General Bounce Part 6

"I agree with Kettering," replies the Major; for our friend "Charlie"

it is, who is now surveying the country on foot, in a huge white great-coat, with a silver-mounted whip under his arm, and _no gloves_.

He is quite the "gentleman-rider," and has fully made up his mind to win the steeple-chase. For this has poor Haphazard been deprived of his usual sport in the field, and trained with such severity as Mr.

Snaffles has thought advisable; for this has his young master been shortening his stirrups and riding daily gallops, and running miles up-hill to keep him in wind, till there is little left of his original self save his moustaches, which have grown visibly during the winter; and for this have the ladies of the family been st.i.tching for days at the smartest silk jacket that ever was made (orange and blue, with gold tags), only pausing in their labours to visit Haphazard in the stable, and bring him such numerous offerings in the shape of bread, apples, and lump-sugar, that had Mr. Snaffles not laid an embargo on all "t.i.t-bits," the horse would ere this have been scarcely fit to run for a saddle!

Mrs. Delaval having been as severely bitten with the sporting mania as Blanche, they are even now sitting in the grand-stand perusing the list of the starters as if their lives depended on it--and each lady wears a blue and orange ribbon in her bonnet, the General, who escorts them, appearing in an alarming neckcloth of the same hues.

The stand is already nearly full, and Blanche, herself not the least attraction to many of the throng, has manuvred into a capital place with Mary by her side, and is in a state of nervous delight, partly at the gaiety of the scene, partly at the coming contest in which "Cousin Charlie" is to engage, and partly at the antic.i.p.ation of the Guyville ball, her first appearance in public, to take place this very night. Row upon row the benches have been gradually filling, till the a.s.semblage looks like a variegated parterre of flowers to those in the arena below. In that enclosed s.p.a.ce are gathered, besides the pride of the British army, swells and dandies of every different description and calibre. Do-nothing gentlemen from London, glad to get a little fresh air and excitement so cheap. Nimrods from "the shires"

come to criticise the performances, and suggest, by implication, how much better they could ride themselves. Horse-dealers, and professional "legs," of course, whose business it is to make the most of everything, and whose courteous demeanour is only equalled by the unblushing effrontery with which they offer "five points" less than the odds; nor, though last not least, must we omit to mention the _elite_ of Bubbleton, who have one and all cast up from "the Spout,"

as that salubrious town is sometimes denominated, as they always do cast up within reach of their favourite resort. Some of all sorts there are amongst _them_. Gentlemen of family, without inc.u.mbrances--gentlemen with inc.u.mbrances and no family; some with money and no brains--some with brains and no money; some that live on the fat of the land--others that live upon their wits, and pick up a subsistence therewith, bare as might be expected from the dearth of capital on which they trade. In the midst of them we recognise Frank Hardingstone, sufficiently conspicuous in his simple manly attire, amongst the chained and velveted and bedizened tigers by whom he is surrounded. He is talking to a remarkably good-looking and particularly well-dressed man, known to nearly every one on the course as Mr. Jason, the famous steeple-chase rider, who has come partly to sell Mr. Hardingstone a horse, partly to patronise the "soldiers'

performances," and partly to enjoy the gay scene which he is even now criticising. He is good enough to express his approval of the ladies in the stand, taking them _en ma.s.se_, though his fastidious taste cannot but admit that there are "some weedy-looking ones among 'em."

All this, however, is lost upon Frank Hardingstone, who has ears only for a conversation going on at his elbow, in which he hears Blanche's name mentioned, our friend Lacquers being the princ.i.p.al speaker.

"Three hundred thousand--I give you my honour, every penny of it!"

says that calculating worthy to a speculative dandy with enormous red whiskers, "and a _nice_ girl too--devilish well read, you know, and all that."

"I suppose old Bounce keeps a bright look-out though, don't he?"

rejoins his friend, who has all the appearance of a man that can make up his mind in a minute.

"Yeees," drawls Lacquers; "but it might be done by a fellow with some energy, you know; she _is_ engaged to young Kettering, her cousin--'family pot,' you know--and she's very spooney on him; still, I've half a mind to try."

"Why, the cousin will probably break his neck in the course of the day; you can introduce me to-night at the ball. By the way, what are they betting about this young Kettering? Can he ride any?"

