an indulgence, I should be happy to afford him any amusement in my power.”
“You have met a few persons of that kind at my house,” said M. Silvain, archly.
“I have; and if they preserve as pleasant recollections of me, as I do of them, there is a good deal of agreeable reminiscence scattered about the world. But fresh faces are almost as necessary to one as fresh air, dear Silvain.”
“Connu,” responded his companion. “I will do my best. But you will not be proud, and if my friend should not quite come up to your standard of elegance—”
“What are we that we should be proud,” said Adair, relapsing into his old bantering manner. “Worms, dust, ashes,—what does it matter with whom we play at écarté, if he have money in his purse?”
“I think that I can manage an agreeable introduction, and not an unprofitable one.”
“Expect me at eight, then, prepared, if you succeed, to show my sense of your hospitality, and if you do not, to favour you with some more of my troubles. And you will make me very happy, if I find you are able to tell me that I am forgiven by Mademoiselle.”
“I shall not see her to-day,” said Silvain.
“Miserable man—and yet great man, for even your own distress you can take thought for the advantage of your friend. Jonathan and Pythias were but types of you, my dear Silvain.”
The Frenchman had heard of Pythias, though never of Jonathan, and made fitting reply.
When they had separated, Ernest Adair soliloquised after his usual fashion.
“I am a clear gainer by this transaction. I have got those napoleons, francs, and half-francs, and I have got the information that they think it necessary to watch me, and therefore have planted their spy. That’s fair enough. But, in revenge, I have sent a bombshell into the camp of the enemy, and it will be lighted there by their own man. I will not be driven into spoiling a good game by hurrying it; the true artist takes his time, and never permits himself to grow impatient—but there is reason in all things,f they are plotting to get money for me, and merely wish to keep me amused while they are doing it, that is a considerateness for which I kiss their hands. And if they are growing nervous while the delay occurs, and wish to know how am conducting myself, and therefore employ M. Silvain, I can only feel complimented at the bought they bestow upon me. Therefore, pleased, and thankful for all mercies, let us prepare ourselves by a quiet dinner, for showing M. Silvain’s new friend the art of turning up the king, or rather let us remember that ars est celare artem.”
CHAPTER XXXI.
When Robert Urquhart had seen the train in motion, and had waved his farewell to Lygon, the Scotsman, for the first time perhaps in his busy life, walked off in a slow and sauntering manner, and took any streets that came in his way, whether they were also in the way to the hotel or not. He was greatly troubled in his mind, and nearly trod many sprawling children to death in his elephantine progress, answering the shrill remonstrances of the mothers with a growl, and a bit of exceedingly plain Scotch nomenclature.
For though in his heart he believed what he had called upon Lygon to believe, and he doubted not that the problem of Mrs. Lygon’s journey to France would be solved by some revelation of feminine absurdity, committed under the influence of feminine terror, both of which attributes of woman Mr. Urquhart held in considerable disesteem, he had a double reason for being much displeased at Laura’s conduct. In the first place he had strong Scottish views of the marriage tie, and of the extreme impropriety of a wife’s ever presuming to act without the sanction of him whom the Scripture declares her Head; and in the second place, he had a keener insight into the character of Arthur Lygon than might have been supposed by an indifferent spectator of the almost rough passages in their second interview. On the former point Urquhart might have felt that he should have little to say, should Arthur Lygon choose to take an indulgent view of Laura’s proceedings, but Robert Urquhart had his own reasons for believing it more than doubtful whether Lygon would really take that view, and whether what the Scot considered a very wrong, not to say wicked step on the part of the wife, might not permanently alienate the affections of the husband. It was in this doubt, and from Urquhart’s most earnest desire to prevent evil and estrangement, that he had laid so much stress upon the assurances which he gave Lygon of the absolute certainty of Laura’s coming with honour from the ordeal; but Robert Urquhart was very, very far from feeling towards her, when he began to reflect upon the circumstances, anything like the cordiality he had expressed when endeavouring to work upon the heart of Lygon. Urquhart had said, truly enough, that nothing should have induced him to try to defend Laura, were he not convinced of her innocence, but when he had done with the defence, and had parted with his friend, and had leisure to weigh her conduct in the balance, he pronounced it greatly wanting. Indeed the more he reflected upon it, the more harshly he felt disposed to judge her, and as for the kindly thought and suggested kiss with which he had closed his appeal, these he utterly retracted, and became as little inclined to deal gently with her, as ever Knox showed himself with regard to the unfortunate Queen of Scots. Nor was this severity merely the result of a habit of placing a severe interpretation on the words of the marriage-bond.
Urquhart, as we have said, knew Arthur Lygon well. They had been a good deal thrown together in earlier life, and although their natures differed, there was in them that amount of difference and that amount of resemblance which, in union, draw together those whom the world is surprised to see closely attached. On the special features in the character of each it may not be necessary to dwell, until these are developed by subsequent incidents, but upon a single point it is desirable to say enough to explain the state of mind in which Urquhart found himself. Intimately acquainted with the