Guy Livingstone; or, 'Thorough'. George A. Lawrence
it will give you or Bella any pleasure. Need he be written to immediately?"
"Thank you very much," said Raymond, languidly. "I know he bores you, and I am sure I don't wonder at it; but one must be civil to one's son-in-law that is to be. No, you need not trouble yourself to invite him yet. Bella can do it when she writes. I suppose she does write to him sometimes."
I looked across the table at Forrester. This was the first time I had heard of Miss Raymond's engagement. He met my eye quite unconcernedly, pursuing with great interest his occupation of peeling walnuts and dropping them into Sherry. It did not often happen to him to blush twice in the twenty-four hours. Directly afterward we began to talk about pheasants and other things.
After coffee in the drawing-room Guy sat down to piquet with his uncle. Raymond liked to utilize his evenings, and never played for nominal stakes. He was the beau ideal of a card-player, certainly; no revolution or persistence of luck could ruffle the dead calm of his courteous face. He would win the money of his nearest and dearest friend, or lose his own to an utter stranger with the same placidity. To be sure, to a certain extent, he had enslaved Fortune; though he always played most loyally, and sometimes would forego an advantage he might fairly have claimed, his rare science made ultimate success scarcely doubtful. He never touched a game of mere chance.
I heard a good story of him in Paris. They were playing a game like Brag; the principle being that the players increase the stakes without seeing each other's cards, till one refuses to go on and throws up, or shows his point. Raymond was left in at last with one adversary; the stakes had mounted up to a sum that was fearful, and it was his choice to double or abattre. Of course, it was of the last importance to discover whether the antagonist was strong or not; but the Frenchman's face gave not the slightest sign. He was beau joueur s'il en fût, and had lost two fair fortunes at play. Raymond hesitated, looking steadily into his opponent's eyes. All at once he smiled and doubled instantly. The other dared not go on; he showed his point, and lost. They asked Raymond afterward how he could have detected any want of confidence to guide him in a face that looked like marble.
"I saw three drops of perspiration on his forehead," he said; "and I knew my own hand was strong."
Lady Catharine was resting on a sofa: she looked tired and paler than usual, not in the least available for conversation. Miss Raymond had nestled herself into the recesses of a huge arm-chair close to the fire—she was as fond of warmth, when she could not get sunshine, as a tropical bird—and Forrester was lounging on an ottoman behind her, so that his head almost touched her elbow. When I caught scraps of their conversation it seemed to be turning on the most ordinary subjects; but even in these I should have felt lost—I had been so long away from England—so I contented myself with watching them, and wondering why discussions as to the merits of operas and inquiries after mutual acquaintances should make the fair cheeks hang out signals of distress so often as they did that evening.
I lingered in the smoking-room about midnight for a moment after Forrester left us.
"So your cousin is really engaged?" I asked Guy.
"Tout ce qu'il y a du plus fiancé," was the answer. "It was one of the last affairs of state that my poor aunt concluded before she died. Bruce is a very good match. I don't think Bella worships him, though I have scarcely ever seen them together, and I am sure he is not a favorite with Uncle Henry; but nothing on earth would make him break it off; indeed, I know no one who would propose such a thing to him—not his daughter, certainly. There's no such hopeless obstacle as the passive resistance of a thoroughly lazy man. Good-night, Frank. I've sent the Baron on for you to-morrow. We must start about nine, mind, for we've fifteen miles to go to cover."
I went to bed, and dreamed that Raymond was playing ecarté with Forrester for his daughter, who stood by blushing beautifully—and never held a trump!
CHAPTER VII.
"She has two eyes so soft and brown;
Take care!
She gives a side glance, and looks down;
Beware! beware!
Trust her not; she is fooling thee."
So the days went on. The stream of visitors usual in a country house during the hunting season flowed in and out of Kerton Manor without any remarkable specimen showing itself above the surface. One individual, perhaps, I ought to except, the curate of the parish, who was a very constant visitor.
His appearance was not fascinating: he had a long, narrow head, thatched with straight, scanty hair; little, protruding eyes, and a complexion of a bright unvarying red—in fact, he was very like a prawn.
It was soon evident that the Rev. Samuel Foster was helplessly smitten by Miss Raymond, or, as Forrester elegantly expressed it, "hard hit in the wings, and crippled for flying!" Helplessly, I say, but not hopelessly; for that wicked little creature, acting perhaps under private orders, gave him all sorts of treacherous encouragement. I never saw any human being evolve so much caloric under excitement as he did, except one young woman whom I met ages ago—(a most estimable person; her Sunday-school was a model)—whose only way of evincing any emotion, either of anger, fear, pain, or pleasure, was—a profuse perspiration. Mr. Foster not only got awfully hot, but electrical into the bargain. His thin hairs used to stand out distinctly and in relief from his head and face, just like a person on the glass tripod. Charley suggested insulating him unawares, and getting a flash out of his knuckles, if not out of his brain. In truth, it was piteous to see the struggle between passion and nervousness that raged perpetually within him. He would stand for some time casting lamb's-eyes at the object of his affections—to the amorous audacity of the full-grown sheep he never soared—then suddenly, without the slightest provocation, he would discharge at her a compliment, elaborate, long-winded, Grandisonian, as a raw recruit fires his musket, shutting his eyes, and incontinently take to flight, without waiting to see the effect of his shot. If he had spent half the time and pains on his sermons that he did on his small-talk (I believe he used to write out three or four foul copies of each sentence previously at home), what a boon it would have been to his unlucky audience on Sundays!
Why is it that the great proportion of our pastors seem to conspire together with one consent to make the periodical duty of listening to them as hard as possible? Can they imagine there is profit or pleasure in a discourse wandering wearily round in a circle, or dragging a slow length along of truisms and trivialities? In the best of congregations there can be but few alchemists; and, without that science, who is to extract the essence of Truth from the moles incongesta of crass moralities?
To persuade or dissuade you must interest the head or the heart. I admire those who can do either successfully, but I do protest against those clerical tyrants who shelter themselves behind their license to fire at us their ruthless platitudes. If such could only struggle against that strong temptation of our fallen nature—the delight of hearing one's own sweet voice—so as to concentrate now and then! The best orators, spiritual and mundane, have been brief sometimes.
I am no theologian, but I take leave to doubt if, in the elaborate divinity of fourteen epistles, the apostle of the Gentiles ever went so straight to his hearer's heart as in that farewell charge, when the elders of Ephesus gathered round him on the sea-sand, "Sorrowing most of all for the words that he spake, that they should see his face no more."
Do you remember Canning and the clergyman? When the latter asked him, "How did you like my sermon? I endeavored not to be tedious;" I always fancy the statesman's weary, wistful look, which would have been compassionate but for a sense of personal injury, as he answered, in his mild voice, "And yet—you were."
Well, the flirtation went on its way rejoicing, to the intense amusement of all of us, especially of Forrester, till one day his cousin came into Guy's study, who had just returned from hunting, looking rather frightened, like a child who has let fall a valuable piece of china—it was only an honest man's heart that