"Not a yard," replies Lacquers, as he turns away to light a cigar, whilst Lord Mount Helicon--for the red-bearded dandy is no less a person than that literary peer--dives into the ring to turn an honest "_pony_," as he calls it, on its fluctuations.

"Look here, Mr. Hardingstone," exclaims the observant Jason, forcibly attracting Frank's notice to a feat which, as he keeps his eyes fixed on the stand, is going on behind him. "That's the way to put 'em at it, Major! well ridden, by the Lord Harry!" and Frank turns round in time to witness, with the shouting mult.i.tude and the half-frightened ladies, the gallant manner in which D'Orville's white horse clears the double post and rails to which Sir Ascot had objected.

The Major, it is needless to say, is a dauntless horseman, and, on being remonstrated with by Sir A. and his party on the impracticable nature of the leap which he had selected for them, and the young Mohair of the Heavies suggesting that the stewards should always be compelled to ride over the ground themselves, made no more ado, but turned the white horse at the unwelcome barrier, and by dint of a fine hand and a perfectly-broken animal, went "in and out" without touching, to the uproarious delight of the mob, and the less loudly expressed admiration of the ladies.

"That's what I call _in-and-out-clever_," observes Mr. Jason, as the shouting subsides, thinking he could not have done it better himself; and he too elbows his way into the ma.s.s of noise, hustling, and confusion that const.i.tutes the betting-ring.

"We ought to throw our 'bouquets' at the white horse!" says Mrs.

Delaval's next neighbour, a bold-looking lady of a certain age; and Mary recognises, with mingled feelings, her military adorer and his well-known grey charger, now showing the lapse of time only by his change of colour to pure white. "I'm afraid its all very dangerous,"

thinks Blanche, to whom it occurs for the first time that "Cousin Charlie" may possibly break his neck; but the General at this instant touches her elbow to introduce "Major D'Orville," who, having performed his official duties, has dismounted, and works his way into the stand to make the agreeable to the ladies, and "have a look at this Miss Kettering--the very thing, by Jove, if she is tolerably lady-like."

How different is the Major's manner to that of Lacquers, Uppercrust, and half the other unmeaning dandies whom Blanche is accustomed to see fluttering round her. He _has_ the least thing of a military swagger, which most women certainly like, more particularly when in their own case that lordly demeanour is laid aside for a soft deferential air, highly captivating to the weaker s.e.x; and n.o.body understands this better than D'Orville. The little he says to Blanche is quiet, amusing, and to the purpose. The heiress is agreeably surprised. The implied homage of such a man is, to say the least of it, flattering; and our cavalier has the good sense to take his leave as soon as he sees he has made a favourable impression, quite satisfied with the way in which he has "opened the trenches." At the moment he did so, on turning round he encountered Mary Delaval. She looked unmoved as usual, and put out her hand to him, as if they had been in the habit of meeting every day. With a few incoherent words he bent over those long well-shaped fingers; and an observant bystander might have had the good luck to witness a somewhat unusual sight--a Major of Hussars blushing to the very tips of his moustaches. Yes; the hardened man of the world, the experienced _roue_, the dashing _militaire_, had a heart, if you could only get at it, like the veriest clown then 'squiring his red-faced Dolly to "the races"--the natural for the moment overcame the artificial--and as Gaston edged his way down through nodding comrades and smiling ladies, the feeling uppermost in his heart was, "Heavens! how I love this woman still! and what a fool I am!" But sentiment must not be indulged to the exclusion of business, and the Major too forces his way into the betting-ring.

There they are, hard at it--_n.o.bblers_ and n.o.blemen--grooms and gentlemen--betting-house keepers and cavalry officers--all talking at once, all intent on having the best of it, and apparently all layers and no takers. "Eight to one agin Lady Lavender," says a stout capitalist, who looks like a grazier in his best clothes. "Take ten,"

