Checkmate

“And has this been going on for some time, or is it a sudden thing?”

“Both, I believe. It has been going on a long time, I believe, in old Sir Reginald's head; but it has come about, after all, rather suddenly; and my guardian says – Mr. David Arden, you know – that he has written a proposal in a letter to Sir Reginald, and you see how happy the young lady looks. So I think we may assume that the course of true love, for once, runs smooth – don't you?”

“And I suppose there is no objection anywhere?” said Longcluse, smiling. “It is a pity he is not a little younger, perhaps.”

“I don't hear any complaints; let us rather rejoice he is not ten or twenty years older. I am sure it would not prevent his happiness, but it would heighten the ridicule. Are you one of Lady May Penrose's party to the Derby to-morrow?” inquired the young lady.

“No; I haven't been asked.”

“Lord Wynderbroke is going.”

“Oh! of course he is.”

“I don't think Mr. David Arden likes it; but, of course, it is no business of his if other people are pleased. I wonder you did not hear all this from Richard Arden, you and he are so intimate.”

So said the young lady, looking very innocent. But I think she suspected more than she said.

“No, I did not hear it,” he said carelessly; “or, if I did, I forgot it. But do you blame the young lady?”

“Blame her! not at all. Besides, I am not so sure that she knows.”

“How can you think so?”

“Because I think she likes quite another person.”

“Really! And who is he?”

“Can't you guess?”

“Upon my honour, I can't.”

There was something so earnest, and even vehement, in this sudden asseveration, that Miss Maubray looked for a moment in his face; and seeing her curious expression, he said more quietly, “I assure you I don't think I ever heard; I'm rather curious to know.”

“I mean Mr. Vivian Darnley.”

“Oh! Well, I've suspected that a long time. I told Richard Arden, one day – I forget how it came about – but he said no.”

“Well, I say yes,” laughed the young lady, “and we shall see who's right.”

“Oh! Recollect I'm only giving you his opinion. I rather lean to yours, but he said there was positively nothing in it, and that Mr. Darnley is too poor to marry.”

“If Alice Arden resembles me,” said the young lady, “she thinks there are just two things to marry for – either love or ambition.”

“You place love first, I'm glad to hear,” said Mr. Longcluse, with a smile.

“So I do, because it is most likely to prevail with a pig-headed girl; but what I mean is this: that social pre-eminence – I mean rank, and not trumpery rank; but such as, being accompanied with wealth and precedence, is also attended with power – is worth an immense sacrifice of all other objects; my reason tells me, worth the sacrifice of love. But that is a sacrifice which impatient, impetuous people can't always so easily make – which I daresay I could not make if I were tried; but I don't think I shall ever be fool enough to become so insane, for the state of a person in love is a state of simple idiotism. It is pitiable, I allow, but also contemptible; but, judging by what I see, it appears to me a more irresistible delusion than ambition. But I don't understand Alice well. I think, if I knew a little more of her brother – certain qualities so run in families – I should be able to make a better guess. What do you think of him?”

“He's very agreeable, isn't he? and, for the rest, really, until men are tried as events only can try them, it is neither wise nor safe to pronounce.”

“Is he affectionate?”

“His sister seems to worship him,” he answered; “but young ladies are so angelic, that where they like they resent nothing, and respect selfishness itself as a manly virtue.”

“But you know him intimately; surely you must know something of him.”

Under different circumstances, this audacious young lady's cross-examination would have amused Mr. Longcluse; but in his present relations, and spirits, it was otherwise.

“I should but mislead you if I were to answer more distinctly. I answer for no man, hardly for myself. Besides, I question your theory. I don't think, except by accident, that a brother's character throws any light upon a sister's; and I hope – I think, I mean – that Miss Arden has qualities illimitably superior to those of her brother. Are these your friends, Miss Maubray?” he continued.

“So they are,” she answered. “I'm so much obliged to you, Mr. Longcluse! I think they are leaving.”

Mr. Longcluse, having delivered her into the hands of her chaperon, took his leave, and walked into the broad alleys among the trees, and in solitude under their shade, sat himself down by a pond, on which two swans were sailing majestically. Looking down upon the water with a pallid frown, he struck the bank beneath him viciously with his heel, peeling off little bits of the sward, which dropped into the water.

