THE STRICTEST CONFIDENCE

KEEPING A SECRET--LADY MOUNT HELICON "AT HOME"--A CHAPTER OF FINANCE--WHY LACQUERS WENT TO THE BALL--EXOTICS IN A CONSERVATORY--MRS. BLACKLAMB AND HER CAVALIER--IMPORTANT DISCLOSURES--A LONG WAY OFF, AND FARTHER THAN THAT

You must be an individual of an equally sanguine temperament and confiding disposition, if you believe that what you impart to your neighbour in the modern Babylon under seal of the strictest secrecy, might not as well be published in the leading article of the _Times_ newspaper. How "things get about" is one of those inexplicable mysteries for which n.o.body is able or willing to account. Some people lay it to servants--some to the amiable generosity in imparting information for which the fair s.e.x are so remarkable; the latter, again, say that "every bit of scandal in London originates at those horrid clubs!" but few will allow that Rumour owes a large portion of her ubiquity to that organisation of mankind which makes a secret utterly valueless unless shared with another. What is the use of knowing something we must not tell? In the strictest confidence, of course, it was told us under promise that we would not breathe a syllable to a single soul--we only make an exception in your favour under the same solemn obligation. You, of course, in mysterious conclave with Tom, will bear in mind our prohibition, and, acting as we have done, Tom shall become a party to the treason. Still upon oath, it will not be long, we think, before Jack and Harry are empowered to join chorus, and whilst our cherished mystery becomes patent to the world in general, we ourselves feel completely absolved from the consequences of our breach of trust. In the whole of Lady Mount Helicon's crowded rooms to-night, we believe Blanche herself is the only person that is not aware of her own precarious position; and the girl, happy in her ignorance, looks brighter and more blooming than usual, though _the world_ will admire her less on this occasion than it has ever done before. Yes, this is one of Lady Mount Helicon's "At Homes," with a small italicised "_Dancing_" in the corner; and a very brilliant affair it is, as the hostess herself is fully persuaded:--the front and back drawing-room, and the boudoir beyond that, are thrown open and lighted with dazzling brilliancy, whilst a softer l.u.s.tre shed upon the conservatory and balcony, craftily covered in for the purpose, lures to those irresistible man-traps without betraying their insidious design. Below stairs, libraries and school-rooms and other resorts, devoted in every-day life to far more practical uses, are now cleared and emptied for the reception of shawls, cloaks, and coverings, and the production of countless cups of tea and gla.s.ses of lemonade. Lady Mount Helicon's own maid, in a toilette of gorgeous magnificence, presides over this department, casting the while glances of covert scorn and envy at a younger and prettier a.s.sistant in a more becoming cap, on whom the dandies, as they enter, impress with unnecessary circ.u.mlocution the propriety of taking great care of their gregos, paletots, and other sheep's-clothing. In the dining-room preparations are making for a "stand-up supper" of unparalleled luxury, but we think it right to warn the champagne-drinking guests, that on pa.s.sing the door in the morning we spied several hampers of that popular fluid, labelled with the _maker's name_, and much as we admire its chemical preparation and laudable cheapness, we are concerned to admit that "the splendid sparkling of that house at 45_s._" always disarranges our internal economy for several days after an indulgence in its delights. Mount Helicon himself never drinks his mother's champagne, and to his abstinence he attributes his own unfailing health. At Dinadam's, or Lord Long-Acre's, or Wa.s.sailworth, he does not by any means practise the same self-denial. Still it is doubtless good enough for a ball, and what with the young ladies, and the old gentlemen, and the servants, will experience a very fair consumption. A bearded band meanwhile is in waiting up-stairs, elaborately dressed, and from the conductor in white kid gloves to _the Piccolo_ in a chin-tuft, rejoicing in boots of jetty brilliancy, and neckcloths dazzling with starch. The whole establishment is so utterly at variance with its usual routine, and the house looks so entirely changed when thus stripped and lighted for reception, that if the old lord, who never permitted these _boulevers.e.m.e.nts_, could but come back, he would scarcely recognise his former home, and would unquestionably be glad to return to the quiet of his family vault. The presiding genius of the scene, the hostess herself, is already at her post. A very capital dressmaker, an abundance of well-selected jewellery, and a mysterious compound much enhancing the beauty of the human hair, have turned her out a very personable dame, and as she stands in the middle of her ball-room, as yet "monarch of all she surveys," and spreads her rustling folds, and b.u.t.tons her well-fitting gloves, the possibility of her marrying again seems no such absurdity after all, nor does she herself look upon such an event as by any means a remote contingency.