lisps the owner, a young gentleman, apparently about sixteen. "I'll back Sober John." "I'll take nine to two about the Fox." "I'll lay against the field _bar three_." "I'll lay five ponies to two _agin_ Haphazard!" vociferates the capitalist. "Done!" cries Charlie, who is investing on his horse as if he owned the Bank of England. At this moment Frank Hardingstone pierces into the ring, and drawing Charlie towards the outskirts, begins to lecture him on the coming struggle, and to give him useful hints on the art of riding a steeple-chase; for Frank with his usual decision has resolved not to go into the stand to talk to Blanche till he has done all in his power to insure the success of her cousin. "Come and see the horse saddled, you conceited young jackanapes; don't fool away any more money; how do you know you'll win?" says Frank, taking the excited jockey by the arm and leading him away to where Haphazard, pawing and snorting, and very uneasy, is being stripped of his clothing, the centre of an admiring throng. "I know he can beat Lady Lavender," replies Charlie, whose conversation for the last week had been strictly "Newmarket"; "and he's five pounds better than the Fox; and Mohair is sure to make a mess of it with Bendigo--he owns he can't ride him; and there's nothing else has a chance except Sober John, a great half-bred brute!"

"Do you see that quiet-looking man talking to Jason there?" says Frank; "that's the man who is to ride Sober John--about the best _gentleman_ in England, and he's getting a hint from the best _professional_. Do you think _you_ can ride like Captain Rocket? Now, take my advice, Charlie, Haphazard is a nice-tempered horse, you _wait_ on Sober John--keep close behind him--ride over him if he falls--but whatever you see Captain Rocket do, _you do the same_--don't _come_ till you're safe over the last fence--and if you're not first, you'll be second!" Charlie promised faithfully to obey his friend's directions, though in his own mind he did not think it possible an _Infantry_ horse could win the great event--Sober John, if he belonged to any one in particular, being the property of Lieutenant Sharpes of the Old Hundredth, who stood to win a very comfortable sum upon the veteran steeple-chaser.

"They look nervous, Tim, most on 'em," observes Captain Rocket, while with his own hands he adjusts "the tackle," as he calls it, on his horse; and his friend "Tim" giving him a "leg up," he canters Sober John past the stand, none of the ladies thinking that docile animal has the remotest chance of winning. "He seems much too quiet," says Blanche, "and he's dreadfully ugly." "Beauty is not absolutely essential in _horses_, Miss Kettering," replies a deep, quiet voice at her elbow. Major D'Orville has resumed his place by her side. Though he thinks he is paying attention to Blanche, he cannot, in reality, forbear hovering about Mrs. Delaval. That lady, meanwhile, with clasped hands, is hoping with all her heart that Captain Rocket may _not win_. If "wishes were horses," we think this young gentleman now tearing down the course upon Haphazard, throwing the dirt round him like a patent turnip-cutter, would have a good many of hers to bear him on his victorious career. By the way, Mary has never found her glove; we wonder whether that foolish boy knows anything about it. And talking of gloves, look at that dazzling pair of white kids on a level with his chin, in which "Mohair, of the Heavies," is endeavouring to control Bendigo. He has had two large gla.s.ses of sherry, yet does he still look very pale--another, and yet another, comes striding past like a whirlwind--Sir Ascot rides Lady Lavender, and Cornet Capon is to pilot the Fox. It is very difficult to know which is which amongst the variegated throng, and the ladies puzzle sadly over their cards, in which, as is usually the case at steeple-chases, the colours are all set down wrong. Each damsel, however, has one favourite at least whom she could recognise in any disguise, and we may be sure that "blue-and-orange" is not without his well-wishers in the grand-stand.

Major D'Orville is an admirable cicerone, inasmuch as besides being steward, he has a heavy book on the race, and knows the capabilities of each horse to a pound, whatever may be his uncertainty as regards the riders. "Your cousin has a very fair chance, Miss Kettering--he seems to ride uncommonly well for _such a boy_; Sir Ascot wants nerve, and Mohair can't manage his horse." "See, they've got 'em in line," exclaims the General, who is in a state of frantic excitement altogether. "Silence, pray! he's going to--ah, the blundering blockhead, it's a false start!" Major D'Orville takes out his double-gla.s.ses, and proceeds quietly without noticing the interruption, "Then the Fox has been lame, and Capon is a sad performer; nevertheless, you shall have your choice, Miss Kettering, and I'll bet you a pair of gloves on the----By Jove, they're off," and the Major puts his gla.s.ses up in scarcely veiled anxiety, whilst Mary Delaval's heart beats thick and fast, as she strains her eyes towards the fleeting tulip-coloured throng, drawing gradually out from the dark ma.s.s of spectators that have gone to witness the start.

