man could. Have a glass of sherry; you look quite pale.”
Little Ned was busy pressing kind hospitalities upon me, in his old, bright, chirping way.
“Make a good dinner, old fellow. Don’t hurry yourself; there’s loads of time. We’d given you up. I thought something had occurred to prevent your coming altogether, or else we would have waited for you. I’m so sorry the things should be half cold, as I’m afraid they are. Now let’s have a glass of wine all round.”
“And the disclosure,” said Jeffries.
“No, no. That’s to come afterwards.”
I had finished dinner, and the cloth had been removed. Mrs. Brisket bore an expression of intense thanksgiving that hitherto the banquet—the responsibilities of which evidently weighed heavily upon her—had passed off with a success that amounted almost to éclat. I found, however, that she looked grimly at me, as one who had threatened to become a sort of incarnate hitch in the business.
“Now then, gentlemen, try the port—the peculiar, old, crusted, many years in bottle: the port of extraordinary vintage, of the light green seal.”
“Are we to come now to the event of the evening?” asked Gilkes.
“Are you going to make a speech?” inquired Jeffries.
“No; this is a private meeting; speeches are for the public: besides, I don’t think I can conscientiously make one without a fee: and I know that none of you fellows have got any money. I’ll simply give you her health. I’m going to be married. I give you her health!”
“Her health!” we all echoed, solemnly, draining glasses of ‘the peculiar.’
“Are we to know no more?”
“Name! name!”
“Hear! hear!”
Little Ned rose. He was as near blushing as could be expected of a barrister—certainly he stammered a little.
“The lady’s name is Brigham.”
“What!” I cried.
“Brigham—Fanny Brigham.”
“The daughter of—”
“Captain Brigham—Royal Navy.”
I sank back in my chair.
“You’re ill I think, old man, ain’t you. Have some brandy—have some soda-water—have a cigar.”
“No, thank you. All right, pass the bottle.”
“Gilkes, the wine’s with you.”
It was evident I could say nothing in the presence of those two men, Gilkes and Jeffries. I must refrain from alluding further to the subject until they had taken their departure. They seemed to divine that I had some such object: and “the peculiar” that Gilkes got through! the cigars that Jeffries smoked! They moved at last, certainly with difficulty.
“Goo’-night! Goo’-night, old feller!”
And I was alone with Ned Ward. He doubled himself upon the sofa. Something seemed to have affected him to tears. It must have been the excitement of the occasion, or could it have been “the peculiar?”
“My dear Ned!”
“All right! Fire away—help yourself.”
“You must not marry Fanny Brigham!”
“Not marry Fanny Brigham? Who says I mustn’t marry Fanny Brigham? Who wants his head punched?”
“Now do be calm! Certain circumstances have come to my knowledge—”
“Oh, certain circumstances have come to your knowledge (very incoherently spoken); have they indeed?”
“Now, pray listen!”
“All right, old fellow!”
“She has a bee in her bonnet!”
I spoke as distinctly as possible. He opened his eyes as wide as he could, and seemed to be trying to stare through the wall, in a strange, vague, senseless way.
“Bee in her bonnet!” he staggeringly repeated; “bee in her bonnet! Go along—get out. She wears lilies of the valley and puce velvet ribbons. Soon, sir, the orange blossom, the orange blossom! Hip—hip! Charge your glasses! I give you Fanny Brigham—Fanny Brigham! Hurrah! For she’s a jolly good—”
He collapsed altogether on to the hearth-rug. It was useless to attempt to discuss the matter further. I lifted him on to his bed, and went out into the dismal early morning November air.
III.
About noon the next day I received a visit from Ward. He looked rather pale and fatigued; but, in answer to inquiries, said that he had never felt better in his life. He called, as he stated, to inquire after my health, as he was persuaded, from my sudden departure on the previous evening, that I had been exceedingly unwell.
“And about this Brigham business?” I said.
“Ah—yes. Was there not some discussion about it last night? Was it not Gilkes who said that the marriage should not take place?”
“No; I said so.”
“You! What extraordinary port wine that must have been! Why, my dear fellow, I was coming to you to ask you to act as my solicitor in the matter—to peruse the settlements, you know, and that sort of thing: it’s more delicate than doing it myself. More than that, I was going to ask you to be best man at the wedding.”
“But, my dear Ward, you don’t know all. Captain Brigham—”
“Ah, poor old fellow! Yes—I know. It’s sad, but it can’t be helped.”
“What do you mean? I’ve seen him!”
“What! poor old Brigham!”
“He came down here to consult me.”
“About the settlement?”
“No: his unhappy daughter’s state of mind.”
“Oh! he’s imposed upon you, has he? Went over all that old story.”
“And I’ve seen his daughter.”
“You have?”
“She also came here.”
“Well?”
“And I regret to say, that her manner confirmed her father’s statement. She’s light-headed, my dear Ward! I know she’s an angel—a