But soon the knocker is at work, the chariot wheels are clattering in the street, and stentorian voices, louder in proportion to their indistinctness, announce the fast-arriving guests. Unlike a country ball, the feathers of the ladies require but little shaking after a short drive from the next street, nor, fresh from their own impartial mirrors, need they hazard the opinion of perhaps an unbecoming reflector; so they troop up-stairs with small delay, their glossy locks, white shoulders, and gossamer draperies showing to the greatest advantage in the well-lighted ball-room. The earliest arrivals of course receive the most affectionate greeting, proportionately decreased as the plot thickens, till the shake by both hands, and graceful little compliment about "looking so well," subsides into a stately courtesy and the coldest welcome good-breeding, not hospitality, will admit. At last all individual figures are well-nigh lost in the crush. A ma.s.s of charming dresses and well-made coats are swaying and struggling in the doorways, the band is pealing forth a melody of Paradise, and the votaries of the quadrille are striving to adhere to their superst.i.tious evolutions by treading on each other's toes, entangling each other's dresses, begging each other's pardon, and generally complaining of the heat of the atmosphere and crowded state of the room. It is at this juncture that "General Bounce" and "Miss Kettering" make their appearance, the General having placed a guard upon his lips, and neither during the dinner nor the drive hinted at his misgivings and inner discomfiture. "Poor Blanche!" he mutters, as he follows her up the wide, stately staircase; "she'll know it soon enough, if it's true--zounds! a girl like that would be a prize without a penny--the young fellows now-a-days are not like what _we_ used to be." And as the General arrived at this conclusion he bowed his bald head nearly into Lady Mount Helicon's bosom, in return for her stately, measured greeting. That greeting, both to himself and Blanche, was colder than usual; the girl, frank and unconscious, did not perceive the change, but her uncle caught himself saying, almost aloud, "Zounds! is it possible that this old cat knows it too?" The music ceased, the dancers walked about, the wrongly-paired ones looking for "mamma," or "my aunt," inwardly longing to get rid of each other, and glancing in every direction for their own particular vanities, the more fortunate couples likewise keeping a sharp look-out for the chaperons, but this in order to avoid them, and hinting that "It's much cooler on the staircase," or "Have you seen the conservatory?" to prolong the delicious interview. The tea-room begins to fill, and incautious youth presses that domestic beverage on beauty nothing loth, nor reflects that charming as are those ringlets drooping over the cup, and rosy as are the lips that whisper their soft affirmative, it would be as well that he should distinctly know his own mind as to whether he would like this celestial being to make tea for him during the rest of his life, and whether it would be always as sweet as it is now. For the first time in her experience of a London season Blanche, begins to think it a "stupid ball." She has not yet been asked to dance; and spoilt by her previous successes, she feels hurt at the neglect. "The best men," as they are called, have not yet, indeed, arrived--if, as is somewhat uncertain, they will come at all, for they sometimes throw Lady Mount Helicon over; and "Mount"

himself is still detained at the "House." But there are plenty of beardless dandies and gay young guardsmen, who are far more p.r.o.ne to dance; and yet they all seem to keep aloof. To be sure, whenever they _have_ asked her formerly she has always been "engaged"; but she would like to stand up now, even with young Deadlock, if it was only for "the look of the thing." However, she hangs contentedly on the General's arm, and "bides her time." It is not long coming. A tall, good-looking man, with features expressive only of a kind disposition and a general air of self-satisfaction, bows and sidles and screws himself towards Blanche and her chaperon, receiving as his natural homage the smiles of the old ladies on whose toes he is treading, and regardless of the imploring looks of the young ones who hope he is going to ask them to dance. His glossy hair is curled distinctly in five rows, which, according to Lord Mount Helicon's account, betokens weighty intentions; and it is no other than our friend Captain Lacquers, who has dined temperately, abjured his usual cigar, and come here for the especial purpose of meeting Miss Kettering. A bow, an indistinct murmur about "not engaged," and "honour," and "delighted,"

and the couple are off, tripping gracefully round amongst the whirling confusion of the _Valse des Fanta.s.sins_, truly "a mighty maze, but not without a plan."

To explain the intentions of our rotatory hussar, we must take the liberty of putting the clock back a few hours--an impossibility only permitted to the novelist--and record a conversation which took place between Lacquers and his friend Sir Ascot that very afternoon, in a secluded window of the G.o.diva Club.

"Well out of this business about Miss Kettering," said the latter, who was becoming more communicative since he had found so little difficulty in speaking his mind to Blanche on a previous occasion.

"You've heard of the smash? Not a penny, after all. Downright swindling, I call it--that old Bounce must be a deep one. They tell me that, except the life-interest of the house in Grosvenor Square, she hasn't a bra.s.s farthing. It's frightful to think of," added the old head on young shoulders, scanning with rigid attention his companion's face, in which concern was more apparent than surprise.

"Poor thing, poor thing" rejoined Lacquers; "I had no idea it was so bad as that. They told me she was sure to have Newton-Hollows, at any rate. She must feel it sadly, poor girl; I wonder how she looks since it all came out."

"Oh, I fancy very few people know it as yet," suggested Sir Ascot, who was somewhat uncharitable in his conclusions. "I daresay they'll try to brazen it out, at least till the end of the season. They may if they like, for all I care. I never knew any good come of these _half-bred_ ones, and _I'll_ have nothing more to do with them!"