How easy it looks to go cantering along over a nice gra.s.s country, properly flagged out so as to insure the performers from making any mistakes; and how trifling the obstacles appear over which they are following each other like a string of wild geese, more particularly when you, the spectator, are quietly ensconced in a comfortable seat, sheltered from the wind, and viewing the sports at a respectful distance. Perhaps you might not think it quite such child's play were you a.s.sisting in the pageant on the back of a headstrong, powerful horse, rendered irritable and violent by severe training (of which discipline this unfortunate cla.s.s of animal gets more than enough), rasping your knuckles against his withers, and pulling your arms out of their sockets, because he, the machine, is all anxiety to get to the end, whilst you the controlling, or who ought to be the controlling power, have received strict injunctions "to wait." If your whole energies were not directed to the one object of "doing your duty" and winning your race, you might possibly have leisure to reflect on your somewhat hazardous position. "Neck-or-nothing" has just disappeared, doubling up himself and Mr. Fearless in a complicated kind of fall, at the very place over which you must necessarily follow; and should your horse, who is shaking his head furiously, as you vainly endeavour to steady him, make the slightest mistake, you shudder to think of "Frantic" running away with her rider close behind you. Nevertheless, it is impossible to decline "eternal misery on this side and certain death on the other," but _go you must_, and when safe into the next field there is nothing of any importance till you come to the brook. To be sure, the animal you are riding never would _face water_, still, your spurs are sharp, and you have a vague sort of trust that you may get over _somehow_. You really deserve to win, yet will we, albeit unused to computation of the odds, willingly bet you five to four that you are neither first nor second.

In the meantime, our friends in the stand make their running commentaries on the race. "How slow they are going," says Blanche, who, like all ladies, has a most liberal idea of "pace." "_He's over!_" mutters Mary Delaval, as "blue-and-orange" skims lightly over the first fence, undistinguished, save by _her_, amidst the rest. "One down!" says a voice, and there is a slight scream from amongst the prettiest of the bonnets. "Red-and-white cap--who is it?" and what with the distraction of watching the others, and the confusion on the cards, Bendigo has been caught and remounted ere the hapless Lieutenant Mohair can be identified. Meanwhile the string is lengthening out. "Uppy is making frightful running," says Major D'Orville, thinking how right he was to stand heavily against Lady Lavender; "however, the Fox is close upon him; and that's Haphazard, Miss Kettering, just behind Sober John."

"Two--four--six--seven--nine--what a pretty sight!" says Blanche, but she turns away her head with a shudder as a party-coloured jacket goes down at the next fence, neither horse nor rider rising again. One always fancies the worst, and Mary turns pale as death, and clasps her hands tighter than ever. And now they arrive at the double post and rails, which have been erected purposely for the gratification of the ladies in the stand. The first three bound over it in their stride like so many deer. Captain Rocket pulls his horse into a trot, and Sober John goes in-and-out quite as clever as did the Major's white charger. Mr. Jason is good enough to express his approval. Charlie follows the example of his leader, and though he hits it very hard, Haphazard's fine shape saves him from a fall. Blanche thinks him the n.o.blest hero in England, and n.o.body but D'Orville remarks how very pale Mrs. Delaval is getting. Mohair essays to follow the example thus set him, and succeeds in doing the first half of his task admirably, but no power on earth will induce Bendigo to jump _out_ after jumping _in_, and eventually he is obliged to be ignominiously extricated by a couple of carpenters and a handsaw. His companions diverge, like a flight of wild-fowl, towards the brook. The Fox, who is now leading, refuses; and the charitable Nimrods, and dandies, and swells, and professionals, all vote that Capon's heart failed him, and "he didn't put in half enough powder." The Major knows better. The horse was once his property, and he has not laid against it without reason. The brook creates much confusion; but Sober John singles himself out from the ruck, and flies it without an effort, closely followed by Haphazard and Lady Lavender. The rest splash and struggle, and get over as they best can, with but little chance now of coming up with the first three. They all turn towards home, and the pace is visibly increasing. Captain Rocket is leading, but Charlie's horse is obviously full of running, and the boy is gradually drawing away from Lady Lavender, and nearer and nearer to the front. Already people begin to shout "Haphazard wins"; and the General is hoa.r.s.e with excitement. "Charlie wins!" he exclaims, his lace purple, and the ends of his blue-and-orange handkerchief floating on the breeze. "Charlie wins! I tell you. Look how he's coming up. Zounds! don't contradict _me_, sir!" he roars out to the intense dismay of his next neighbour, a meek old gentleman, who has only come to the steeple-chase in order that he may write an account of it for a magazine, and who shrinks from the General as from a raving madman. "Now, Captain Rocket,"