“It is all plain enough now. Richard Arden has been playing me false. It ought not to surprise me, perhaps. The girl, I still believe, has neither act nor part in the conspiracy. She has been duped by her brother. I have thrown myself upon her mercy; I will now appeal to her justice. As for him – what vermin mankind are! He must return to his allegiance; he will. After all, he may not like to lose me. He will act in the way that most interests his selfishness. Come, come! it is no impracticable problem. I'm not cruel? Not I! No, I'm not cruel; but I am utterly just. I would not hang a mouse up by the tail to die, as they do in France, head downwards, of hunger, for eating my cheese; but should the vermin nibble at my heart, in that case, what says justice? Alice, beautiful Alice, you shall have every chance before I tear you from my heart – oh, for ever! Ambition! That coarse girl, Miss Maubray, can't understand you. Ambition, in her sense, you have none; there is nothing venal in your nature. Vivian Darnley, is there anything in that either? I think nothing. I observed them closely, that night, at Mortlake. No, there was nothing. My conversation and music interested her, and when I was by, he was nothing.

“They are going to the Derby to-morrow. I think Lady May has treated me rather oddly, considering that she had all but borrowed my drag. She might have put me off civilly; but I don't blame her. She is good-natured, and if she has any idea that I and the Ardens are not quite on pleasant terms, it quite excuses it. Her asking me here, and her little note to remind, were meant to show that she did not take up the quarrel against me. Never mind; I shall know all about it, time enough. They are going to the Derby to-morrow. Very well, I shall go also. It will all be right yet. When did I fail? When did I renounce an object? By Heaven, one way or other, I'll accomplish this!”

Tall Mr. Longcluse rose, and looked round him, and in deep thought, marched with a resolute step towards the house.

CHAPTER XXXII

UNDER THE LIME-TREES

At this garden-party, marvellous as it may appear, Lord Wynderbroke has an aunt. How old she is I know not, nor yet with what conscience her respectable relations can permit her to haunt such places, and run a risk of being suffocated in doorways, or knocked down the steps by an enamoured couple hurrying off to more romantic quarters, or of having her maundering old head knocked with a croquet mallet, as she totters drearily among the hoops.

This old lady is worth conciliating, for she has plate and jewels, and three thousand a-year to leave; and Lord Wynderbroke is a prudent man. He can bear a great deal of money, and has no objection to jewels, and thinks that the plate of his bachelor and old-maid kindred should gravitate to the centre and head of the house. Lord Wynderbroke was indulgent, and did not object to her living a little longer, for this aunt conduced to his air of juvenility more than the flower in his button-hole. However, she was occasionally troublesome, and on this occasion made an unwise mixture of fruit and other things; and a servant glided into the music-room, and with a proper inclination of his person, in a very soft tone said, —

“My lord, Lady Witherspoons is in her carriage at the door, my lord, and says her ladyship is indisposed, and begs, my lord, that your lordship will be so good as to hacompany her 'ome in her carriage, my lord.”

“Oh! tell her ladyship I am so very sorry, and will be with her in a moment.” And he turned with a very serious countenance to Alice. “How extremely unfortunate! When I saw those miserable cherries, I knew how it would be; and now I am torn away from this charming place; and I'm sure I hope she may be better soon, it is so (disgusting, he thought, but he said) melancholy! With whom shall I leave you, Miss Arden?”

“Thanks, I came with my brother, and here is my cousin, Mr. Darnley, who can tell me where he is.”

“With a croquet party, near the little bridge. I'll be your guide, if you'll allow me,” said Vivian Darnley eagerly.

“Pray, Lord Wynderbroke, don't let me delay you longer. I shall find my brother quite easily now. I so hope Lady Witherspoons may soon be better!”

“Oh, yes, she always is better soon; but in the meantime one is carried away, you see, and everything upset; and all because, poor woman, she won't exercise the smallest restraint. And she has, of course, a right to command me, being my aunt, you know, and – and – the whole thing is ineffably provoking.”

And thus he took his reluctant departure, not without a brief but grave scrutiny of Mr. Vivian Darnley. When he was gone, Vivian Darnley proffered his arm, and that little hand was placed on it, the touch of which made his heart beat faster. Though people were beginning to go, there was still a crush about the steps. This little resistance and mimic difficulty were pleasant to him for her sake. Down the steps they went together, and now he had her all to himself; and silently for a while he led her over the closely-shorn grass, and into the green walk between the lime-trees, that leads down to the little bridge.