Lacquers heard as though he heard him not. He was trying to think, and his well-cut features were gathered into an expression of hopeless perplexity, at which his companion could scarce forbear laughing outright. At last he had recourse to the never-failing moustache; and drawing inspiration from its touch, he began--

"Uppy, you're a safe fellow--eh?--wouldn't throw a fellow over, and put him in the hole, you know. You've got some brains, too--made a capital book on the Ascot Stakes. Now you understand finance and arithmetic, and that--what should _you_ say a married fellow could live upon? Of course he wouldn't require so many luxuries as a single one; but what do you think, now, a fellow like _me_, for instance, could do with?"

Sir Ascot looked completely taken aback. "Why, you'd never be such a fool as to think of----"

"That's neither here nor there, old boy," interrupted Lacquers; "of course if I _do_ you shall have the earliest intelligence. But come, here's a book and a pencil; let's see how the thing would work with good management and strict economy. _Strict economy_, you know, of course." Lacquers had a great idea, _in theory_, of strict economy. So the young man sat down, and went deep into the various items of rent, and stable expenses, and opera-boxes and pin-money, and cigars and travelling; Sir Ascot arriving at the conclusion that a quiet couple might manage to exist upon something over two thousand a year; whilst Lacquers thought it was to be done, with _strict economy_, of course, for about five hundred less; but as they both entirely overlooked an indispensable item termed "housekeeping," we think it needless to record their calculations for the benefit of the inexperienced.

"Well," said Lacquers, when he had finished his arithmetic and put his betting-book once more into his pocket, "I think it can be done--I believe a fellow _ought_ to marry, you know; what does Shakespeare say about 'Solitude being born a twin'? it certainly sobers him"--(Sir Ascot smiled as he admitted that was undoubtedly a strong argument)--"and altogether married fellows get into more respectable habits. Look at a breakfast in a country-house; you see all the married ones up and dressed with the lark, while the single men come dawdling down at all hours. Yes, there's a good deal to be said on both sides, like a Chancery lawsuit; but I'll think it over, Uppy, my boy, I'll think it over." And Lacquers did think it over, and arrived at a conclusion as honourable to his heart as it was antagonistic to that worldly wisdom by which all with whom he a.s.sociated thought it right to regulate their every action. Here was a man spoilt by the accident of personal beauty and good birth and position. From his earliest boyhood he had never been taught that there was any ulterior object in life save to shine in society, if not intellectually, why, physically, with a handsome person and fine clothes--a far more effectual pa.s.sport than all the talents to the good graces of the world. What wonder that the tree grew up as it had been bent? what wonder that the hussar had scarcely two ideas beyond his uniform and his betting-book, and his seat upon a horse? that he looked on the world at large as the b.u.t.terfly on the sunny square enclosed by the garden wall--a mere stage for display, a mere hot-bed for physical enjoyment, to be got the most out of during the bright, gaudy hours of noon; and afterwards--why, afterwards, when the sun goes down and the chill dews of evening clog his fading wings--the b.u.t.terfly must do the best he can, and perish as he may. With such an education, the sole manly quality left was courage, and it was only the touchstone of a gentle face like Blanche's that brought out the latent generosity of a character overlaid with faults, for which its training was more to blame than its organisation. We are obliged to confess that Lacquers was vain, thoughtless, self-opinionated, frivolous, ignorant, and empty-headed, but there _was_ some good in him, and it was brought out, as it always will be when it exists at all, by a woman's smile, and, above all, by a woman's misfortunes.

Lacquers made up his mind that he would marry Blanche Kettering without a sixpence. The young lady's consent he rather prematurely counted on as a matter of course, but in making this resolution he deserves some credit for the readiness with which he was prepared to sacrifice all that to him was precious in life, at the feet of his lady-love. He was a younger brother, and, it is needless to add, considerably involved--of course he must bid farewell to all those amus.e.m.e.nts and pursuits which have hitherto const.i.tuted his actual existence. No more Derbys and Hamptons, and Richmond breakfasts, and Greenwich dinners, all vanities enticing enough in their way--no more stalls at the opera, and supper-parties in the suburbs, likewise vanities of a more dangerous tendency--no more hunting in Leicestershire and deer-stalking in Scotland, yachting at Cowes and philandering at Paris--all these must be given up; and worse than all, the profession he delights in, the regiment he is devoted to, must be offered at the shrine of domestic respectability. That these would be privations no man could feel more keenly than Lacquers, yet was he prepared to go through with it, and had it been necessary, we firmly believe he would have cut off his very moustaches and laid them at the feet of Blanche Kettering! Therefore it was that he appeared on the evening in question at Lady Mount Helicon's ball; therefore it was that his manner had a.s.sumed a softness and diffidence which made Blanche confess to herself, as she leaned on his arm in the intervals of the dance, that he was "really very much improved"; and therefore it was that he suggested the old excuse of "looking at the flowers in the conservatory," and skilfully availing himself of a general rush down-stairs connected with supper, managed to entice his partner into a secluded corner of that love-making retreat, which had indeed been already occupied by several pairs for the same purpose, and having furnished her with a cup of tea, and himself with an ice to keep them both quiet, he entered with much circ.u.mlocution on one of those embarra.s.sing interviews such as, we are quite sure, no lady who condescends to glance over these pages but must have experienced at least _once_ before she had been out two seasons.

