Part 7 (2/2)
”Certainly, if you wish it,” was the reply, ”though probably we don't mean the same lady. There is a Miss Hallaton that answers to your description, and she _was_ at the races yesterday. Daughter of Sir Henry Hallaton, rather a good-looking, oldish man, in a white hat and red neckcloth.”
”That's it!” exclaimed Picard; ”I spotted the father, red neckcloth and all! Depend upon it you're right, and it must have been Miss----What's her name? Hallaton? Well, all I can say is, I've not seen a better-looking one since I left Charleston, and very few who could beat her there. Do they go much to London? Do they live anywhere near here? I think the governor's a loosish fish. I saw him drinking 'cup' with some queer-looking people behind my coach, and he was in and out of the Ring all day. Beg pardon, Vanguard, if they're friends of yours. I didn't mean to say anything disagreeable, I give you my word.”
”Oh! I don't know them very well,” said Frank, growing red, and feeling that he was making himself ridiculous. ”I stayed with them last winter, near Bragford. Capital place to hunt from, and Sir Henry was very kind and hospitable. If you're quite done, shall we come outside? The drag will start in an hour, and I will have a place kept for you, if you'd like to go with the others from here.”
”I am not going at all,” answered Picard. ”The fact is, I'm not much of a racing man, and two days running is rather a benefit. Don't let me put you out in your arrangements, I beg. This is a beautiful neighbourhood, and I've been so much abroad, that I quite enjoy the air, and the English scenery, and the rest of it. I'd rather take a quiet walk while you're all at the races; but I'll stay and see you start the team notwithstanding.”
”Not going!” thought Frank. ”How very odd! Now, what can a fellow like this have to do down here on the sly? Country walk! Gammon! He's after some robbery, I'll lay a hundred!” But he only _said_:
”My Cornet's going to drive. I don't think I shall be on the Heath at all, unless I gallop a hack over in the afternoon.”
”Hot work,” answered Picard carelessly. ”I thought everybody was keen about racing, except me.” But he too wondered at the taste of his entertainer in thus preferring a solitary morning to a pleasant drive in the merriest of company, accounting for it on a theory of his own.
”War-path, of course! and, keen as a true Indian, means to follow it up alone. Got 'sign,' no doubt, and sticks to the trail like a wolf. Won't come back, I'll lay a thousand, without 'raising hair.' Ah! this child, too, could take scalps once, and hang them round his belt, with the best of ye! And _now_----Well, I'm about no harm to-day, at any rate, and that's refres.h.i.+ng, if it's only for a change!”
So he sat himself down on a garden seat in front of the officers'
quarters, where, producing a case the size of a portmanteau, filled with such cigars as are only consumed by trans-Atlantic smokers, and, offering them liberally all round, he soon became the centre of an admiring circle, civil as well as military, to whom he related sundry experiences of international warfare in the States, well told, interesting, no doubt, and more startling than probable.
Mr. Picard had certain elements of popularity, such as launch a man in general society fairly enough, but fail to afford him secure anchorage in that restless element. He was good-looking, well-dressed, plausible, always ready to eat, drink, smoke, dance, play, or, indeed, partake in the amus.e.m.e.nt of the hour. He looked like a gentleman, but n.o.body knew who he was. He seemed to have a sufficiency of money, but n.o.body knew where he got it. The _Court Guide_ vouched for him as J. Picard, Esq., under the letter ”P,” with two addresses, a first-rate hotel and a third-rate club. The _Morning Post_ even took charge of him in its fas.h.i.+onable arrivals and departures. Men began to know him after ”the Epsom Spring,” and by Hampton Races he had ceased to arouse interest, scarcely even excited curiosity, but had failed to make a single female acquaintance above the cla.s.s of Mrs. Battersea; nor had he, indeed, gained one step of the social ladder people take such pains to climb, in order to obtain, after all, but a wider view from Dan to Beersheba.
Such men crop up like mushrooms at the beginning of every London season, and fade like annuals with the recess. Goodwood sees the last expiring blaze of their splendour, and next year, if you ask for them, they are extinct; but, as the Highland soldier says, ”There are plenty more where they come from.” In dress, style, manner, they vary but little. All dine constantly at Richmond, shoot well, and drive a team, in the handling of which they improve vastly as the season wears on.
