The Coquette's Victim Part 7

Perhaps Lady Carruthers never did a more unwise thing than when she left her son, with his peculiar temperament and notions, to go through a London season alone. She honestly believed herself to be doing right.

She was ill and unable to bear the whirl of fashion and gaiety. She could not withdraw him from town to spend the gayest month of the year in seclusion.

"Leave him to me, Hildegarde," said her cousin, Colonel Mostyn. "I will pilot him safely through the rocks and deep waters; nothing makes a man as self-reliant as feeling that he is trusted entirely."

And knowing that Colonel Mostyn was an elderly man, who knew about as much as there was to know of life in all its phases, Lady Hildegarde had no scruples.

The colonel and the young squire were most luxuriously established at Roche House, the Carruthers' family mansion in Belgravia. Lady Hildegarde made every arrangement for keeping up the establishment in all bachelor's comforts. There was an excellent housekeeper, one who had been at Ulverston Priory for many years.

"You will be able to give some good dinner-parties," she said to her son; "bachelor dinners--bien entender--for Mrs. Richards is an excellent housekeeper."

a.s.sured and satisfied that all would go well, she left London. She hesitated as to whether she should give her son any warning about love or marriage, then decided that it would be quite useless.

"The boy is naturally so fastidious and refined," she thought; "he will never love beneath him. He will see no one so nice as Marion."

So Lady Hildegarde Carruthers went to her stately home, little dreaming of the fatal news that was to follow her.

Basil cared little for the fashions and frivolities of the day; Colonel Mostyn tried to laugh him out of his romantic and chivalrous ideas.

"You are behind the age, Basil--quite unfit for it," he would say to him. "Chevalier Bayard would not be appreciated in these times."

He listened with a smile on his face, while the young man talked of something to do--some grand action to fill up his life, some heroic deed with which to crown himself.

"Utopian, Basil--all those are Utopian ideas. Progress is the order of the day."

"Is there nothing?" asked Basil, "no way in which a man may distinguish himself after the fashion of the heroes of old?"

The colonel smiled sarcastically.

"My dear boy," he said, "between ourselves, some of those heroes of yours were unmitigated ruffians, I hardly like to give utterance to such a sentiment, yet I believe it. You cannot defend a bridge after the fashion of Horatius--you cannot conquer worlds like Alexander. I fancy you will have to be content with being one of the best lords of the manor Rutsford has ever known."

"You are sentimental, Basil," he said to him one morning, "but not practical. A man is nothing unless he is practical. Why not give up all these foolish notions of being a great hero? Go down to Ulverston, build schools, almhouses, mechanics' inst.i.tutes and all that kind of thing. Marry and bring up your family to fear G.o.d and serve the queen.

One ounce of such practice is worth all the theory in the world."

But Basil could not see it--he longed for the unattainable, the ideal.

What lay plainly before him was a matter of great indifference to him.

Colonel Mostyn, the keen, cynical man of the world, was, perhaps, the best companion he could have had. But the colonel had many anxious thoughts over him. At last an idea struck him.

"The finest thing that could happen to Basil would be a very decided flirtation with a beautiful, worldly woman, who would laugh him out of these fantastic ideas and make a modern man of him."

So thought the colonel, and so has thought many a one before him, little dreaming of the danger of playing with fire.

But Basil did not seem to care much for ladies' society. He went to two or three grand b.a.l.l.s and p.r.o.nounced them stupid, on hearing which, the colonel raised his eyes and hands in horror.

"A young man of twenty who finds a ball stupid is past hope," he said.

There had been a great flutter in the dovecotes when it was known that Basil Carruthers, the heir of Ulverston, son of the great statesman, a young man whose income was quite twenty thousand per annum, besides the savings of a long minority, was in London--free, disengaged, and, as a matter of course, wanting a wife. Invitations literally poured in upon him--he accepted them at first, but soon grew tired.

"A tres dansantes at Lady Cecilia Gorton's," he said, holding out an invitation card at arm's length. "Go, if you like, colonel. I do not care for it."

The colonel was engrossed in the b.u.t.tering of his roll, an operation which he always performed himself, but he was sufficiently astonished to pause in his proceedings and look at his nephew with a very horrified face.

"You do not mean to tell me, Basil, that you are tired of ladies--young ladies?"

"My dear colonel," said the young man, quietly, "I am very sorry to tell you that I find one chignon very much the same as another."

Colonel Mostyn sighed deeply. What Mentor could make anything out of such a Telemachus? He resigned himself, thankful that what he called one civilized taste remained--Basil enjoyed the opera.

"I would really sooner see him fall in love with an opera dancer than remain what he is," thought the man of the world.

One evening they went to the opera. It was "Lucretia Borgia," and, as usual, Basil Carruthers saw nothing but the stage. In vain did the unwearied colonel call his attention to Lady Evelyn Hope, the lovely blonde; the fascinating Spanish Countess Rosella; to the twin sisters, the Ladies Isabel and Marie Duncan--he looked at them without interest.

"I wonder," thought the colonel to himself, "if the woman be living who could touch that cold, icy heart!"

The opera was nearly over when he saw Basil looking intently at the occupants of a box on the grand tier. He even raised his gla.s.s, and sat for some minutes oblivious of everything and everyone except one central figure. Very quietly and without attracting Basil's attention, Colonel Mostyn raised his gla.s.s and looked at the box. His gaze was steadfast for some minutes, then he gave utterance to a prolonged sigh.

"That will do," he said to himself.

Like the diplomatist that he was, Colonel Mostyn said never a word, but when the act was ended, he turned to Basil.

"I see a lady, an old friend of mine, and I am going to spend a few minutes with her."

He went to the box, and had the satisfaction of seeing that Basil never removed his gla.s.s. When he returned to his own seat, the heir of Ulverston said, somewhat eagerly:

"Who is that lady, colonel, with whom you have been speaking?"

"My dear boy," he replied, "one chignon is just like another; which do you mean?"

"There is no chignon in this case. I mean the lady with whom you have been speaking."

"That is Lady Amelie Lisle," he replied, briefly.

"Amelie Lisle!" repeated Basil; "but who is she?"

"If you wish to know her pedigree, you must consult Burke's Peerage. I can only remember that she is the daughter of Lord Grayson, who married a French d.u.c.h.ess, and rumor says she is the loveliest and most accomplished woman in England."

"Is she married?" was the next question.

"Yes; she married Lord Lisle, and rumor, always busy with beautiful women, says again that she is not too happy. Do you know Lord Lisle?"

"No; I do not remember having ever seen him."

"When you do, you will realize what it is for a man to be all animal. He eats well, sleeps well, drinks well; he rides out a great deal in the fresh air; he is tall and portly, never, perhaps, read a book through in his life, good humored, generous in his way, but obstinate as a--well, as a woman."

"And is that lovely lady married to such a man?"

"Yes; the lovely lady was very young, and perhaps his fortune tempted her. She is all fire and poetry, plays with pa.s.sion as children play with sharp knives."