"That's a case," said Mrs. Blacklamb, as she swept down to supper on Lord Mount Helicon's arm, her dark, haughty features writhing with something between a smile and a sneer, while she caught a glimpse of Blanche's well-cut profile, and one of Lacquers's faultless boots in a mirror opposite their retreat. "Will it _be_, do you think?" she added with a softening expression, for all women warm towards a love-affair, and even Mrs. Blacklamb, with her many faults, was a very woman, perhaps rather too much so, in her heart of hearts.

"I hope not," replied Mount, with a smile into his companion's face.

"I'm very much in love with her myself. If it hadn't been for 'the Division' I should have been where Lacquers is at this moment. Look what my patriotism has cost me, but I don't regret it _now_," and he emphasised the monosyllable with an almost imperceptible pressure of the arm that hung upon his own, a movement that had little effect on Mrs. Blacklamb, with whom flirtation (whatever that comprehensive word may mean) was the daily business of life.

"Why, you know you would have married her, and too happy if she had only been the catch you all thought she was," replied the lady. "I must say I could not help being delighted, though I was sorry for _her_, poor girl, to see you all 'getting out' just as you do when some racehorse breaks down, trying which could be first to pull himself clear of the sc.r.a.pe, and leave his neighbours in the lurch.

Major D'Orville behaved _shamefully_, and you still worse, for she really was fond of _you_."

"Mount's" imperturbable good-humour was proof against quizzing, so the sneer fell harmless, and he replied carelessly, "Fond? of course she was, but not so _very_ fond--no. Mrs. Blacklamb, I'm easily imposed on by ladies. I think it's my diffidence that stands so much in my way; even where my affections are most irrevocably engaged, where I worship is hopeless constancy, and I feel my heart breaking, and my--my--my hair coming out of curl, I dare not ask my enslaver more than whether she will have a gla.s.s of wine. Give Mrs. Blacklamb some champagne, and I'll have a little sherry, if you please;" so the pair went on jesting and philandering and making fools of each other and of themselves, but they troubled their heads no more about the couple in the conservatory; and when "Mount" deserted his fair companion and returned into the ball-room, as he said, "to dance just once with Miss Kettering, in common decency," he sought her in vain, for she was gone.

"Uncle Baldwin," said Blanche, when they reached home, and lingered a moment in the drawing-room before retiring--"Uncle Baldwin, I've got something to say to you." Blanche blushed and hesitated, and looked at the little white satin shoe she was resting on the fender in every possible point of view. "To-night at the ball, I--that's to say, Captain Lacquers--in short, I dare say you remarked--in the conservatory, you know--Oh, Uncle Baldwin, _he proposed_ to me," and Blanche, half-laughing, half-crying, and blushing over her neck and shoulders, hid her face on the breast of the General's coat, as she used to do when she had been a naughty little girl and repented, ten years ago.

"Zounds! Blanche, what did you say?" burst out the General, in a terrible taking, as he thought now everything must come out. "Yes or No, my darling, don't keep me in suspense--which is it, heads or tails? in or out? I mean, Yes or No?"

"No!" whispered Blanche, to the General's inexpressible relief, who cooled down into a prolonged _whew_, like the escape of steam from a safety-valve; but it was rather difficult to say it, he seemed so sorry and so patient and considerate. "Do you know, Uncle Baldwin, I never thought so highly of Captain Lacquers as I do to-night."

"Probably not, my dear," grunted the General, "you never knew before he thought so highly of you. But, Blanche, as we are here, and--and it's not very late--zounds! they've put that clock on again--well, dear, I too have got something to tell you; but mine, I am sorry to say, is bad news. Prepare yourself, my dear Blanche. I'm sure you will bear it well, my little pet, and as long as I have a roof over my head you will have a home; but, in short, it's no use mincing the matter, Blanche, you're not an heiress after all--you won't have a sixpence beyond what I can leave you, and that's little enough, heaven knows.

They've found your mother's will, my dear, and a most unfair and unreasonable will it is; but still, my pretty Blanche, it makes you a penniless young lady, after all!"

"Is that the worst?" answered Blanche, looking up with an air of immense relief, though she had turned deadly pale; "is that all, Uncle Baldwin? dear me, I'm not worse off than half the other girls I know.

We shall leave this house, I suppose," she added, looking round at the ample room and its stately furniture, jumping at once to conclusions, as young ladies will do, "and we shall live entirely at Newton-Hollows, and I shall be there all the time my garden looks most beautiful; but we shan't have to send away Mrs. Delaval, shall we?"

(The General winced.) "And when will it all be settled? and when shall we go?"

"Blanche, you're a diamond," said the General, his eyes filling with tears; "you've the pluck of ten women. You ought to have commanded the Kedjerees. Go to bed now, my dear, and to-morrow we'll look things boldly in the face, and see what is best to be done." So the General stumped off with his bed-candle, more than ever doating on his niece, more than ever persuaded that she inherited her sterling qualities from his side of the house, and not from that "poor, foolish old Kettering," as he called him, and more than ever indignant with all the young men of his acquaintance, except Lacquers, for not being on their knees to Blanche. "They've no energy; they've no devotion; zounds! they've no chivalry amongst 'em--none whatever! If I was such a fellow as any one of these, 'gad, I'd go to bed and never get up again;" with which soliloquy the General proceeded to divest himself of his ball-going attire, and prepared for his refuge from all the ills of life.