Mr. Picard could, however, lay claim to a little more interest than the rest, in his character of a soldier-adventurer, to which he was ent.i.tled by service with the Confederates during their prolonged struggle against overwhelming odds. Somehow, every soldier-adventurer concerned in that war seems to have been a Southerner. Certainly the romance was all on their side, though the scale, weighed down by ”great battalions,” turned in favour of the North. From his own account, Picard had done his ”little best,” as he called it, for the party he espoused; and observing a gash on his cheek, which could only be a sabre-cut, it was hard to listen coldly while he talked of Stonewall Jackson and Brigadier Stuart as ordinary men do of Bright and Gladstone--perhaps with no more familiar knowledge of the heroes than a general public has of these statesmen. Still, the subject was captivating and well treated, the contrast between Stuart's das.h.i.+ng, desperate, rapidly-moving light hors.e.m.e.n and Her Majesty's Cuira.s.siers of the Guard was exciting, the similarity in many points flattering to both. Cornets listened open-mouthed, and felt the professional instinct rising strong in their martial young souls; older officers smiled approbation, not disdaining to gather hints from one who had seen _real_ warfare, as to nosebags, haversacks, picket-ropes, and such trifling minutiae as affect the efficiency of armies and turn the tide of campaigns. When the drag appeared n.o.body discovered that Frank Vanguard had made a masterly retreat; and Picard had received as many invitations to remain and be ”put-up” in barracks as would have lasted him till the regiment changed quarters, and his entertainers had found out half he said was an _old_ story and the other half not true.
CHAPTER VIII.
JUNE ROSES.
Uncle Joseph was a good judge of many things besides bonds, debentures, shares, and scrip. When he bought ”The Lilies” we may be sure he had his wits about him, and made no imprudent investment. A prettier villa never was reflected in the Thames. Huge elms, spreading cedars, delicate acacias quivering in the lightest air, the very point-lace of the forest, were grouped by Nature's master-hand round a wide-porched, creeper-clad building, with long low rooms, and windows opening on a lawn, all aglow with roses budding, blus.h.i.+ng, blooming, to the water's edge. It was a little Paradise of leaf and flower and stream, such as is only to be found on the banks of our London river; such as calls up at sight images of peace and love and hope, and sweet untried romance for the young and trustful; such as wafts a thrill, not altogether painful, to the hearts of weary, wayworn travellers, for whom, in all that golden belief of the Past, there is nothing real now but a memory and a sigh.
Such a lawn, such a scene, such flowers, were thoroughly in keeping with such a woman as Mrs. Lascelles, moving gracefully among the roses under a summer sky.
So thought poor Goldthred, emerging from the French windows of the breakfast-room for a _tete-a-tete_ with his G.o.ddess, that might last half an hour, that might be cut short (he knew her caprices) in less than five minutes! A _tete-a-tete_ from which he hoped to advance positively and tangibly in her favour, but which, like many others of the same kind, he feared might terminate in disappointment, discomfiture, despair.
Breakfast, with this unfortunate young man, had been a repast of paroxysms, alternating between rapture and dismay, such as completely destroyed anything like appet.i.te or digestion. It was all very well for Uncle Joseph to go twice at the ham on the side-table, and devour such a lump of _pate de foie gras_ as would have choked a coal-heaver. It was all very well for Sir Henry, lounging down when everybody else had nearly done, avowedly with no appet.i.te, after a cup of exceedingly hot coffee, to play as good a knife and fork as an Eton boy. It was all very well for the ladies, Mrs. Lascelles especially, to peck here and peck there--a slice of chicken, a strawberry, a bit of toast, an egg, a morsel of m.u.f.fin, the least possible atom of pie--till each had made a pretty substantial meal. But could their heartless voracity stifle _his_ (Goldthred's) sensibilities, or prevent his food tasting like leather, his tea like camomiles? Breakfast was over ere he recovered his proper senses, and then it was too late! The tonic so long denied this patient sufferer consisted of a few words from Mrs. Lascelles, not addressed, indeed, to himself, but accompanied by a glance he interpreted correctly, and accepted with delight.
”Uncle Joseph,” said she, ”your roses are shamefully neglected, and I shall inspect them thoroughly when I've drunk my tea.”
Uncle Joseph, who, for sanitary reasons, never stirred till half an hour had elapsed after eating, grunted acquiescence; but Goldthred, unmindful of the _convenances_, rapturously followed his tyrant into the garden, the instant her muslin skirt disappeared over the window-sill.
She waited till they were out of sight from the house, then gathered a rose, fragrant, blooming, lovable as herself, and gave it him with a winning smile.
”I've got something to say to you, Mr. Goldthred--something I don't want everybody else to hear.”
But for the flower pressed close against his lips, he felt that his heart must have leaped out of his mouth, and fallen at her feet. Never a word he spoke, but the light in his eyes, the glow on his face were answer enough.
”You won't be offended?” she continued, gathering rose after rose, and tying them up in a cl.u.s.ter, as she walked on. ”You won't be cross, unreasonable, unkind? Indeed, it's for your own sake quite as much as mine. Mr. Goldthred, you can do me a great favour. Promise now; will you do it?”
He made no bargain; he showed no hesitation, but his very ears were crimson with sincerity while he answered:
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