid by, and each sat immersed in thought. The old man's simple faith led him to believe that at length the long-wished-for result had arrived, and that all his daughter's patience, long-suffering, and courage would be rewarded. But Georgie, though she smiled at her father's babble, knew that throughout her acquaintance with Charley he had gone through no such trial as that to which the acquisition of wealth and position would now subject him; and she prayed earnestly with all her soul and strength that in this time of temptation her lover might not fall away.

A fortnight passed, and Mr. Stanfield, finding not merely that he had not heard from the new baronet, but that no intelligence of him had been received at Redmoor, at the town house, or by the family lawyers, determined upon renewing his advertisement in the Times. By its side presently appeared another far less reticent, boldly calling on "Charles Mitford, formerly of Cullompton, Devon; then of Brasenose College, Oxford; then of the 26th regiment of the line;" to communicate with Messrs. Moss and Moss, Solicitors, Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and hear something to his advantage. To this advertisement a line was added, which sent a thrill through the little household at the parsonage: "As the said Charles Mitford has not been heard of for some months, any one capable of legally proving his death should communicate with Messrs. M. and M. above named." Capable of legally proving his death! Could that be the end of all poor Georgie's life-dream? Could he have died without ever learning all her love for him, her truth to him? No! it was not so bad as that; though, but for the shrewdness of Edward Moss and the promptitude of Inspector Stellfox, it might have been. A very few hours more would have done it. As it was, little Dr. Prater, who happened to be dining with Marshal Moss at the Hummums when Mitford was brought there by the inspector, and who immediately undertook the case, scarcely thought he should pull his patient through. When the fierce stage of the disorder was past, there remained a horrible weakness and languor, which the clever little physician attacked in vain. "Nature, my dear sir,--nature and your native air, they must do the rest for you; the virtues of the pharmacopoeia are exhausted."

So one autumn evening, as Mr. Stanfield sat poring over his book, and Georgie, her hope day by day dying away within her, was looking out over the darkening landscape, the noise of wheels was heard at the gate; a grave man in black descended from the box of a postchaise, a worn, thin, haggard face peered out of the window; and the next instant, before Mr. Stanfield at all comprehended what had happened, the carriage door was thrown open, and Georgie was hanging round the neck of the carriage occupant; and kiss, kiss, and bless, bless! and thank God! and safe once more! was all the explanation audible.

Dr. Prater was quite right; nature and the patient's native air effected a complete cure. By the end of a month--such a happy month for Georgie!--Sir Charles was able to drive to Redmoor to see the men of business from London; by the end of two months he stood at the altar of the little Fishbourne church, and received his darling from the hands of her father; the ceremony being performed by the old curate, who had learned to love Georgie as his own child, and who wept plentifully as he bestowed on her his blessing.

[CHAPTER VI.]

THE GRAYS.

When Laurence Alsager awoke the next morning, he did not regard life with such weariness, nor London with such detestation, as when he went to bed. He had slept splendidly, as would naturally fall to the lot of a man who for two years had been deprived of that greatest of earthly comforts--an English bed. Laurence had bounded on French spring-mattresses; had sweltered beneath German feather-lined coverlets; had cramped himself up in berths; had swung restlessly in hammocks; had stifled behind mosquito curtains; and had passed many nights with his cloak for his bed, and his saddle-bags for his pillow, with the half-naked forms of dirty Arabs dimly visible in the flickering firelight, and the howls of distant jackals ringing in his ears. He had undergone every description of bed-discomfort; and it is not to be wondered at that he lingered long in that glorious nest of cleanliness and rest provided for him at his hotel. As he lay there at his ease, thoroughly awake, but utterly averse to getting up, he began to think over all that had happened during the previous evening; and first he thought what a charming-looking woman Lady Mitford was.