To those who are conversant with the habits of ladies, it is needless to mention that Blanche did not, by any means, follow her uncle's excellent advice and example, in betaking herself to immediate repose.

The fair s.e.x will easily comprehend how she sought Mrs. Delaval's room, and how the two ladies sat up in "their wrappers" and consoled each other, and talked it all over, backwards and forwards, and came to no very logical conclusions; and, above all, how the proposal and its reception were quite as engrossing a topic, and were quite as much dwelt on as the loss of Blanche's fine fortune; nor will it escape their observation that Mary's greater worldly experience would clearly foresee the subst.i.tution of one cousin for another in this revolution amongst the Kettering possessions, and how a marriage between the two was the only plan to make everything right; and how the fair young face, with its kind eyes, that had haunted her so long, was farther from her now than ever. She knew, of course, long ago, that it was hopeless and impossible--that must surely have been a great consolation! When a child cries for the moon, and a cloud comes and covers up the coveted bauble, and hides it away, the urchin has small comfort in being told that it is just as near the object of its desires as when it could see it, and look, and long, and stretch its tiny hands. When the beggar-maiden sets her affections on King Cophetua, without a hope, in these days, of the famous fabulous _mesalliance_ being perpetrated, the fact that it does not, in reality, remove him one iota farther than before from her humble self, helps but little to a.s.suage the pang inflicted on her infatuated heart by his Majesty's nuptials with one of his own degree. The impossible may be increased in love, if not in logic, and Mary was lying awake and desponding, long after Blanche had forgotten all the excitement and changes of the evening in happy, dreamless slumbers.

CHAPTER XIX

DISPATCHES

SOCIAL LIBERTY--DOMESTIC ECONOMY--A GAZETTE FROM THE CAPE--A MAN OF MANY IRONS--A TRUE FRIEND--A REAL HERO--COUPLES, NOT PAIRS--OH ME MISERUM!--GATHERED IN THE DEW

Mary Delaval, in London, was one of the many flowers born to "waste their sweetness on the desert air," for London is, indeed, a desert to those who are in it and not of it, whose destiny seems to have been warped into a strange unfitness in the great, struggling, noisy, pompous town; whose proper place would seem to be in some quiet, secluded nook, the ornament and the joy of a peaceful home, instead of the ever-shifting surface of that seething tide which drifts them here and there in aimless restlessness. Verily, Fortune does sometimes shuffle the pack in most inexplicable confusion--_Ludum insolentem, ludere pertinax_--she seems to take a perverse pleasure in smuggling the court-cards into all sorts of incongruous places, and to carry out the Latin poet's metaphor, _trans-mutat incertos honores_, or, in plain English, palms the trumps, with dexterous sleight-of-hand, where they seem utterly valueless to influence the result of the game. As society is const.i.tuted, such a woman as Mary, with her queenly dignity, her charming manner, her striking beauty, and, above all, her n.o.ble, well-cultivated mind, was just as thoroughly _tabooed_ and excluded from the circle of her so-called superiors as if she had been a quadroon in the United States, whose very beauty owes its brilliance to that African stain which, in the Land of Freedom and Equality, makes a shade of colouring the badge that ent.i.tles man to lord it over his brother more despotically than over the beasts of the field.

Thank G.o.d for it, we have no slavery in England; and the time cannot be very far distant when slavery shall be a word without a meaning in the dictionary of every language on the face of the globe. Already, from East to West, the trumpet-note has sounded, and those stir in their sleep who have drugged themselves into insensibility, and stopped their ears against the voice of the charmer, but cannot smother the still small whisper within. Scarcely has its last peal died away beneath the blushing Western wave, ere its echoes are caught up in the very heart of the Morning Land, and even now, while we write, a barbarian despot is quailing on his celestial throne, and the voice of Liberty--real Liberty, Civilisation, and Christianity--is thundering in the ears of millions and millions of immortal beings, hitherto held in thraldom, throughout that mysterious empire, which for ages has been a sealed book to all other nations upon earth. Shall not England still be in the van, as she has always been? Never yet has she failed in the good cause, and never will she. Has she not ever struck for Freedom and the Cross? inseparable watchwords, that the experience of the world has taught us must go hand in hand, or not at all; and where she strikes, good faith, she drives well home. Has she not ever been the first a.s.sailant in the breach? stood the outmost bulwark in the gap? and will she fail now? Believe it not. Her destiny would seem the brightest that Providence has yet ordained for any nation since the world began. Formidable and glorious without, she is setting her house in order within. Steadily and gradually the good cause--the universal brotherhood of the soul--is progressing everywhere; through wars and rumours of wars, through political clouds and private disappointments, there seems to be in all men's minds a settled conviction that "the good time's coming"; and if, as we firmly believe, England shall bear the glorious banner in the van, why, night and morning will we go down upon our knees and thank G.o.d that we are Englishmen! But what has all this to do with a penniless governess, sitting up two pair of stairs in Grosvenor Square? Thus much, as we think: our social system is yet a long way from perfection--there is yet much to be improved and much prejudice to be taken away--we have too much cla.s.s-feeling and cla.s.s-isolation, and, perhaps, on no people do these shortcomings in our charity fall so heavily as on those to whom we entrust the education of our children. What is it in which we are so superior to them that ent.i.tles us to hold ourselves thus aloof, and, for all the courtesy of our wayfaring salutation, virtually "to pa.s.s by on the other side"? What is it that const.i.tutes the talismanic qualification for what we modestly term _good_ society? Is it birth, that accident on which we so rationally plume ourselves? They generally possess even that negative advantage. Is it education, intellect, cultivation of mind? We do not entrust our darlings to their care because they are _inferior_ to us in attainments, or we should teach the pupils ourselves. Is it manner? We do not quarrel with a peer for being gross, or a millionaire for being vulgar--and those of whom we are speaking generally show no want at least of decorum in their demeanour and conversation. Is it money? G.o.d forbid!