shouts the mult.i.tude, as if that unmoved man would attend to anything but the business in hand. They reach the last fence neck-and-neck, Haphazard landing slightly in advance. "Kettering wins!" "_Blast_ him!" hisses D'Orville between his teeth, turning white as a sheet He stands to lose eighteen hundred by Haphazard alone, and we question whether, on reliable security, the Major could raise eighteen-pence.

Nevertheless, he turns the next instant to Blanche, with a quiet, unmoved smile, to congratulate her on her cousin's probable success.

"If he can only 'finish,' Miss Kettering, he can't lose," says the speculator; but he still trusts that "if" may save him the price of his commission.

What a moment for Charlie! Hot, breathless, and nearly exhausted, his brain reeling with the shouts of the populace, and the wild excitement of the struggle, one idea is uppermost in his mind--if man and horse can do it, _win he will_. Steadily has he ridden four long miles, taking the greatest pains with his horse, and restraining his own eagerness to be in front, as well as that of the gallant animal. He has kept his eye fixed on Captain Rocket, and regulated his every movement by that celebrated performer. And now he is drawing slightly in advance of him, and one hundred yards more will complete his triumph. Yet, inexperienced as he is, he cannot but feel that Haphazard is no longer the elastic, eager goer whom he has been regulating so carefully, and the truth shoots across him that his horse is beat. Well, he ought to last another hundred yards. See, the double flags are waving before him, and the shouts of his own name fall dully upon his ear. He hears Captain Rocket's whip at work, and is not aware how that judicious artist is merely plying it against his own boot to flurry the young one. Charlie begins to flog. "Sit _still_!" shouts Frank Hardingstone from the stand. Charlie works arms and legs like a windmill, upsets his horse, who would win if he were but let alone--Sober John shows his great ugly head alongside.

Haphazard changes his leg--Major D'Orville draws a long breath of relief--Captain Rocket, with a grim smile, and one fierce stab with his spurs, glides slightly in advance--and Haphazard is beaten on the post by half a length, Lady Lavender a bad third, and the rest nowhere!

Blanche is dreadfully disappointed. The General thinks "the lad deserves great credit for being second in such good company;" but the tears stand in Mary Delaval's eyes--tears, we believe, of grat.i.tude at his not being brought home on a hurdle, instead of riding into the weighing enclosure with the drooping self-satisfied air, and the arms hanging powerless down his side, which distinguish the gentleman-jockey after his exertions. The boy is scarcely disappointed. To have been so near winning, and to have run second for such an event as the "Grand Military," is a feather in his cap, of which he is in no slight degree proud; and he walks into the stand the hero of the day, for Captain Rocket is no lady's man, and is engaged to risk his neck again to-morrow a hundred miles from here. So he has put on a long great-coat and disappeared. The General accounts for Charlie's defeat on a theory peculiarly his own. "_Virtually_" says he, "my nephew won the race. How d'ye mean _beat_? It was twenty yards over the four miles. Twenty yards from home he was a length in front.

If the stewards had been worth their salt, we should have won. Don't tell _me_!"

There is more racing, but the great event has come off, and our friends in the stand occupy themselves only with luncheon. Frank Hardingstone comes up to speak to Blanche, but she is so surrounded and hemmed in, that beyond shaking hands with her he might as well be back at his own place on the south coast, for any enjoyment he can have in her society. Major D'Orville is rapidly gaining ground in the good graces of all the Newton-Hollows party. He has won a great stake, and is in brilliant spirits. Even Mary thinks "what an agreeable man he is," and glances the while at a fair glowing face, eating, drinking, and laughing by turns, and discussing with Sir Ascot the different events of their exciting gallop. Lacquers, with his mouth full, is making the agreeable in his own way to the whole party.

