Sword and Gown | Page 5

I. P.
There was silence for some minutes after the few words that opened
this story; and then Royston Keene spoke again.

"Hal, do you remember that miserable impostor in Paris being
enthusiastic about Dorade and its advantages, describing it as a sort of
happy hunting-ground, and so deciding us on choosing it in preference
to Nice?"
"Ah! he did drivel a good deal. I think he had been drinking," the other
answered.
"No; I understand him now. He had been bored here into a sullen,
vicious misanthropy; and he wanted to take it out on the human race by
getting others in the same mess. It's just like that jealous old Heathfield,
who, when he is up to his girths in a squire-trap, never halloos ''ware
bog,' till five or six more are in it. I can fancy the hoary-headed villain
gloating hideously over us now. I wish I had him here. I could be so
unkind to him! He talked about the shooting and the society. Bah!
there's about one cock to every thousand acres of forest; and as for
women fair to look upon, I've not flushed one since we came. I don't
think I can stand it much longer."
"I am very sorry," Harry said; "I knew you were being bored to death,
and it's all on my account; but I didn't like to ask you about it. I'm so
horribly selfish!" The shadow of an imminent penitence began to steal
over him, when Royston broke in--
"Don't be childish. I liked to stay--never mind why--or I should not
have done so. Only now--you are getting better, and I realize the
situation more. I hardly know where to go. Not back to England,
certainly, yet. Besides the nuisance and chance work of picking up a
stud in the middle of the season, it isn't pleasant to be consoled for a
blank day by, 'you should have been here last month. Never was such
scent; and heaps of straight-running foxes!' And then they indulge
themselves in an imaginative 'cracker,' knowing you can't contradict
them. Shall I go to Albania? I should like to kill something before I turn
homeward."
Harry seemed musing. Suddenly he half started up, clapping his hands.
"I knew I had forgotten!"

"Not such a singular circumstance as to warrant all that indecent
exultation," was the reply. "Well, out with it."
"I never told you that Fan had a letter this morning from Cecil
Tresilyan (they're immense friends, you know) to ask her to engage
rooms for them. They are in Paris now, and will be here in three days."
Keene raised himself on his arm, regarding his comrade with a sort of
admiration. "You're a natural curiosity, mon cher. None of us ever quite
appreciated you. I don't believe there's another man in existence,
situated as we are, who would have kept that intelligence at the back of
his head so long. The Tresilyan, of course? I remember hearing about
her in India. Annesley came back from sick leave perfectly insane on
the subject. She must be something extraordinary, for the recollection
of her made even him poetical--when he was sober. I asked about her
when I got to England, but her mother was taken very ill, or did
something equally unjustifiable, so she left town before I saw her."
"The mother really was ill," Molyneux said, apologetically; "at least
she died soon after that. Miss Tresilyan has never shown much since.
But you've no idea of the sensation she made during her season and a
half. They called her The Refuser, she had such a fabulous number of
offers, and wouldn't look at any of them. By-the-by, there's rather a
good story about that. You know Margate? He's going to the bad very
fast now, but he was the crack puppy of that year's entry; good-looking,
long minority, careful guardians, leases falling in, mother one of the
best Christians in England, and all that sort of thing. Well, Tom Cary
took him in hand, and brought him out in great form before long. They
were talking over their preparations for the moors, for they were going
to start the next day. 'I believe that's all,' Margate asked, 'or have we
forgotten any thing?' 'Wait a minute,' said Tom, and reflected
(provident man, Tom; fond of his comforts, and proud of it)--'Ah! I
thought there was something. You haven't proposed to The Tresilyan.'
They say Margate's face was a study. He never disputed the orders of
his private trainer, so he only said, piteously, 'But I don't want to marry
any one,' and looked as if he was going to cry. 'You are "ower young,"'
Cary said, encouragingly, 'and it's about the last thing I should press

upon you. It wouldn't suit my book at all.