Is it then mere frivolity and a.s.sumption in which we excel? For shame!

No; the truth must out; there is a leaven still left in us of the very essence of vulgarity, the feeling that we are ill at ease with a so-called inferior, or the domineering spirit which every schoolboy knows too well, prompting us to exult in every chance advantage we may possess over a fellow-creature. Of these amiable causes we may take our choice; but one or other it is which leaves the governess to pine up-stairs in her school-room, while revelry and pleasure and good-fellowship are laughing below.

Now, Mary had, indeed, little of this sort of neglect to complain of; yet was she lonely and sad during the London season which Blanche enjoyed so much. She could not, of course, accompany her to all the b.a.l.l.s and "At Homes" which were fast becoming the business of the girl's life; if she had, we think the worshipful body of chaperons would have lost nothing in dignity, and gained a good deal in grace, beauty, and good-humour by her adhesion. So she felt she was too much separated from Blanche, whom she dearly loved; and it was with a sensation almost of satisfaction, for which she was, nevertheless, quite angry with herself, that she heard of the entire disturbance of all the family arrangements, and the loss of fortune sustained by the young heiress. "Ah," thought Mary, "perhaps I may be of some use to her now in her distress; at any rate, I can give her good counsel and practical instruction how to _bear_--none better;" and had it not been for a certain marriage, which seemed more than ever indispensable, Mary would have been ashamed to confess to herself how glad she was.

The General, it is needless to say, was a man of vigorous execution when he had once made up his mind. He had ascertained, as he believed, the validity of the will, had paid Gingham her legacy, with a gratuity over and above on his own account, and now held a council of war with the two ladies, before breakfast, in which he discloses his plans with a degree of meekness nothing could ever have brought him to, save a misfortune affecting his beloved Blanche.

"No going abroad this year, my dear," said the General, looking the while less warlike than usual; "glad of it--what? A German watering-place--bah! an a.s.sociation of blackguards in an overgrown village, robbing the public to soft music in the open air. No, my dear, we'll get to Newton-Hollows before the strawberries are done--and I'm glad of it. We'll let this great house--you're tired of it, Blanche, and so am I; what's the use of a house all up and down-stairs? You should have seen my bungalow at Simlah--a man could get about in that and hear himself speak. Well, we'll put down two of the carriages and one of the footmen--that pompous one. Zounds, if he had stayed a week longer I must have bastinadoed him--and we'll start Poulard: confound him, he never gives one a dinner fit to eat, and wouldn't dress a cutlet for Mrs. Delaval, only the day before yesterday, because we dined out--I'll trounce him before he goes.

Then, my dear, we'll keep your scrubby pony for the little carriage, and 'Water King' can go down home with the others, and you'll ride a deal more there than in London, Blanche. Manage? I'll manage--how d'ye mean? I'm only a steward till Charlie comes back. I must write to Charlie by this mail, and we'll have him safe and sound from the Kaffirs--and rejoicings when he comes home, and a--who knows what?"--(Mary Delaval got up at this juncture, went to fetch her work, and sat majestically down to it, as the General went on.)--"Yes, we'll make it all right when Charlie comes back. Let me see, we ought to have a mail to-day. Zounds, these servants they read all the news--money market, foreign intelligence, every one of their own cursed advertis.e.m.e.nts for places they won't keep six months--and then, if I ask whether the paper's come, 'Please, sir, it's not ironed.'

Ironed! 'Gad, I'll iron them--wish I'd my Kitmugar here--bamboozle them well on the soles of their feet--there's no liberty in this country. Blanche, ring the bell, there's a dear--oh, here it comes;"

and the General's further strictures were cut short by the entrance of his old, pompous servant, who laid the paper out for his master's perusal with a strange air of mingled pity and concern. The General put on his spectacles, deliberately unfolded the sheet, and after a glance at the money market, in which consols had, as usual, fluctuated the fraction of a fraction, he turned to the well-known column in which the budget of the African mail was likely to be detailed; Blanche leaning over his shoulder the while, and Mary watching them with an eager glance that seemed almost prescient of evil.