“Alice,” at last he said – “Miss Arden, what have I done that you are so changed?”

“Changed! I don't think I am changed. What is there to change me?” she said carelessly, but in a low tone, as she looked along towards the flowers.

“It won't do, Alice, repeating my question, for that is all you have done. I like you too well to be put off with mere words. You are changed, and without a cause – no, I could not say that – not without a cause. Circumstances are altered; you are in the great world now, and admired; you have wealth and titles at your feet – Mr. Longcluse with his millions, Lord Wynderbroke with his coronet.”

“And who told you that these gentlemen were at my feet?” she exclaimed, with a flash from her fine eyes, that reminded him of moments of pretty childish anger, long ago. “If I am changed – and perhaps I am – such speeches as that would quite account for it. You accuse me of caprice – has any one ever accused you of impertinence?”

“It is quite true, I deserve your rebuke. I have been speaking as freely as if we were back again at Arden Court, or Ryndelmere, and ten years of our lives were as a mist that rolls away.”

“That's a quotation from a song of Tennyson's.”

“I don't know what it is from. Being melancholy myself, I say the words because they are melancholy.”

“Surely you can find some friend to console you in your affliction.”

“It is not easy to find a friend at any time, much less when things go wrong with us.”

“It is very hard if there is really no one to comfort you. Certainly I sha'n't try anything so hopeless as comforting a person who is resolved to be miserable. ‘There's such a charm in melancholy, I would not if I could, be gay.’ There's a quotation for you, as you like verses – particularly what I call moping verses.”

“Come, Alice! this is not like you; you are not so unkind as your words would seem; you are not cruel, Alice – you are cruel to no one else, only to me, your old friend.”

“I have said nothing cruel,” said Miss Alice, looking on the grass before her; “cruelty is too sublime a phrase. I don't think I have ever experienced cruelty in my life; and I don't think it likely that you have; I certainly have never been cruel to any one. I'm a very good-natured person, as my birds and squirrel would testify if they could.”

She laughed.

“I suppose people call that cruel which makes them suffer very much; it may be but a light look, or a cold word, but still it may be more than years of suffering to another. But I don't think, Alice, you ought to be so with me. I think you might remember old times a little more kindly.”

“I remember them very kindly – as kindly as you do. We were always very good friends, and always, I daresay, shall be. I sha'n't quarrel. But I don't like heroics, I think they are so unmeaning. There may be people who like them very well and – There is Richard, I think, and he has thrown away his mallet. If his game is over, he will come now, and Lady May doesn't want the people to stay late; she is going into town, and I stay with her to-night. We are going to the Derby to-morrow.”

“I am going also – it was so kind of her! – she asked me to be of her party,” said Vivian Darnley.

“Richard is coming also; I have never been to the Derby, and I daresay we shall be a very pleasant party; I know I like it of all things. Here comes Richard – he sees me. Was my uncle David here?”

“No.”

“I hardly thought he was, but I saw Grace Maubray, and I fancied he might have come with her,” she said carelessly.

“Yes, she was here; she came with Lady Tramway. They went away about half-an-hour ago.”

So Richard joined her, and they walked to the house together, Vivian Darnley accompanying them.

“I think I saw you a little spooney to-day, Vivian, didn't I?” said Richard Arden, laughing. He remembered what Longcluse once said to him, about Vivian's tendre for his sister, and did not choose that Alice should suspect it. “Grace Maubray is a very pretty girl.”

“She may be that, though it doesn't strike me,” began Darnley.

“Oh! come, I'm too old for that sort of disclaimer; and I don't see why you should be so modest about it. She is clever and pretty.”

“Yes, she is very pretty,” said Alice.

“I suppose she is, but you're quite mistaken if you really fancy I admire Miss Maubray. I don't, I give you my honour, I don't,” said Vivian vehemently.

Richard Arden laughed again, but prudently urged the point no more, intending to tell the story that evening as he and Alice drove together into town, in the way that best answered his purpose.

CHAPTER XXXIII

THE DERBY

The morning of the Derby day dawned auspiciously. The weather-cocks, the sky, and every other prognostic portended a fine cloudless day, and many an eye peeped early from bed-room window to read these signs, rejoicing.