The Scotch gentleman who had remarked that Colonel Alsager was "a deevil among the sax" had some foundation for his observation; for it was a fact that, from the days when Laurence left Eton and was gazetted to the Coldstreams, until he sold his commission and left England in disgust, his name had always been coupled by the gossips with that of some lady well known either in or out of society. He was a mere boy, slim and whiskerless, when the intense admiration which he excited in the breast of Mdlle. Valentine, combined with what she afterwards termed the "coldly insular" manner in which he treated her, gave that charming danseuse such a migraine as rendered her unable to appear in public for a week, and very nearly caused Mr. Lumley to be favoured with a row equal to the celebrated Tamburini riot in the days of M. Laporte. He was not more than twenty when "Punter" Blair told him that his goings-on with Lady Mary Blair, the Punter's sister-in-law, were the talk of the town; and that if her husband, the Admiral, was blind, he, the Punter, wasn't, as he'd let Alsager pretty soon know. Laurence replied that the Punter had better mind his own business,--which was "legging" young boys at écarté and blind-hookey,--and leave his brother's wife alone; upon which Punter Blair sent O'Dwyer of the 18th with a message; and there must inevitably have been a meeting, had not Blair's colonel got a hint of it, and caused it to be intimated to Mr. Blair that unless this matter with Mr. Alsager were arranged, he, the colonel, should have to take such notice of "other matters" affecting Mr. Blair as would compel that gentleman to send in his papers.

So in a score of cases differing very slightly from each other. It was the old story which was lyrically rendered by Dr. Watts, of Satan being always ready to provide congenial occupation for gentlemen with nothing to do. There is not, I believe, very much martial ardour in the Household Brigade just now. That born of the Crimean war has died out and faded away, and the officers have taken to drive off ennui, some by becoming district visitors, and others by enjoying the honest beer and improving conversation of the firemen in Watling Street. But even now there is infinitely more enthusiasm, more belief in the profession as a profession, more study of strategy as a thing which a military man should know something of, than there was before the Crimean expedition. The metropolitan inhabitants had little care for their gallant defenders in those days. Their acquaintance with them was limited to the knowledge that large red men were perpetually discovered in the kitchens, and on discovery were presented as relatives of the servants; or that serious, and in some cases fatal, brawls occurred in the streets, when the pleasant fellows laid about them with their belts, or ran amuck amongst a crowd with their bayonets. An occasional review took place in the Park, or a field-day at Woolwich; but no cordial relations existed between the majority of the Londoners and the household troops until the news came of the battle of the Alma. Then the public learned that the Guards' officers were to be heard of in other places than ball-rooms and divorce-courts, and that guardsmen could fight with as much untiring energy as they had already displayed in feeding on householders and flirting with cooks.

Not much worse, certainly not much better, than his compeers was Laurence Alsager in those days, always having "something on" in the way of feminine worship, until the great "something" happened, which, according to Jock M'Laren and one or two others, had occasioned the great change in his life, and caused his prolonged absence from England. But in all his experience he had only known women of a certain kind; women of the world, ready to give and take; women, in his relations with whom there had been no spice of romance save that spurious romance of the French-novel school, so attractive at first, so hollow, and bad, and disgusting, when proceeded with. It is not too much to say that, varied as his "affaires" had been, he had not known one quiet, pure-minded, virtuous woman; and that during his long foreign sojourn he had thought over this, and often wondered whether he should ever have a wife of his own, or, failing this, whether he should ever have a female friend whom at the same time he could love and respect.

Yes, that was the sort of woman, he thought to himself as he lay calmly reflecting. What a good face she had! so quiet and calm and self-possessed. Naturally self-possessed; not that firm disgusting imperturbability which your hardened London coquette has, he thought; like that horrible M'Alister, who puts her double eye-glass up to her eyes and coolly surveys women and men alike, as though they were slaves in the Constantinople market, and she the buyer for the Sultan. There certainly was a wonderful charm about Lady Mitford, and, good heavens! think of a man having such a wife as that, and going off to sup with Bligh and Winton, who were simply two empty-headed roué jackasses, and Pontifex, who--Well, it was very lucky that people didn't think alike. Yes, that man Mitford was a lout, a great overgrown-schoolboy sort of fellow, who might be led into any sort of scrapes by--By Jove! that's what Dollamore had said with that horribly cynical grin. And Lady Mitford would have to run the gauntlet of society, as did most women whose husbands went to the bad.