Suddenly the General's face flushed up to a purple hue. "Engagement with the Kaffirs," he muttered; "gallant repulse of the enemy--capture--loss--strong position--brilliant success of the Light Brigade--O my boy! my boy!" And, forgetful of all around, the old man leaned his head upon the table and gave way to a pa.s.sion of grief that was frightful to contemplate. There it was, sure enough, in distinct, choicely-printed types--there was no mistaking the name, or the regiment, or the authenticity of the report, and Blanche, with bloodless lips and stony eyes, could see nothing but that one line of hopeless import--"Missing, Cornet Kettering, of the 20th Lancers."

Yes, she had skimmed through killed and wounded, with the agonising fear of seeing her cousin returned in that awful list, and a deep sigh of relief was rising to her lips as she recognised no beloved name among the sufferers, when it was frozen back again by the startling truth. And there she stood, utterly colourless, her hair pushed back from her temples, and her eyes staring wildly and vacantly, as she kept her finger pressed on the dreadful line, of which she too well comprehended the meaning.

The General rocked to and fro in an agony of grief, his broken exclamations of childish despair strangely mingled with those warlike sentiments of honour and resignation which become second nature in the soldier's character.

"My boy, my boy! my gallant, handsome, light-hearted Charlie! I might have known it must be so--I've seen it a hundred times--the youngest, the fairest, the happiest, go down at the first shot. That pale, tender lad at the sortie from Bayonne--my subaltern at Quatre Bras--my _aide-de-camp_ in the Deccan, always the brightest and the most hopeful--and now my boy, my Charlie! Why did I let him go? a soldier's fate, poor lad. Well, well, every bullet has its billet--but, oh, he need never have gone to that savage country. O my boy, my boy! you were more than a son to me, and now you're lying mangled and rotting in the bush below the Anatolas."

Mary alone preserved her presence of mind. Utter despair is the most powerful of sedatives; and she walked deliberately across the room, took the paper from Blanche's unresisting hands, and satisfied herself of the worst. A special paragraph of nearly six lines was devoted to the fate of "this gallant and promising young officer, who was last seen waving his men on in a brilliant attack which he led against a numerous horde of savages; the enemy were driven from their defences at all points; but we regret to learn Cornet Kettering was reported missing at nightfall, and we have reason to fear, from the barbarous and ferocious character of Kaffir warfare, it will be almost impossible to recover or identify his remains."

And was this the end of all? Was this the fate of the bright, happy, beloved boy, whose image, as she last saw him, radiant in health and hope, had never since left her mind?--mangled--defaced--butchered--dead!--that awful word comprised everything--never to see him more, never to hear his voice; to feel as if it was all a dream, as if it had never been; as if there was no Past, and there would be no Future--that the deadening, heavy, soul-sickening Present was to be all! But she could not give him up like this: the report was dated immediately previous to the departure of the mail, and there might be a possibility of error. Steadily, calmly, closely, like a heroine as she was, Mary read through the whole official account of the engagement, word for word, and line for line; how "the Brigadier had received information of the enemy's movements, and had held himself in readiness, and had given such and such orders, and executed such and such movements," all detailed in the happy, self-satisfied style which characterises official accounts of the game of death; how in a previous report his Excellency had been apprised of the capture of so many head of cattle, and the submission of so many chiefs with hard names; and how the Brigadier had great pleasure in informing his Excellency of the further capture of several thousand oxen, and the discomfiture of more chiefs, and all with a loss of life trifling compared to the important results of this brilliant _coup-de-main_. How the troops, and the levies, and the Hottentots, had each and all reaped their share of laurels, by their gallantry in attack, their steadiness under fire, and general cheerfulness and good discipline through long, toilsome marches and hara.s.sing privations; and how the Brigadier's own thanks were due to officers commanding regiments, and officers commanding companies, and his _aides-de-camp_, and his quartermaster, and his medical staff, and all the brave fellows who had won their share in the triumph of the hour; and the report concluded with a few feeling words of manly regret for those who had earned a soldier's grave, amongst whom poor "Old Swipes," shot down as he led his men so gallantly to the attack, was not forgotten; whilst a line of concern for the uncertainty attending Cornet Kettering's fate (otherwise honourably mentioned in the dispatch) wound up the whole. All this Mary read with a painful distinctness that seemed to burn every word into her brain, and from it she gathered, indeed, small hope and small consolation. Truly, war is a fine thing in the abstract! The martial music, the flaunting colours, the steady tramp of bold, bronzed men, exulting in their freemasonry of danger, the enthusiasm of the spectators, the professional charlatanry (we use the word with no disrespectful meaning) which pervades the brotherhood,--all this is taking enough when the engine is in repose; and then the joys of a campaign, the continual change of scene, the never-flagging excitement, the little luxuries of the bivouac, the rough good-fellowship of the march, and the boiling, thrilling excitement of the encounter--all these doubtless have their charms when the machine is put into action; but there is a sad reverse to the picture, and those who read with the military enthusiasm of ignorance such captivating accounts of brilliant strategy and daring heroism, should recollect that the same Gazette which makes captains and colonels, makes also widows and orphans; that eyes are gushing and hearts breaking over those very lines that bid the uninterested peruser thrill with warlike ardour and half-envious pride in the deeds of arms of his countrymen. The greatest hero of the age has recorded his opinion of those scenes in which he reaped his own immortal laurels, when he said, "he prayed G.o.d he might never again see so frightful a calamity as a national war;"

