argument with our good-natured and warm-hearted host, Mr. Danvers.
He would have felt far more at home leaping a five-barred gate, than whilst thus discussing the imperial policy of France with Lady Towcester—an ambassador’s widow, who therefore set up for a female diplomatist.
Indeed, to say the truth, Lady Caroline looked up from the folds of her sky-blue silk rather reassuringly towards Major Anton, who manifested some anxiety at Miss Morland’s question, and stroked his moustache with evident complacency as he thought of the pleasure of a good run at the side of this fair girl. It was not very difficult to see that she occupied all of the gallant Major’s mind which the requirements of “the service,” his horses, and dogs, had not previously engrossed.
The moment that an opportunity occurred, Mr. Danvers was glad to effect a retreat from Lady Towcester. She manifested her victory by the very decided air of triumph with which she turned to talk with a quiet old lady at her side, one of those well-informed conversational machines—so helpful to shy young ladies—so necessary to nervous bachelors—and so indispensable to small dinner-parties.
Our host came across the room to the couch on which I was seated between a charming Anglo-Indian—whose husband was perhaps at that moment on parade beneath a glaring sun—and a Miss Keith, who, with her father, a Herefordshire squire, formed part of the company, and whose acquaintance I had made during a previous visit.
“Come, ladies, and you, Mr. Templar, what are you going up to in the morning? You must hunt or shoot; we have no skulkers here. Tomkins will show you some fine sport in the covers, Mrs. Linton, if you won’t follow the hounds,—although, really, I don’t know what will become of your crinoline down in the Ashwood spinney, where, even in the rides, there are brambles thick enough to throw a horse down.”
“I never hunted—in my life,” said Mrs. Linton.
“Nor I, but once or twice,” Miss Keith joined in.
“Nor I,” said their companion on the couch.
“Oh, as for you, Mr. Templar, I’ve already looked you out a horse, and I mean that you shall see a run, whether you can ride or not.”
“You must strap me on, then, Mazeppa-like,” I humbly replied, “for I am only a roadster, and might otherwise be left in the first ditch.”
“Oh, stuff an’ nonsense, sir; all you’ve got to do is to keep your hands low; don’t ride on your reins, and sit well back; my horse, Rover, will do the rest for you.”
“Perhaps, Mr. Danvers, I might as well be blindfolded,” said I, determined, nevertheless, to submit myself to fate and to the guidance of Rover in the chase of to-morrow.
“You’ll do well enough, I can see; and you won’t be far off at the finish, if you let Rover have his way.”
“And if I keep on his back, which you must permit me to say is rather doubtful.”
“Well, I hope Mrs. Linton and Miss Keith will go to take care of you.”
“I think we shall at least ride over to the meet,” said Mrs. Linton, looking towards Miss Keith, and receiving a consenting smile.
“So be it then,” said our host, “you shall have a couple of nags that won’t object if you change your mind, and like to see Mr. Templar win the brush, which,” he added with a sly twinkle of the eye, “I think he’d rather do with Miss Keith somewhere near him.”
I was thinking how pretty that young lady looked while blushing slightly at the Squire’s remark when a Mr. Delapierre summoned us to join in the game of “squails.” He was one of those heavy, easy-going men, whose life is a tour of visits; whom one meets everywhere; who are as regular to the seasons as the swallows; turning up at Baden-Baden or Brighton at precisely the right moment. Such men are the most useful, amiable, pleasant creatures, the perpetual stewards of society, continually engaged in the congenial occupation of retailing news and preparing amusements.
If cards were invented for a lunatic king, squails must have surely originated in an idiot asylum, or possibly some of the Lord Dundrearys of society may have invented the game when engaged in the study of that most wearisome occupation—doing nothing. Fancy a dozen people seated round a table, alternate ladies and gentlemen, engaged in jerking from its edge coloured circles of wood, something like an oyster-shell in size, at a button placed in the centre. Fancy this for a reasonable pastime.
It seemed to me that to know nothing about the game, or at least to appear to know nothing of it, was most advisable; for then some pitying lady perhaps takes you for a partner, and soon you find your tongue and possibly, if you are that way inclined, slide into a mild but somewhat public flirtation. Indeed it struck me that the game was probably the grand idea of some hymeneal professor, who knew that a baccalaurian conquest is half made when the light artillery of soft voices and bright eyes can be brought fully into action.
The weather was reported frosty as we bachelors had our privileged pipe in the smoking-room after the ladies had retired, and long grew the handsome face of Major Anton, as he thought of the probable disappointment of to-morrow.
“By Jove, you’re a lucky fellow, Anton,” said Delapierre, after emitting an immense puff of smoke.
“H’m, old fellow,” replied the Major, who seemed to be dwelling with great internal satisfaction upon thoughts of Lady Caroline, but was unwilling, as Englishmen usually are, to admit much upon this subject of his affections.
I confess to a liking for this proud reticence which distinguishes our countrymen. A Frenchman will talk you blind upon the subject of Julie’s eyes, or Nathalie’s grace, delighting in the publicity of his love, and, like Cervantes’ Don, he rides about with the name of his lady-love on the tip of his tongue. “But still waters run deep;” and that we do not thus prate of our feelings is some proof that as a people our heart-strings are tuned to deeper music, and that affection reaches