Laurence Alsager was a very different man from the Laurence Alsager of two years ago. He wanted something to fill up his leisure time, and he thought he saw his way to it. Dollamore never spoke at random. From his quietly succulent manner Alsager knew that his lordship meant mischief, probably in his own person, at all events hinted plainly enough that--Ah! he would stop all that. He would pit himself against Dollamore, or any of them, and it would be at least a novelty to have a virtuous instead of a vicious end in view. Mitford might be a fool, his wife weak and silly; but there should be no disastrous consequences. Dollamore's prophecy should be unfulfilled, and he, Laurence Alsager, should be the active agent in the matter.

Simultaneously with this determination he decided upon deferring his visit to his father, and settling himself in London for a time. He would be on the spot; he would cultivate the acquaintance which Mitford so readily held out to him; he would have the garrison well under surveillance in order carefully to observe the enemy's approach; and--The shower-bath cut short his reflections at this point.

He dressed and breakfasted; despatched his servant to see if his old rooms in Jermyn Street were vacant; lit a cigar and strolled out. He had at first determined to brave public opinion in every shape and form, to retain his beard, to wear the curious light coats and elaborately puckered trousers which a Vienna Schneider had a year before turned out as prime specimens of the sartorial art. But even to this determination the night's reflection brought a change, and he found himself turning into Poole's, and suffering himself to be suited to the very latest cut and colour. Then he must get a hack or two from Saunderson in Piccadilly; and as the nearest way from Poole's in Saville Row to Saunderson's in Piccadilly is, as every one knows, down Grosvenor Place and through Eaton Place, that was the way that Laurence Alsager walked.

Eaton Place is not a very cheerful thoroughfare at the best of times. Even in the season, when all the houses are full of the domesticity of parliament-members, furnished at the hebdomadal rate of twenty guineas, there is a stuccoey and leading-to-not-much thoroughfares depression about it; but on a January morn, as Laurence saw it, it was specially dull. Sir Charles Mitford had mentioned no number, so that Laurence took a critical survey of each house as he passed, considering whether the lady in whom he had suddenly taken so paternal an interest resided there. He had, however, passed a very few doors when at the other end of the street he saw a low pony-carriage with a pair of iron-gray ponies standing at a door; and just as he noted them, a slight figure, which he recognized in an instant, came down the steps and took up its position in the phaeton. It was Lady Mitford, dressed in velvet edged with sable, with a very little black-velvet bonnet just covering the back of her head (it was before the days of hats), and pretty dogskin driving-gloves. She cast a timid glance at the ponies before she got in (she had always had horsy tastes down at Fishbourne, though without much opportunity of gratifying them), and was so occupied in gathering up the reins, and speaking to the groom at the ponies' head, as scarcely to notice Laurence's bow. Then with a view to retrieve her rudeness, she put out her hand, and said cordially:

"How do you do, Colonel Alsager? I beg your pardon; I was taking such interest in the ponies that I never saw you coming up. They're a new toy, a present from my husband; and that must be my excuse."

"There is no excuse needed, Lady Mitford. The ponies are charming. Are you going to drive them?"

"O yes; why not? Saunderson's people say they are perfectly quiet; and, indeed, we are going to take them out to the farm at Acton, just to show Mr. Grieve the stud-groom how nicely they look in our new phaeton."

"You're sure of your own powers? They look a little fresh."

"Oh, I have not the least fear. Besides, my husband will be with me; I'm only waiting for him to come down, and he drives splendidly, you know."

"I've a recollection of his prowess as a tandem-whip at Oxford, when the Dean once sent to him with a request that he'd 'take the leader off.' Well, au plaisir, Lady Mitford. I wish you and the two ponies all possible enjoyment." And he took off his hat and went on his way. Oh, he was perfectly right; she was charming. He wasn't sure whether she hadn't looked better even this morning than last night, so fresh and wholesome. And her manner, without the slightest suspicion of an arrière pensée, free, frank, and ingenuous; how nicely she spoke about her husband and his driving! There could be no mistake about a woman like that. No warping or twisting could torture her conduct into anything assailable. He'd been slightly Quixotic when he thought to give himself work by watching over and defending her; he--"Good morning, Mr. Spurrier. Recollect me? Mr. Saunderson in?" Revolving all these things in his mind, he had walked so quickly that he found himself in Piccadilly, and in Mr. Saunderson's yard, before he knew where he was.