“Ascot would have been more in our way,” said Lady May, glancing at Alice, when the time arrived for taking their places in the carriage. “But the time answered, and we shall see a great many people we know there. So you must not think I have led you into a very fast expedition.”

Richard Arden took the reins. The footmen were behind, in charge of hampers from Fortnum and Mason's, and inside, opposite to Alice, sat Lord Wynderbroke; and Lady May's vis-à-vis was Vivian Darnley. Soon they had got into the double stream of carriages of all sorts. There are closed carriages with pairs or fours, gigs, hansom cabs fitted with gauze curtains, dog-carts, open carriages with hampers lashed to the foot-boards, dandy drags, bright and polished, with crests; vans, cabs, and indescribable contrivances. There are horses worth a hundred and fifty guineas a-piece, and there are others that look as if the knacker should have them. There are all sorts of raws, and sand-cracks, and broken knees. There are kickers and roarers, and bolters and jibbers, such a crush and medley in that densely packed double line, that jogs and crushes along you can hardly tell how.

Sometimes one line passes the other, and then sustains a momentary check, while the other darts forward; and now and then a panel is smashed, with the usual altercation, and dust unspeakable eddying and floating everywhere in the sun; all sorts of chaff exchanged, mail-coach horns blowing, and general impudence and hilarity; gentlemen with veils on, and ladies with light hoods over their bonnets, and all sorts of gauzy defences against the dust. The utter novelty of all these sights and sounds highly amuses Alice, to whom they are absolutely strange.

“I am so amused,” she said, “at the gravity you all seem to take these wonderful doings with. I could not have fancied anything like it. Isn't that Borrowdale?”

“So it is,” said Lady May. “I thought he was in France. He doesn't see us, I think.”

He did see them, but it was just as he was cracking a personal joke with a busman, in which the latter had decidedly the best of it, and he did not care to recognise his lady acquaintances at disadvantage.

“What a fright that man is!” said Lord Wynderbroke.

“But his team is the prettiest in England, except Longcluse's,” said Darnley; “and, by Jove, there's Longcluse's drag!”

“Those are very nice horses,” said Lord Wynderbroke looking at Longcluse's team, as if he had not heard Darnley's observation. “They are worth looking at, Miss Arden.”

Longcluse was seated on the box, with a veil on, through which his white smile was indistinctly visible.

“And what a fright he is, also! He looks like a picture of Death I once saw, with a cloth half over his face; or the Veiled Prophet. By Jove, a curious thing that the two most hideous men in England should have between them the two prettiest teams on earth!”

Lord Wynderbroke looks at Darnley with raised brows, vaguely. He has been talking more than his lordship perhaps thinks he has any business to talk, especially to Alice.

“You will be more diverted still when we have got upon the course,” interposes Lord Wynderbroke. “The variety of strange people there – gipsies, you know, and all that – mountebanks, and thimble-riggers, and beggars, and musicians – you'll wonder how such hordes could be collected in all England, or where they come from.”

“And although they make something of a day like this, how on earth they contrive to exist all the other days of the year, when people are sober, and minding their own business,” added Darnley.

“To me the pleasantest thing about the drive is our finding ourselves in the open country. Look out of the window there – trees and farm-steads – it is so rural, and such an odd change!” said Lady May.

“And the young corn, I'm glad to see, is looking very well,” said Lord Wynderbroke, who claimed to be something of an agriculturist.

“And the oddest thing about it is our being surrounded, in the midst of all this rural simplicity, with the population of London,” threw in Vivian Darnley.

“Remember, Miss Arden, our wager,” said Lord Wynderbroke; “you have backed May Queen.”

“May! she should be a cousin of mine,” said good Lady May, firing off her little pun, which was received very kindly by her audience.

“Ha, ha! I did not think of that; she should certainly be the most popular name on the card,” said Lord Wynderbroke. “I hope I have not made a great mistake, Miss Arden, in betting against so – so auspicious a name.”

“I sha'n't let you off, though. I'm told I'm very likely to win – isn't it so?” she asked Vivian.

“Yes, the odds are in favour of May Queen now; you might make a capital hedge.”

“You don't know what a hedge is, I daresay, Miss Arden; ladies don't always quite understand our turf language,” said Lord Wynderbroke, with a consideration which he hoped that very forward young man, on whom he fancied Miss Arden looked good-naturedly, felt as he ought. “It is called a hedge, by betting men, when – ” and he expounded the meaning of the term.

