Chapter 6. A Departure

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_ CHAPTER VI. A DEPARTURE

There was but little sleep for Nina that night. She was sick at heart to think that in return for the unceasing kindness Lionel had shown her since her arrival in England, she should be the means of drawing him into this foolish embroilment. She saw the situation of affairs clearly enough. Miss Burgoyne was an exacting, irritable, jealous woman, who had resented Nina's presence in the theatre almost from the beginning, and who had been driven into a sudden fury by the sight of Lionel (he taking no notice of her either) driving past with this interloping foreigner. Moreover, Miss Burgoyne was inordinately vain: to have the popular young baritone fight a duel on her account--to have their names coupled together in common talk--what greater triumph could she desire than that? But while Miss Burgoyne might be the ostensible cause of the quarrel, Nina knew who was the real cause of it; and again and again she asked herself why she had ever come to England, thus to bring trouble upon her old ally and companion Leo.

And then in that world of visions that lies just outside the realm of sleep--in which great things become small, and small things acquire a fantastic and monstrous importance--she worried and fretted because Lionel had laughingly complained on the previous evening that henceforth there would be no more home-made lemonade for him. Well, now, if she--that is to say, if Nina--were in her humble way to try what she could do in that direction? It might not be so good as the lemonade that Miss Burgoyne prepared; but perhaps Lionel would be a little generous and make allowance? She would not challenge any comparison. She and Mrs. Grey between them would do their best, and the result would be sent anonymously to his rooms in Piccadilly; if he chose to accept it--well, it was a timid little something by way of compensation. Nina forgot for the moment that within the next few days an unlucky sword-thrust might suddenly determine Lionel's interest in lemonade, as in all other earthly things; these trivial matters grew large in this distorted land of waking dreams; nay, she began to think that if she were to leave England altogether, and go away back to Naples, and perhaps accept an engagement in opera at Malta, then matters would be as before at the New Theatre; and when Lionel and Miss Burgoyne met in the corridor, it would be, "Good-evening, Miss Burgoyne!" and "Good-evening, Mr. Moore!" just as it used to be. There would be no Italian girl interfering, and bringing dissension and trouble.

But the next morning, when the actual facts of the case were before her clearer vision, she had better reason for becoming anxious and restless and miserable. As the day wore on, Mrs. Grey could hardly persuade her to run down to the Crystal Palace for the opening of the Handel Festival, though, as the little widow pointed out, Mr. Moore had procured the tickets for them, and they were bound to go. Of course, when once they were in the great transept of the Palace, in the presence of this vast assemblage, and listening to the splendid orchestra and a chorus of between three and four thousand voices dealing with the massive and majestic strains of the "Messiah," the spell of the music fell upon Nina and held absolute sway over her. She got into a curious state of exaltation; she seemed breathless; sometimes, Mrs. Grey thought, she shivered a little with the strain of emotion. And all the time that Mr. Santley was singing "Why do the nations," she held her hand tightly over her heart; and when he had finished--when the thrilled multitude broke forth into an extraordinary thunder of enthusiasm--Nina murmured to herself,

"It is--it is like to take my life-blood away."

But when they were in the train again, and on their way up to town, it was evident to her companion that the girl had returned to her anxious fears.

"Mrs. Grey," she said, suddenly, "I speak to Miss Burgoyne to-night."

"Oh, no, don't do that, Miss Nina!" said Mrs. Grey, with much concern, for she knew something of the circumstances of the case. "I hope you won't do that! You might simply make matters worse. Mr. Moore would not have spoken to you if he thought you would interfere, depend upon that. And if Miss Burgoyne is vexed or angry, what good would you do? I hear she has a sharp tongue; don't _you_ try her temper, my dear," the little woman pleaded.

But Nina did not answer these representations; and she was mostly silent and thoughtful all the way to town. When they reached London, they had some tea at the railway-station, and she went on at once to the theatre. She was there early; Miss Burgoyne had not arrived; so Nina lingered about the corridor, listening to Mlle. Girond's pretty chatter, but not hearing very much.

At length the prima-donna appeared; and she would have passed Nina without recognition, had not the latter went forward a step, and said, somewhat timidly,

"Miss Burgoyne!"

"What?" said Miss Burgoyne, stopping short, and regarding the Italian girl with a by-no-means-friendly stare.

"May I have a word with you?" Nina said, with a little hesitation.

"Yes; what is it?" the other demanded, abruptly.

"But--but in private?" Nina said again. "In your room?"

"Oh, very well, come in!" Miss Burgoyne said, with but scant courtesy; and she led the way into her sitting-room, and also intimated to her maid that she might retire into the inner apartment. Then she turned to Nina.

"What is it you want?"