"Delighted to see you back, Colonel. Thought I caught a glimpse of you at the theatre last night, but was doubtful, because of your beard. No; Mr. Saunderson's gone up to the farm to meet a lady on business; but anything I can do I shall be delighted." Mr. Spurrier was Mr. Saunderson's partner, a very handsome, fresh-coloured, cheery man, who had been in a light-cavalry regiment, and coming into money on the death of a relation, had turned his bequest and his horsy talents to account. There were few such judges of horseflesh; no better rider across country than he. "Thought you'd be giving us a call, Colonel, unless you'd imported a few Arabs; and gave you credit for better judgment than that. Your Arab's a weedy beast, and utterly unfit for hacking."

"No, Spurrier, I didn't carry my orientalism to that extent. I might have brought back a clever camel or two, or a dromedary, 'well suited for an elderly or nervous rider,' as they say in the advertisements; but I didn't. I suppose you can suit me with a hack."

Mr. Spurrier duly laughed at the first part of this speech, and replied in the affirmative, of course, to the second. "You haven't lost much flesh in the East, Colonel," said he, running him over with his eye,--"I should say you pull off twelve stone still." Then Mr. Spurrier, as was his wont, made a great show of throwing himself into a fit of abstraction, during the occurrence of which he was supposed by customers to be mentally going through the resources of his establishment; and roused himself by calling the head-groom, and bidding him tell them to bring out the Baby.

The Baby was a bright bay with black points, small clean head, short well-cut ears, and a bright eye, arching neck, and, as she showed when trotted up the yard with the groom at her head, splendid action. When she was pulled up and stood in the usual position after the "show" had been given, Laurence stepped up, eyed her critically all over, and passed his hand down her legs. Spurrier laughed.

"All right there, Colonel. Fine as silk; not a sign of a puff, I'll guarantee, and strong as steel. Perfect animal., I call her, for a park-hack." A horse was never a "horse," but always an "animal" with Mr. Spurrier, as with the rest of his fraternity. "Will you get on her, Colonel? Just give her a turn in the Park.--Here, take this mare in, and put a saddle and bridle on her for Colonel Alsager."

It was a bright sunny winter's day, and the few people in town were taking their constitutional in the Row. As Alsager rode round by the Achilles statue he heard ringing laughter and saw fluttering habits, which, associated with the place in his mind with his last London experiences, brought up some apparently unpleasant recollection as he touched the mare with his heel, and she after two or three capricious bounds, settled down into that long swinging gallop which is such perfect luxury. He brought her back as quietly as she would come, though a little excited and restless at the unaccustomed exercise, and growled a good deal to himself as he rode. "Just the same; a little more sun, and some leaves on the trees then, and a few more people about; that's all. Gad! I can see her now, sitting square, as she always used, and as easy on that chestnut brute that pulled so infernally, as though she were in an armchair. Ah! enough has happened since I was last in this place." And then he rode the Baby into the yard, asked Mr. Spurrier her price agreed, to take her, told Spurrier he wanted a groom and a groom's horse, and was sauntering away when Mr. Spurrier said, "You'll want something to carry you to hounds, Colonel?"

"I think not; at all events not this season."

"Sorry for that, as I've got something up at the farm that would suit You exactly."

"No, thank you; where did you say?"

"At our farm at Acton. You've been there, you know."

"The farm at Acton,"--that was where Lady Mitford said she was going to drive. She must be the lady whom Mr. Saunderson had gone to meet. Spurrier saw the irresolution in his customer's face and acted promptly.

"Let me take you out there; we sha'n't be twenty minutes going and this is really something you ought not to miss. He's so good, that I give you my word I wouldn't sell him to any but a workman. You will? All right!--Put the horses to."