The road had now become more free, as they approached the course, and Dick Arden took advantage of the circumstance to pass the omnibuses, and other lumbering vehicles, which he soon left far behind. The grand stand now rose in view – and now they were on the course. The first race had not yet come off, and young Arden found a good place among the triple line of carriages. Off go the horses! Miss Arden is assisted to a cushion on the roof; Lord Wynderbroke and Vivian take places beside her. The sun is growing rather hot, and the parasol is up. Good-natured Lady May is a little too stout for climbing, but won't hear of anyone's staying to keep her company. Perhaps when Richard Arden, who is taking a walk by the ropes, and wants to see the horses which are showing, returns, she may have a little talk with him at the window. In the meantime, all the curious groups of figures, and a hundred more, which Lord Wynderbroke promised – the monotonous challenges of the fellows with games of all sorts, the whine of the beggar for a little penny, the guitarring, singing, barrel-organing, and the gipsy inviting Miss Arden to try her lucky sixpence – all make a curious and merry Babel about her.

CHAPTER XXXIV

A SHARP COLLOQUY

On foot, near the weighing stand, is a tall, powerful, and clumsy fellow, got up gaudily – a fellow with a lowering red face, in loud good-humour, very ill-looking. He is now grinning and chuckling with his hands in his pockets, and talking with a little Hebrew, young, sable-haired, with the sallow tint, great black eyes, and fleshy nose that characterise his race. A singularly sullen mouth aids the effect of his vivid eyes, in making this young Jew's face ominous.

“Young Dick Harden's 'ere,” said Mr. Levi.

“Eh? is he?” said the big man with the red face and pimples, the green cut-away coat, gilt buttons, purple neck-tie, yellow waistcoat, white cord tights, and top boots.

“Walking down there,” said Levi, pointing with his thumb over his shoulder. “I shaw him shpeak to a fellow in chocolate and gold livery.”

“And an eagle on the button, I know. That's Lady May Penrose's livery,” said his companion. “He came down with her, I lay you fifty. And he has a nice sister as ever you set eyes on – pretty gal, Mr. Levi – a reg'lar little angel,” and he giggled after his wont. “If there's a dragful of hangels anyvere, she's one of them. I saw her yesterday in one of Lady May Penrose's carriages in St. James' Street. Mr. Longcluse is engaged to get married to her; you may see them linked arm-in-arm, any day you please, walkin' hup and down Hoxford Street. And her brother, Richard Harden, is to marry Lady May Penrose. That will be a warm family yet, them Hardens, arter all.”

“A family with a title, Mr. Ballard, be it never so humble, Sir, like 'ome shweet 'ome, hash nine livesh in it; they'll be down to the last pig, and not the thickness of an old tizzy between them and the glue-pot; and while you'd write your name across the back of a cheque, all's right again. The title doesh it. You never shaw a title in the workus yet, Mr. Ballard, and you'll wait awhile before you 'av a hoppertunity of shayin', ‘My lord Dooke, I hope your grashe's water-gruel is salted to your noble tasht thish morning,’ or, ‘My noble marquishe, I humbly hope you are pleashed with the fit of them pepper-and-salts;’ and, ‘My lord earl, I'm glad to see by the register you took a right honourable twisht at the crank thish morning.’ No, Mishter Ballard, you nor me won't shee that, Shir.”

While these gentlemen enjoyed their agreeable banter, and settled the fortunes of Richard Arden and Mr. Longcluse, the latter person was walking down the course in the direction in which Mr. Levi had seen Arden go, in the hope of discovering Lady May's carriage. Longcluse was in an odd state of excitement. He had entered into the spirit of the carnival. Voices all around were shouting, “Twenty to five on Dotheboys;” or, “A hundred to five against Parachute.”

“In what?” called Mr. Longcluse to the latter challenge.

“In assassins!” cried a voice from the crowd.

Mr. Longcluse hustled his way into the thick of it.

“Who said that?” he thundered.

No one could say. No one else had heard it. Who cared? He recovered his coolness quickly, and made no further fuss about it. People were too busy with other things to bother themselves about his questions, or his temper. He hurried forward after young Arden, whom he saw at the turn of the course a little way on.