Guy Livingstone Part 5

"Do you remember Arthur Darrell, of Christchurch, Frank, the man that used to speak at the Union, and was always raving about ebon locks and dark eyes?"

"I remember him well. I have not seen him for years; but I heard he was getting on well in the law."

"He'll have time to get tired of brunettes--if any one ever _does_ get tired of them--before he comes back," said Guy. "He's just gone out to try the Indian bar."

"What could have put such an idea into his head?" I asked, very innocently.

"I can't say," was the reply; "men do take such curious fancies. It was a sudden determination, I believe. The beauties of the Eastern hemisphere began to develop themselves to his weak mind last summer while he was down with his people in--Devons.h.i.+re."

Involuntarily I looked at Miss Bellasys. She saw she was detected; but, instead of betraying any embarra.s.sment, she turned upon Guy a queer little imploring look, not indicative in the least of shame or repentance, but such as might be put on by one of those truly excellent people who do good by stealth and blush to find it known, when some of their benevolent acts have come to light, and they wish to deprecate praise.

Livingstone gazed piercingly at her for several instants without moving a muscle of his face; suddenly its fixed and stern expression--you could not say softened, but--broke up all at once like a sheet of ice s.h.i.+vering.

"Let there be peace," he said, sententiously. "We forgive all the errors of your long vacation in consideration of the good it has evidently done you. You are looking brilliantly!"

There was an unusual softness, almost a tremor, in his deep voice as he spoke the last words, and a look in his bold eyes that many trained coquettes would have shrunk from--a look that I should be sorry and angry to see turned on any woman in whom I felt an interest--a look such as Selim Pasha might wear as the Arnauts defile into his harem-court, bringing the fair Georgians home.

Flora Bellasys only smiled in saucy triumph.

"You say you never pay compliments," she answered, "and I always _try_ to believe you. We will suppose this one is only the truth extorted. My glove--thank you." The same smile was on her lip as she turned her head once in her haughty progress to the door.

As Guy sat down again, and filled a huge gla.s.s with claret, I heard him mutter between his teeth, "_Royale, quand meme_!"

"Close up, gentlemen, close up!" broke in the cheery voice of our rare old host. "Livingstone, if you begin back-handing already, you'll never be able to hold that great raking chestnut I saw your groom leading this evening. The man looked as if he thought he would be eaten before he got in."

"Whatever you do, drink fair," Guy answered, laughing; "so saith the immortal Gamp. The squire's beginning to tremble for his '22 wine."

"I don't wonder," said G.o.dfrey Parndon, the M.F.H. "I've always observed that, after flirting disgracefully at dinner, you drink harder afterward. It's to drown remorse, I suppose. So you ride that new horse of yours to-morrow? My poor hounds!"

"Don't be alarmed," cried Guy; "he never kicks hounds, and I won't let him go over them; it's only human strangers the amiable animal can't endure: that's why I call him the Axeine. He is worth more than the 300 I gave for him."

"Well, he nearly spoiled two grooms for Hounscott," Parndon said. "The stablemen at Revesby had a great beer the day they got rid of him."

"He wouldn't suit every one," remarked Livingstone--"not you, for instance, G.o.dfrey, who always ride with a loose rein. I was obliged to give him his gallops myself at first; he's a devil to pull, and if he once gets away with you, you may 'write to your friends.' But I've nothing like him in my stable."

Then the conversation became general, revolving in a circle of hound-and-horse talk, as it will do now and then in the s.h.i.+res.

"Guy," whispered Forrester, as we went up stairs, "there's a little woman here who says she used to know you very well: won't you go and talk to her?"

"Many little women say that," answered Guy; "it's a way they have. Which is it, now?"

Charley pointed out a small, plump, rather pretty blonde, with long ringlets, and light, laughing blue eyes. It seemed the lady's reminiscences were well founded, for in five minutes Livingstone and she were talking like old friends.

In the course of the evening I found myself near Miss Bellasys. This time she did me the honor to address me, and soon began asking me more questions than I could answer, even had she waited a reply. Did I like Kerton Manor? Had there been many agreeable people there yet? Not any remarkably so! She was surprised at that. Miss Raymond was there _en permanence_, of course? She was such a favorite with her (Flora), and with her cousin too, she thought. Was Mr. Livingstone always playing with his uncle, and always losing? She supposed he liked losing--at play. Did I know the lady in pink, with twenty-five flowers in her hair?

She had counted them. Yes, that was her husband, the stout man looking uncomfortable, in the corner--an old friend of Mr. Livingstone's? He had so many old friends; but he did not always talk to them for a whole evening without intermission. Ah! she was going to sing; that is, if Mr. Livingstone had quite finished with her, and would let her go.

Little women with pink cheeks and dresses always _did_ sing, and never had any voice.

I don't know how many more questions she put to me in the same quiet, clear tones; but just then I happened to look down on the handkerchief she held in her hand, and I saw a long rent in its broad Valenciennes border that I am very sure was not there an hour ago; for Flora's toilette, morning and evening, was faultless to a degree.

I had hardly time to remark this when Guy lounged up to us. My companion's dark eyes were more eloquent than her lips, which quivered slightly as she said,

"I wonder you have not more consideration. A new arrival in the county, and compromised irretrievably! Look at Mr. Stafford now."