Within three minutes Laurence Alsager was seated by Mr. Spurrier's side in a mail-phaeton, spinning along to Mr. Saunderson's farm and his own fate.

There were few whips in London who drove so well or so fast as Mr. Spurrier, and there were none who had better horses, as may be imagined; but Laurence did not find the pace a whit too fast. He had asked Mr. Spurrier on the road, and ascertained from him that it was Lady Mitford who was expected. "And a charming lady too, sir; so gentle and kind with every one. Speaks to the men here as polite as possible, and they're not over-used to that; for, you see, in business one's obliged to speak sharp, or you'd never get attended to. Don't think she knows much of our line, though she's dreadfully anxious to learn all about it; for Sir Charles is partial to horseflesh, and is a good judge of an animal. He's been a good customer to us, and will be better, I expect, though he hasn't hunted this season, being just married, you see. That's the regular thing, I find. 'You'll give up hunting, dear? I should be so terrified when you were out.' 'Very well, dear; anything for you;' and away go the animals to Tattersall's; and within six months my gentleman will come to me and say, 'Got anything that will carry me next season, Spurrier?' and at it he goes again as hard as ever."

"I saw the ponies at the door this morning," said Laurence, for the sake of something to say; "they're a handsome pair."

"Ye-es," replied Mr. Spurrier; "I don't know very much of them; they're Mr. Saunderson's buying. I drove 'em once, and thought they wanted making; but Sir Charles is a good whip, and he'll do that.--Ga-a-te!" And at this prolonged shout the lodge-gates flew open, and they drove into the stable-yard.

Mr. Saunderson was there, but no Lady Mitford. Mr. Saunderson had his watch in his hand, and even the look of gratification which he threw into his face when he greeted Colonel Alsager on his return was very fleeting. There was scarcely a man in London whose time was more valuable, and he shook his head as he said, "I'll give her five minutes more, and then I'm off.--What are you going to show the Colonel, Spurrier?"

"I told them to bring out Launcelot first."

Mr. Saunderson shook his head "Too bad, Spurrier, too bad! I told you how the Duke fancied that animal, and how I'd given his Grace the refusal of him."

"Well, we can't keep our business at a standstill for dukes or any one else. Besides, we've known the Colonel much longer than the Duke."

"That's true," said Mr. Saunderson with a courteous bow to Laurence. "Well, if Colonel Alsager fancies the animal, I must get out of it with his Grace in the best way I can."

It was a curious thing, but no one ever bought a horse of Mr. Saunderson that had not been immensely admired by, and generally promised to, some anonymous member of the peerage.

"Easy with him, Martin, easy! Bring him over here.--So, Launcelot, so, boy."

Launcelot was a big chestnut horse, over sixteen hands high, high crest, long lean head, enormous quarters, powerful legs, and large broad feet. He looked every inch a weight-carrying hunter, and a scar or two here and there about him by no means detracted from his beauty in the eyes of the knowing ones. Martin was the rough-rider to the establishment, bullet-headed, high-cheek-boned, sunken-eyed, with limbs of steel, and pluck which would have made him ram a horse at the Victoria Tower if he had had instructions. As Mr. Spurrier patted the horse's neck, Martin leant over him and whispered, "I've told one o' them to come out on Black Jack, sir. This is a 'oss that wants a lead, this 'oss does. Give 'im a lead, and he'll face anythink."

"All right," said Spurrier, as another man and horse came out; "here they are. Go down to the gate in the tan-gallop, will you? put up the hurdles first.--Now, Colonel, this way, please; the grass is rather wet even now."

They walked across a large meadow, along one side of which from end to end a tan-gallop had been made. Midway across this some hurdles with furze on the top had been stuck up between two gate-posts, and at these the boy on Black Jack rode his horse. A steady-goer, Black Jack; up to his work, and knowing exactly what was expected of him; comes easily up to the hurdles, rises, and is over like a bird. Not so Launcelot, who frets at starting; but moves under Martin's knees and Martin's spurs, gives two or three bounds, throws up his head, and is off like a flash of lightning. Martin steadies him a bit as they approach the leap, and Jack's rider brings his horse round, meets Martin half-way, and at it they go together. Jack jumps again, exactly in his old easy way, but Launcelot tears away with a snort and a rush, and jumps, as Mr. Spurrier says, "as though he would jump into the next county."