"Deuced good pie--aw--ruin me--aw--in gloves, Miss Kettering--aw--lose everything to you--aw;" and the dandy has a vague sort of notion that he might say something sweet here, but it will not shape itself into words very conveniently, so he has a large gla.s.s of sherry instead.

Our friend Captain Lacquers is not so much "a man of parts," as "a man of figure." Charlie, somewhat excited, flourishes his knife and fork, and describes how he lost his race to the public in general. Gaston D'Orville, with his most deferential air, is winning golden opinions from Blanche, and thinking in his innermost soul what a traitor he is to his own heart the while; Mrs. Delaval looks very pale and subdued, and Bounce thinks she must be tired, but breaks off to something else before he has made the inquiry--still everybody seems outwardly to be enjoying him or herself to the utmost, and it is with a forced smile and an air of a.s.sumed gaiety that Frank Hardingstone takes his leave, and supposes "we shall all meet at the ball!"

Fancy Frank deliberately proposing to go to a ball! How bitterly he smiles as he walks away from the course faster and faster, as thought after thought goads him to personal exertion! Now he despises himself thoroughly for his weakness in allowing the smile of a silly girl thus to sink into a strong man's heart--now he a.n.a.lyses his own feelings as he would probe a corporeal wound, with a stern scientific pleasure in the examination--and anon he speculates vaguely on the arrangements of Nature, which provide us with sentimental follies for a _sauce piquante_ wherewith to flavour our daily bread. Nevertheless, our man of action is by no means satisfied with himself. He takes a fierce walk over the most unfrequented fields, and returns to his solitary lodgings, to read stiff chapters of old dogmatic writers, and to work out a tough equation or two, till he can "get this nonsense out of his head." In vain, a fairy figure with long violet eyes and floating hair dances between him and his quarto, and the "unknown quant.i.ty" _plus_ Blanche continually eludes his mental grasp.

We do not think Frank has enjoyed his day's pleasure, any more than Mary Delaval. How few people do, could we but peep into their heart of hearts! Here are two at least of that gay throng in whom the shaft is rankling, and all this discomfort and anxiety exists because, forsooth, people never understand each other in time. We think it is in one of Rousseau's novels that the catastrophe is continually being postponed because the heroine invariably becomes _vivement emue_, and unable to articulate, just at the critical moment when two words more would explain everything, and make her happy with her adorer. Were it not for this provoking weakness, she would be married and settled long before the end of the first volume: but then, to be sure, what would become of all the remaining pages of French sentimentality? If there were no uncertainty, there would be no romance--if we knew each other better, perhaps we should love each other less. Hopes and fears make up the game of life. Better be the germinating flower, blooming in the sunshine and cowering in the blast, than the withered branch, defiant indeed of winter's cold and summer's heat, but drinking in no dew of morning, putting forth no buds of spring, and in its dreary, barren isolation, unsusceptible of pleasure as of pain.

CHAPTER VIII

THE BALL

THE COUNTRY BALL--A POETICAL PEER--BLANCHE'S PARTNERS--SMILES AND SCOWLS--MAMMA'S ADVICE--THE GENERAL'S POLITICS--THE MAJOR'S STRATEGY--"HOME"--THE DREAMER--THE SLEEPER--AND THE WATCHER

Bustle and confusion reign paramount at "The Kingmakers'

Arms"--princ.i.p.al hotel and posting-house in the town of Guyville. Once a year is there a great lifting of carpets and shifting of furniture in all the rooms of that enterprising establishment. Chambermaids hurry to and fro in smart caps brought out for the occasion, and pale-faced waiters brandish their gla.s.s-cloths in despair at the variety of their duties. All the resources of the plate-basket are brought into use, and knives, forks, tumblers, wine-gla.s.ses, German silver and Britannia metal, are collected and borrowed, and furbished up, to grace the evening's entertainment with a magnificence becoming the occasion. Dust pervades the pa.s.sages, and there is a hot smell of cooking and closed windows, by which the frequenters of the house are made aware that to-night is the anniversary of the Guyville Ball, a solemnity to be spoken of with reverence by the very ostler's a.s.sistant in the yard, who will tell you "_We_ are very busy, sir, just now, sir, on account of _the ball_." Tea-rooms, card-rooms, supper-rooms, dancing-rooms, and cloak-rooms, leave but few apartments to be devoted to the purposes of rest; and an unwary bagman, snoring quietly in No. 5, might chance to be smothered ere morning by the heap of cloaks, shawls, polka-jackets, and other lady-like wraps, ruthlessly heaped upon the unconscious victim in his dormitory. The combined attractions of steeple-chasing and dancing bring numerous young gentlemen and their valets to increase the confusion; and, were it not that the six o'clock train takes back the Londoners and "professionals" to the metropolis, it would be out of the power of mortal functionaries to attend to so many wants, and wait upon so many customers.