But the crisis found Nina quite unprepared. She had constructed no set speech; she had formulated no demand. For a second or so she stood tongue-tied--tongue-tied and helpless--unable to put her passionate appeal into words; then, all of a sudden, she said,

"Miss Burgoyne, you will not allow it--this folly! It is madness that they fight about--about nothing! You will not allow it!--what is it to you?--you have enough fame, enough reputation as a prima-donna, as a favorite with the public--what more? Why should you wish more--and at such a dreadful risk?--"

"Oh, I don't know what you're talking about!" said Miss Burgoyne. "What are you talking about?"

"The duel--" said Nina, breathlessly.

"What duel?"

Nina stared at her.

"Ah, you do not know, then?" she exclaimed.

"What don't I know?" Miss Burgoyne said, impatiently. "What are you talking about! What duel? Is it something in the evening papers? Or have you taken leave of your senses?"

Nina paid no heed to these taunts.

"You do not know, then," she asked, "that--that Mr. Moore is going to fight a duel--with a young gentleman who is your friend? No?--you do not know it?"

It was Miss Burgoyne's turn to stare in amazement.

"Mr. Moore?" she repeated, with her eyes (which were pretty and coquettish enough, though they were not on the same plane) grown wide and wondering. "A friend of mine? And you come to me--as if I had anything to do with it? Oh, my goodness!" she suddenly exclaimed, and a curious smile of intelligence began to dawn upon her face. "Has that young donkey carried the matter so far as that?"

But she was not displeased; nay, she was rather inclined to laugh.

"Well, that would make a stir, wouldn't it? And how did you find it out?--who told _you_? A duel? I thought he was talking rather mysteriously yesterday morning--Conrad the Corsair kind of thing--glooms and daggers--so it was a duel he was thinking of? But they are not really going to fight, Miss Ross," continued Miss Burgoyne, who had grown quite friendly. "You know people can't give up an engagement at a theatre to go and fight a duel: it's only French gentlemen who have no occupation who do that sort of thing. A duel?--a real, actual duel--do you seriously mean it?"

The prospect seemed to afford her great satisfaction, if not even a cause for merriment.

"Miss Burgoyne, you will not permit it!" Nina exclaimed.

"I?" said the other. "What have I to do with it? If two men want to fight, why shouldn't they?" said she, with apparent carelessness.

"Ah, but you know well what you have to do with it," Nina said, with some touch of scorn. "Yes, you pretend; but you know it well. The young man he goes from you yesterday to provoke the duel--you have been talking to him--and yet you pretend. You say, why should they not fight? Then it is nothing to you that one friend or the other friend may be killed?--that is nothing to you?--and you know you can prevent it if you choose. You do not wish to interfere--it will be amusing to read in the papers! Oh, very amusing! And if the one is killed?"

"But you know, Miss Ross, they don't go such lengths nowadays," said Miss Burgoyne, with great good-humor. "No, no; it's only honor and glory they go out for; it's only the name of the thing; they don't want to kill each other. Besides, if two men mean to fight, how can a woman interfere? What is she supposed to know of the cause of quarrel? These things are not supposed to be known."

"Then," said Nina, whose lips had grown still more indignant and scornful, "this is what I say: if anything happens, it is your conscience that will speak to you in after time. You wish them to fight, yes, for your vanity to be pleased!--you wish it said that they fight about you! And that is a trionf for you--something in the papers--and you do not care what harm is done if you are talked about! That is your friendship!--what do you care?--any one may be sacrificed to your vanity--"

"I suppose if they were fighting about you, you wouldn't say a word against it!" observed Miss Burgoyne, coolly. In fact the vehement reproaches that Nina had addressed to her did not seem to have offended her in the least; for she went on to say, in the best of tempers: "Well, Miss Ross, I have to thank you for bringing me the news. But don't be alarmed; these dreadful duels, even when they get into the newspapers, seldom show much harm done. And in the meantime will you excuse me?--Jane is grumbling in there, I know. Tell me anything you may hear about it by and by--and meanwhile I am very much obliged to you." So Nina found herself dismissed, neither her piteous appeal nor her indignant protest having had apparently any effect whatever.

But Miss Burgoyne, while transforming herself into Grace Mainwaring, had plenty of time to think over this startling position of affairs, and to consider how she could best use it to her own advantage. She had a nimble brain; and it may have occurred to her that here was a notable chance for her to display the splendid magnanimity of her disposition--to overwhelm Mr. Lionel Moore with her forgiveness and her generous intervention on his behalf. At all events, in the first scene in which these two met on the stage, Harry Thornhill became instantly aware that the merry and mischievous Grace Mainwaring appeared bent on being very friendly towards him--even while she looked curiously at him, as if there were something in her mind. Moreover, she seemed in excellent spirits; there was no perfunctory "drag" in her give-and-take speeches with the adventurous young gentleman whom fate had thrown in her way. He was very well pleased to find the scene going so well; he sang his share in the parting duet with unusual _verve_; she responded with equal animation; the crowded house gave them an enthusiastic recall. But the public could not tell that, even in the midst of this artistic triumph, the audacious young lover had his own thoughts in his head; and that he was really saying to himself, "What the mischief is she at now?"