"Now the gate!" says Mr. Spurrier; and the hurdles were removed, and a massive five-barred gate put up between the posts.

"You go first, boy," said Spurrier; and Black Jack's rider, who was but a boy, looked very white in the gills, and very tight in the mouth, and galloped off. But Jack was not meant for a country which grew such gates as that, and when he reached it, turned short round, palpably refusing. Knowing he should get slanged by his master, the boy was bringing him up again, when he heard a warning shout, and looking round, cleared out of the way to let Launcelot pass. Launcelot's mettle was up; he wanted no lead this time. Martin, with his face impassably set, brought his whip down heavily on him as he lifted him; but Launcelot did not need the blow; he sprang three or four inches clear of the leap in splendid style.

"By George, that's a fine creature!" said Laurence, who had all a sportsman's admiration for the feat. "I think I must have him, Spurrier, if his figure's not very awful. But I should first like to take him over that gate myself."

"All right, Colonel; I thought he'd, take your fancy.--Get down, Martin, and let down those stirrups a couple of holes for the Colonel, will you?--And you, boy, tumble off there. I'll see whether that old vagabond will refuse with me.--Ah, you're a sly old scoundrel, Jack; but I think we'll clear the gate, old boy!"

Alsager was already in the saddle, and Spurrier was tightening the girths, when the former heard a low rumbling sound gradually growing more distinct.

"What's that?" he asked his companion.

"What?" asked Spurrier, with his head still under the saddle-flap; but when he stood upright and listened, he said, "That's a runaway! I know the sound too well; and--and a pair! By the Lord, the grays!"

They were standing close by the hedge which separated the meadow from the road. It was a high quickset hedge, with thick post-and-rail fence running through it, and it grew on the top of a high bank with a six-foot drop into the road. Standing in his stirrups and craning over the hedge, Laurence saw a sight which made his blood run cold.

Just having breasted the railway-bridge, and tearing down the incline at their maddest pace, came the grays, and in the phaeton, which swung frightfully from side to side, sat Lady Mitford--alone! A dust-stained form gathering itself up out of the road in the distance looked like a groom; but Sir Charles was not to be seen. Lady Mitford still held the reins, and appeared to be endeavouring to regain command over the ponies; but her efforts were evidently utterly useless.

Mr. Spurrier, who had mounted, comprehended the whole scene in a second, and roared out, "Run, Martin! run, you boy! get out into the lane, and stop these devils! Hoi!" this to the grooms in the distance, to whom he telegraphed with his whip. "They don't understand, the brutes! and she'll be killed. Here, Colonel, to the right-about! Five hundred yards off there's a gate, and we can get through and head them. What are you at? you're never going at the hedge. By G--, you'll break your neck, man!"

All too late to have any effect were his last words; before they were uttered, Laurence had turned Sir Launcelot's head, taken a short sharp circling gallop to get him into pace, and then crammed him straight at the hedge. Spurrier says that to his dying day he shall never forget that jump; and he often talks about it now when he is giving a gentleman a glass of sherry, after a "show" just previous to the hunting season. Pale as death, with his hat over his brows, and his hands down on the horse's withers, sat Laurence; and just as Sir Launcelot rose at the leap, he dealt him a cut with a heavy whip which he had snatched out of Spurrier's hand The gallant animal rose splendidly, cleared posts and rails, crashed through the quickset, and came thundering into the lane below. Neither rider nor horse were prepared for the deep drop; the latter on grounding bungled awkwardly on to his knees; but Laurence had him up in an instant, and left him blown and panting, when at the moment the grays came in sight. Lady Mitford was still in the carriage, but had apparently fainted, for she lay back motionless, while the reins were dragging in the road.