That tall, pale, interesting-looking man in chains and ringlets has already created much commotion below with his insatiable demands for foot-baths and hot water. As he waits carelessly in the pa.s.sage at that closed door, receiving and returning the admiring glances of pa.s.sing chambermaids, you would hardly suppose, from his una.s.suming demeanour, that he is no less a person than Lord Mount Helicon's _gentleman_. To be sure, he is now what he calls "comparatively incog." It is only at his club in Piccadilly, or "the room" at Wa.s.sailworth, where he and the Duke's "own man" lay down the law upon racing, politics, wine, and women, that he is to be seen in his full glory. To give him his due, he is an admirable servant, as far as his own duties are concerned, and a clever fellow to boot, or he would not have picked up seven-and-thirty pounds to-day on the steeple-chase whilst he was looking alter the luncheon and the carriage. We question, however, whether he could complete his toilet as expeditiously as his master, who is now stamping about his room reciting, in an audible voice, a thundering ode on which he has been some considerable time engaged, and elaborating the folds of his white neckcloth (old fifth-form tie) between the stanzas.

Lord Mount Helicon is a literary n.o.bleman; not one of

"Your authors who's all author, fellows In foolscap uniforms turned up with ink;"

but a sportsman as well as a scholar, a man of the world as well as a man of letters; given overmuch to betting, horse-racing, and dissipation in general, but with as keen a zest for the elegances of literature as for those beauties of the drama to which he pays fully more attention, and one who can compute you the odds as readily as he can turn a lyric or round a flowing period. Had his lordship possessed a little more common sense and a slight modic.u.m of prudence, forethought, reflection, and such plebeian qualities, he need not have failed in any one thing he undertook. As it was, his best friends regretted he should waste his talents so unsparingly on versification; whilst his enemies (the bitter dogs) averred "Mount Helicon's rhyme was, if possible, worse than his reason." Being member for Guyville (our readers will probably call to mind how the columns of their daily paper were filled with the Guyville Election Committee's Report, and the wonderful appet.i.te for "treating" displayed by the "free and independent" of that town during their "three glorious days")--being member, then, of course it is inc.u.mbent on him to attend the ball; so after a hurried dinner with Lacquers, Sir Ascot, Major D'Orville, and sundry other gentlemen who _live_ every day of their lives, behold him curling his red whiskers and attiring his tall, gaunt form in a suit of decorous black.

"Deuced bad dinner they give one here," said his lordship to himself, still hammering away at the ode. "Wish I hadn't drunk that second bottle of claret, and smoked so much.

When the thunders of a people smite the quailing despot's ear, And the earthquake of rebellion heaves--

No, I can't get it right. How those cursed fiddlers are sc.r.a.ping! and either that gla.s.s maligns me, or I look a little drunk! This life don't suit my style of beauty--something must be done. Shall I marry and pull up? Marry--will I! Bow my cultivated intellect before some savage maiden, and fatten like a tethered calf on the flat swamps of domestic respectability. Straps! go down and find out if many of the people are come."

"Several of the townspeople have arrived, my lord; but few of the county families as yet," replies Straps, whose knowledge of a member of parliament's duties would have qualified him to represent Guyville as well as his master. Lord Mount Helicon accordingly completes his toilet and proceeds to the ball-room, still mentally harping on "the thunders of a people," and "the quailing despot's ear."

The townspeople have indeed arrived in very sufficient numbers, yet is there a strong line of demarcation between their plebeian ranks and those of "the county families" huddled together at the upper end of the room. Britannia! Britannia! when will you cease to bring your coat-of-arms into society, and to smother your warm heart and sociable nature under pedigrees, and rent-rolls, and dreary conventionalities?