and his opinion has been often quoted, to the effect that a battle won was the next most horrible sight to a battle lost. Far and wide spreads the crop of misery that springs from that iron shower. Its effects are not confined to wasted fields and blackened houses, and devoted ranks stretched where they fell in all the ghastly distortions of violent death. Far, far away, in happy homes and peaceful families, women and children must wail and pine in vain for him whom they will never see again on earth; and the ounce of lead that carries death into that loyal, kind heart, scatters misery and grief, and penury, perhaps, and ruin, over the gentle dependents here at home in England, that have none to trust to, none to care for them, save him who lies cold and stiff upon the field of glory. Glory! when will men learn the right meaning of the word?

Well, three lines in the Gazette had brought misery enough to the inmates of the house in Grosvenor Square. How paltry to them now seemed the household cares and little money arrangements that had occupied their morning consultation. What was there to arrange for now? What signified it how things went? He would never return to enjoy the fruits of their care. What mattered it who had the house, and the fortune, and the plate, and the personalities, and all the paltry dross, which now showed its real value?--to-morrow it will begin again to resume its fict.i.tious appearance, for grief pa.s.ses as surely as does the cloud. But to-day, the General and Blanche are almost stupefied, and can think of nothing but Charlie--dear, _dear_, lost Charlie. The old man sits rocking to and fro, in violent paroxysms, frightful in one of his age--who would have thought he had so much feeling left in him?--and Blanche is exhausted with weeping, and lies with her face buried, and her long golden hair trailing over the sofa cushions, incapable of thought or exertion. Mary alone retains her presence of mind; Mary alone vindicates her n.o.ble nature in the hour of trial; Mary alone is fit to command; and Mary alone resolves upon what is best to be done, and proceeds at once to put her schemes into execution. There is but one person to apply to for advice and a.s.sistance: there is but one friend in whom the bereaved family can confide; who should it be but kind, generous, bold-hearted Frank Hardingstone? Mary puts on her bonnet and shawl: out of the confused ma.s.s in the hall she selects Mr. Hardingstone's card, ascertains his address, and without saying a word about her intentions, sallies forth to seek him out, primed with the eloquence of a woman's hopeless, unselfish love.

Frank has lingered on in London, he scarce knows why. He is training his strong, masculine mind to bear the loss of Blanche--for he feels that Blanche is lost to him--just as he would train to make any other effort, or endure any other suffering. His mornings are spent in close and severe study; his afternoons in those athletic exercises at which he is so proficient; and in the evening he goes into _men's_ society, as gentlemen do when they are sore about the other s.e.x, and tries to be amused, and to enter into the frivolities and pastimes of his a.s.sociates, and succeeds sometimes indifferently badly, sometimes not at all. Strange visitors are admitted to Frank's morning-room at the hotel where he puts up--the waiter cannot make him but at all. Now, an engineer, in his Sunday clothes, but with a rough chin and grimy hands, is closeted with him all the morning, and the waiter overhears casual expressions, such as "power," and "gradients," and "angles,"

and "the motive," and "the bite," and "the catch," which, on the principle of _omne ignotum pro terribili_, make his hair stand on end.

Then, just as he had made up his mind that Mr. Hardingstone is _professional_, and not a _real_ gent after all, some live Duke or magnificent Marquis comes in with his hat on, and says, "Frank, my dear fellow, how goes it?" and the waiter's conclusions are again completely upset. Then an archaeologian, with smooth white neckcloth and well-brushed beaver, steps gravely up-stairs, and remains for hours discussing the probable site of some problematic edifice which there is reason to suppose _might_ have been pulled down by the Confessor; and on this interesting topic they lavish a store of knowledge, penetration, and research rather disproportioned to the result arrived at, till the archaeologian stays to have luncheon, and shows no small energy even at that. The waiter begins to think Mr.

Hardingstone is a gent connected with the British Museum (for which inst.i.tution he entertains a superst.i.tious reverence), and possibly a fellow-labourer with Layard and Rawlinson. But again, twice a week, an individual is admitted whose general appearance is so much the reverse of the respectable, sleek archaeologian, that the waiter finds it impossible to reconcile the contradiction of Mr. Hardingstone's being, as he terms it, "_in_ with both." This latter visitor is of athletic frame, and remarkably forbidding countenance, none the less so from an originally snub nose having been smashed into a sort of plaster over the adjoining territory. His hair is cut as short as is consistent with the use of scissors, and his arms, in very tight sleeves, hang down his sides as if they were in the last stage of powerless fatigue.