Laurence thought there was yet a chance of stopping the ponies, upon whom the pace was evidently beginning to tell severely, but, as they neared a gate leading to a portion of the outbuildings, where on their first purchase by Mr. Saunderson they had been stabled, the grays, recollecting the landmarks, wheeled suddenly to the left and made for the gate. The carriage ran up an embankment and instantly overturned; one of the ponies fell, and commenced lashing out in all directions; the other, pulled across the pole, was plunging and struggling in wild attempts to free itself. The men who had been signalled to by Spurrier were by this time issuing from the lodge-gates, and making towards the spot; but long before they reached it, a tall man with a flowing black beard had sprung in among the débris, regardless of hoofs flying in all directions, and had dragged therefrom the senseless form of Lady Mitford.

"What is the matter? Where am I?"

"You're at my farm, Lady Mitford," said Mr. Saunderson, advancing with that old-fashioned courtesy which he always assumed when dealing with ladies; "and there's nothing the matter, thank God! though you've had a bad accident with the ponies, which seem to have run away; and I may say you owe your life to Colonel Alsager, who rescued you at the peril of his own."

She looked round with a faint smile at Laurence, who was standing at the foot of the sofa on which she lay, and was about to speak, when Laurence lifted his hand deprecatingly:

"Not a word, please, Lady Mitford; not a single word. What I did was simply nothing, and our friend Mr. Saunderson exaggerates horribly. Yes, one word--what of Sir Charles?"

"He has not heard of it? He must not be told."

"No, of course not. What we want to know is whether he started for the drive with you."

"Oh no; he could not come,--he was prevented, thank God! And the groom?"

"Oh, he's all right; a little shaken, that's all."

Laurence did not say that the groom had been not a little shaken by Mr. Spurrier, who caught the wretched lad by the collar, and holding his whip over him told him mildly that he had a great mind to "cut his life out" for his cowardice in throwing himself out of the trap, and leaving his mistress to her fate.

Then it was arranged that Mr. Saunderson should take Lady Mitford home, and explain all that had happened to Sir Charles. She took Laurence's arm to the carriage, and when she was seated, gave him her hand, saying frankly and earnestly, "I shall never forget that, under Providence, I owe my life to you, Colonel Alsager."

As they drove back to town together, Mr. Spurrier said to his companion "I shall have to book Sir Launcelot to you, Colonel. I've looked at his knees, and though they're all right, only the slightest skin-wound, still--"

"Don't say another word, Spurrier," interrupted Laurence; "I wouldn't let any one else have him, after to-day's work, for all the money in the world."

Laurence spoke innocently enough; but he noticed that during the rest of the drive back to town Mr. Spurrier was eyeing him with great curiosity.

[CHAPTER VII.]

WHAT HAD DETAINED SIR CHARLES.

The arrangement for the trial of the ponies had been one of some standing between Sir Charles and his wife, and one to which he fully intended to adhere. It is true that on waking after the supper with Messrs. Bligh, Winton, Pontifex, and their companions, he did not feel quite so fresh as he might have wished, and would very much have liked a couple of hours' additional sleep; yet so soon as he remembered the appointment, he determined that Georgie should not be disappointed; and by not having the "chill" taken off his shower-bath as usual, he was soon braced up to his ordinary good condition. Nevertheless, with all his good intentions, he was nearly an hour later than usual; and Georgie had gone up to dress for the drive when Sir Charles descended to the breakfast-room to discuss the second relay of broiled bone and devilled kidney which had been served up to tempt his sluggish appetite. He was making a not very successful attempt to eat, and between each mouthful was reading in the newspaper Mr. Rose's laudatory notice of Mr. Spofforth's play, when his servant, entering, told him that a "person" wanted to speak to him. There is no sharper appreciator of worldly position than your well-trained London servant, and Banks was a treasure.

"What is it, Banks?" asked Sir Charles, looking up.

"A person wishing to see you, Sir Charles," replied Banks.

"A person! is it a man or a woman?"

"The party," said Banks, varying his word, but not altering the generic appellation,--"the party is a man, sir."

"Do I know him?"

"I should say certainly not, Sir Charles," replied Banks in a tone which intimated that if his master did know the stranger, he ought to be ashamed of himself.

"Did he give no name?"