"The husband?" Guy said, with intense disdain; "the husband's helpless.

He may sharpen his--tusks, but he'll never come to battle. How good and great you are! It is quite refres.h.i.+ng to hear your strictures on innocent amus.e.m.e.nts. But I beg you will speak of that lady with due respect; she is the first--yes, positively the first--woman I ever loved."

"_Monseigneur, que d'honneur!_" Flora said, curling her haughty lip.

"It is true," Guy went on. "At a children's ball, about fifteen years ago, I met my fate. She was in white muslin, with a velvet bodice (Flora shuddered visibly); for a year after I pictured to myself the angels in no other attire, and now--years vitiate one's tastes so--I can fancy nothing but a jockey in 'black body and white sleeves.' I suppose she was very pretty; let us hope so; it is my only excuse for being enchanted in ten minutes, and stupidly enslaved in half an hour. The thing would not have been complete without a rival; he came--a plump, circular-faced boy, with severely flaxen hair. No, you need not look across the room--not the least like what she is now! Great jealousy may make me unjust, but I don't think he had any advantage over me save one, and he used that mercilessly. He wore collars boldly erect under his fat checks, while those of the rest of us lay prostrate, after the simple fas.h.i.+on of my childhood. The _prestige_ was too much for Ellen's weak mind. (Did I tell you her name was Ellen?) Bottom monopolized t.i.tania for the rest of the evening. I could have beaten him with ease and satisfaction to myself, but I refrained; and, rus.h.i.+ng into the supper-room, drained three gla.s.ses of weak negus with the energy of despair.

"I have never suffered any thing since like the torment of the next two hours. I saw her several times afterward, and might have made play, perhaps, but the phantom of a round red face, with collars starched _a l'outrance_, always came between us. It is only a slight satisfaction to hear that she has utterly lost sight of my rival, and promises to cut him dead the first time they meet. There's the history of a young heart blighted--of a crushed affection! I am not aware if there is any moral in it; if there is, you are very welcome to it, I am sure. You might look a little more sympathizing, though, even if I _have_ bored you."

Flora tried to look grave, but the dancing light in her rebellious eyes betrayed her, even before her merry musical laugh broke in.

"It is far the most touching thing I ever heard. Poor child, how you must have suffered! I wonder you ever smiled again. How well she sings, does she not? when she does not try to go too high."

"Don't be severe," Guy retorted; "you may have to sing yourself some day. You prefer talking, though? Well, with a well-managed _contralto_, it comes nearly to the same thing, and I suppose you consider the world in general is not worthy of it?"

Almost imperceptibly, but very meaningly, her glance turned to where I sat close beside her.

"How absurd! you know why I don't sing often. To-night it would be--too cruel. (Flora's idea of modest merit was peculiar.) Now tell me, what are you going to ride to-morrow? We shall all go and see them throw off."

Without answering her question, he leaned over her, and said something too low for me to hear, which made her color brighten.

From a distant corner two ancient virgins, long past "mark of mouth,"

surveyed the proceedings with faces like moulds of lemon-ice. Flora glanced toward them this time, and said demurely, making a gesture of crossing her arms a _a la Napoleon I._, "Take care; from the summit of yonder sofa forty ages behold you."

The caution was a challenge; and so her hearer interpreted it as he sank down beside her.

I seemed to be lapsing rapidly into the terrible _third_ that spoils sport, so I left them; but not all the adjurations of G.o.dfrey Parndon invoking his favorite antagonist to the whist-table could draw Guy from his post again that evening.

I know men who would have given five years of life for the whisper that glided into his ear as he gave Miss Bellasys her candle on retiring, ten for the Parthian glance that shot its arrow home.

CHAPTER IX.

"I know the purple vestment; I know the crest of flame; So ever _rides_ Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name."

The next was a perfect hunting morning; a light breeze, steady from the southwest, and not too much sun; the very day when a scent, in and out of cover, would be a certainty, if there were any calculation on this contingency. Let us do our sisters justice--there is _one_ thing in nature more uncertain and capricious than the whims of womankind.

The hounds had come up with their usual train of officials, and of those steady-going sportsmen who love the pack better than their own children, and can call each individual in it by his name. G.o.dfrey Parndon was doing the civil to the "great men in Israel," his heaviest subscribers; pinks were gleaming in every direction through the clumps and belts of plantation, as the men came up at a hard gallop on their cover-hacks, or opened the pipes of their hunters by a stretch over the turf of the park.

On the hall steps stood Flora Bellasys--Penthesilea in a wide-awake and plume; a dozen men were round her, striving emulously for a word or a smile, and she held her own gallantly with them all. She was waiting patiently till Guy had lighted an obstinate cigar, and was ready to mount her. He understood putting her up better than any one else, she said. Perhaps he did; but, though he swung her into the saddle with one wave of his mighty arm as lightly as Lochinvar could have done, the arrangement of the skirt and stirrup seemed a problem hardly to be solved.

If there was any truth in the old Courland superst.i.tion that the display of a lady's ankle to the hunters before they started brought them luck, we ought to have had the run of the season that day.