The Autobiography of a Slander | Page 9

we are great friends," he said laughingly. "Only, you know, I
sometimes shock him a little--just a very little."
"That is very unkind of you, I am sure," said Mrs. Courtenay, smiling.
"No, not at all," said Zaluski, with the audacity of a privileged being.
"It is just my little amusement, very harmless, very--what you call
innocent. Mr. Blackthorne cannot make up his mind about me. One day
I appear to him to be Catholic, the next Comtist, the next Orthodox
Greek, the next a convert to the Anglican communion. I am a mystery,
you see! And mysteries are as indispensable in life as in a romance."

He laughed. Mrs. Courtenay laughed too, and a little friendly banter
was carried on between them, while the curate stood by feeling rather
out of it.
I drew nearer to him, perceiving that my prospects bid fair to improve.
For very few people can feel out of it without drifting into a
self-regarding mood, and then they are the easiest prey imaginable.
Undoubtedly a man like Zaluski, with his easy nonchalance, his
knowledge of the world, his genuine good-nature, and the background
of sterling qualities which came upon you as a surprise because he
loved to make himself seem a mere idler, was apt to eclipse an ordinary
mortal like James Blackthorne. The curate perceived this and did not
like to be eclipsed--as a matter of fact, nobody does. It seemed to him a
little unfair that he, who had hitherto been made much of, should be
called to play second fiddle to this rich Polish fellow who had never
done anything for Muddleton or the neighbourhood. And then, too,
Sigismund Zaluski had a way of poking fun at him which he resented,
and would not take in good part.
Something of this began to stir in his mind; and he cordially hated the
Pole when Jim Courtenay, who arranged the tennis, came up and asked
him to play in the next set, passing the curate by altogether.
Then I found no difficulty at all in taking possession of him; indeed he
was delighted to have me brought back to his memory, he positively
gloated over me, and I grew apace.
Zaluski, in the seventh heaven of happiness, was playing with Gertrude
Morley, and his play was so good and so graceful that every one was
watching it with pleasure. His partner, too, played well; she was a
pretty, fair-haired girl, with soft grey eyes like the eyes of a dove; she
wore a white tennis dress and a white sailor hat, and at her throat she
had fastened a cluster of those beautiful orange-coloured roses known
by the prosaic name of 'William Allan Richardson.'
If Mr. Blackthorne grew angry as he watched Sigismund Zaluski, he
grew doubly angry as he watched Gertrude Morley. He said to himself
that it was intolerable that such a girl should fall a prey to a vain,

shallow, unprincipled foreigner, and in a few minutes he had painted
such a dark picture of poor Sigismund that my strength increased
tenfold.
"Mr. Blackthorne," said Mrs. Courtenay, "would you take Mrs. Milton-
Cleave to have an ice?"
Now Mrs. Milton-Cleave had always been one of the curate's great
friends. She was a very pleasant, talkative woman of six-and- thirty,
and a general favourite. Her popularity was well deserved, for she was
always ready to do a kind action, and often went out of her way to help
people who had not the slightest claim upon her. There was, however,
no repose about Mrs. Milton-Cleave, and an acute observer would have
discovered that her universal readiness to help was caused to some
extent by her good heart, but in a very large degree by her restless and
over-active brain. Her sphere was scarcely large enough for her, she
would have made an excellent head of an orphan asylum or manager of
some large institution, but her quiet country life offered far too narrow
a field for her energy.
"It is really quite a treat to watch Mr. Zaluski's play," she remarked as
they walked to the refreshment tent at the other end of the lawn.
"Certainly foreigners know how to move much better than we do: our
best players look awkward beside them."
"Do you think so?" said Mr. Blackthorne. "I am afraid I am full of
prejudice, and consider that no one can equal a true-born Briton."
"And I quite agree with you in the main," said Mrs. Milton-Cleave.
"Though I confess that it is rather refreshing to have a little variety."
The curate was silent, but his silence merely covered his absorption in
me, and I began to exercise a faint influence through his mind on the
mind of his companion. This caused her at length to say:
"I don't