year, did advisedly, and with the intention of rendering the term indefinite, entrust her guileless person to Mr. George Uploft’s honourable charge. The rumour, unflavoured by absolute malignity, was such; and it went on to say, that the sublime Mel, alive to the honour of his family, followed the fugitives with a pistol, and with a horsewhip, that he might chastise the offender according to the degree of his offence. It was certain that he had not used the pistol: it was said that he had used the whip. The details of the interview between Mel and Mr. George were numerous, but at the same time various. Some declared that he put a pistol to Mr. George’s ear, and under pressure of that persuader got him into the presence of a clergyman, when he turned sulky; and when the pistol was again produced, the ceremony would have been performed, had not the outraged Church cried out for help. Some vowed that Mr. George had referred all questions implying a difference between himself and Mel to their mutual fists for decision. At any rate, Mr. George turned up in Fallowfield subsequently; the fair Louisa, unhurt and with a quiet mind, in Lymport; and this amount of truth the rumours can be reduced to—that Louisa and Mr. George had been acquainted. Rumour and gossip know how to build: they always have some solid foundation, however small.
Upwards of twelve years had run since Louisa went to the wife of the brewer—a period quite long enough for Mr. George to forget anyone in; and she was altogether a different creature; and as it was true that Mr. George was a dull one, she was, after the test she had put him to, justified in hoping that Mel’s progeny might pass unchallenged anywhere out of Lymport. So, with Mr. George facing her at table, the Countess sat down, determined to eat and be happy.
A man with the education and tastes of a young country squire, is not likely to know much of the character of women; and of the marvellous power they have of throwing a veil of oblivion between themselves and what they don’t want to remember, few men know much. Mr. George had thought, when he saw Mrs. Strike leaning to Evan, and heard she was a Harrington, that she was rather like the Lymport family; but the reappearance of Mrs. Strike, the attention of the Duke of Belfield to her, and the splendid tactics of the Countess, which had extinguished every thought in the thought of himself, drove Lymport out of his mind.
There were some dinner-guests at the table—people of Fallowfield, Beckley, and Bodley. The Countess had the diplomatist on one side, the Duke on the other. Caroline was under the charge of Sir Franks. The Countess, almost revelling in her position opposite Mr. George, was ambitious to lead the conversation, and commenced, smiling at Melville:
“We are to be spared politics to-day? I think politics and cookery do not assimilate.”
“I’m afraid you won’t teach the true Briton to agree with you,” said Melville, shaking his head over the sums involved by this British propensity.
“No,” said Sir John. “Election dinners are a part of the Constitution,” and Andrew laughed: “They make Radicals pay as well as Tories, so it’s pretty square.”
The topic was taken up, flagged, fell, and was taken up again. And then Harry Jocelyn said:
“I say, have you worked the flags yet? The great Mel must have his flags.”
The flags were in the hands of ladies, and ladies would look to the rosettes, he was told.
Then a lady of the name of Barrington laughed lightly, and said:
“Only pray, my dear Harry, don’t call your uncle the ‘Great Mel’ at the election.”
“Oh! very well,” quoth Harry: “why not?”
“You’ll get him laughed at—that’s all.”
“Oh! well, then, I won’t,” said Harry, whose wits were attracted by the Countess’s visage.
Mrs. Barrington turned to Seymour, her neighbour, and resumed:
“He really would be laughed at. There was a tailor—he was called the Great Mel—and he tried to stand for Fallowfield once. I believe he had the support of Squire Uploft—George’s uncle—and others. They must have done it for fun! Of course he did not get so far as the hustings; but I believe he had flags, and principles, and all sorts of things worked ready. He certainly canvassed.”
“A tailor—canvassed—for Parliament?” remarked an old Dowager, the mother of Squire Copping. “My! what are we coming to next?”
“He deserved to get in,” quoth Aunt Bel: “After having his principles worked ready, to eject the man was infamous.”
Amazed at the mine she had sprung, the Countess sat through it, lamenting the misery of owning a notorious father.
Bowing over wine with the Duke, she tried another theme, while still, like a pertinacious cracker, the Great Mel kept banging up and down the table.
“We are to have a feast in the open air, I hear. What you call pic-nic.”
The Duke believed there was a project of the sort.
“How exquisitely they do those things in Portugal! I suppose there would be no scandal in my telling something now. At least we are out of Court-jurisdiction.”
“Scandal of the Court!” exclaimed his Grace, in mock horror.
“The option is yours to listen. The Queen, when young, was sweetly pretty; a divine complexion; and a habit of smiling on everybody. I presume that the young Habral, son of the first magistrate of Lisbon, was also smiled on. Most innocently, I would swear! But it operated on the wretched youth! He spent all his fortune in the purchase and decoration of a fairy villa, bordering on the Val das Rosas, where the Court enjoyed its rustic festivities, and one day a storm! all the ladies hurried their young mistress to the house where the young Habral had been awaiting her for ages. None so polished as he! Musicians started up, the floors were ready, and torches beneath them!—there was a feast of exquisite wines and viands sparkling. Quite en-