He was to learn later on in the evening. Just as he got dressed for the ball-room scene, a message was brought him that Miss Burgoyne would like to see him for a minute or two as soon as he was ready. Forthwith he went to her room, tapped at her door, entered, and found himself the sole occupant; but the next moment the curtain concealing the dressing-room was opened about five feet from the ground; and there (the rest of her person being concealed) he beheld the smiling face of Grace Mainwaring, with its sparkling eyes and rouge and patches, to say nothing of the magnificent white wig with its nodding sprays of brilliants.

"Just a moment, Mr. Moore," said she, "and I shall be with you directly"--and therewith the vision was gone, and the crimson curtains came together again.

Very shortly thereafter the Squire's Daughter came forth in all the splendor of her white satin and pearls; and she lost no time in letting him know why he had been summoned.

"You are a very bloodthirsty man," said she, in accents of grave reproach (though her eyes were not so serious), "and I am ashamed of you that you should think of harming that poor boy; but I am not going to allow it--"

"Why, who told you anything about it?" he said; for he could not pretend not to know what she meant.

"A little bird," she made answer, with much complacence. "And the idea that you should really want to do such a thing!--how many voices like yours are there wandering about in comedy-opera that you should consider you have any right to run such a risk? I don't mean being killed--I mean catching a cold! I suppose you have got to take your coat and waistcoat off--on Calais sands--with a wind blowing in from the sea; that is a nice thing for your chest and throat, isn't it? Well, I'm going to step in and prevent it. I consider you have treated me very badly--pretending you didn't see me, when you were so very particularly engaged; but never mind; I never bear malice; and, as I say, I'm going to step in and prevent this piece of folly."

"Very much obliged, I am sure," he said, politely. "When men propose to fight, it is so extremely pleasant to find a woman appear to throw a protecting arm over them!"

"Oh, I am not going to be repelled by any of your ferocious sentiments," said she, good-naturedly. "I am a friend of both of you--I hope; and I won't have anything of the kind--I tell you I won't allow it--"

"I'm afraid your intervention has come too late," said he, quietly.

"Why?" she demanded.

"Oh, it isn't worth speaking about," said he. "The young gentleman went a little too far--he has got to be taught a lesson, that is all--"

"Oh, listen to him!--listen to his bloodthirstiness!" she exclaimed, in affected horror; and then she suddenly altered her tone. "Come, now, Mr. Moore, you're not seriously going to try to harm that poor boy! He is a very nice boy, as honest and simple-minded as you could wish. And such a pretty boy, too--no, no, it is quite absurd--"

"You are right there," said he. "It is quite absurd. The whole thing is absurd. But it has gone too far."

Here Miss Burgoyne was called.

"Will you leave it in my hands?" she said, leisurely rising from her chair, and tucking up her long train so that she might safely pass into the wings.

"Certainly not," said he. "You have no right to know anything about it. The quarrel was forced upon me; I had no wish to harm your pretty boy, nor have I much now--except in trying to keep myself from being harmed. But that is all over now; and this thing has to be seen through to the end now."

He held open the door for her; and then he accompanied her along the passage and up the steps, until they were both ready for their entrance on the stage.

"Men are so obstinate," said she, with an air of vexation; "so obstinate and foolish. But I don't care; I'll see if I can't get something done; I won't allow two dear friends of mine to do anything so stupid if I can help it. Why, the idea!--getting into a quarrel with a harmless young fellow like that! You ought to have been kind to him for my sake--for he really is such a dear boy--so simple and good-natured--"

"_But where is Grace?_" said a voice out there in the wide ball-room; and as this was Miss Burgoyne's cue, she tripped lightly on to the stage with her smiling answer: "_One kiss, papa, before the guests arrive._" And, as it turned out, there was no further opportunity of talk that night between Miss Burgoyne and Mr. Lionel Moore.

But two days thereafter, and just as Lionel was about to go out for his morning ride, the house-porter brought him a card. It was Mr. Percival Miles who was below.

"Ask the gentleman to come up."

Here were the preliminaries of battle, then. Lionel had a vague kind of notion that the fire-eating youth ought not to have appeared in person--that he ought to have been represented by a friend; however, it was not of much consequence. He only hoped that there would be no further altercation or throwing of ink-bottles; otherwise he considered it probable that this interview would terminate in a more English manner than the last.

The young gentleman came in, hat in hand. He was apparently very calm and dignified.

"Mr. Moore," said he, slowly, as if he were repeating words already carefully chosen, "I am about to take an unusual course. I have been asked to do so--I have been constrained to do so--by the one person whose wish in such a matter must be respected. I have come to apologize to you for my conduct of the other day."

"Oh, very well," said Lionel, but somewhat coldly; he did not seem well satisfied that this young man should get off so easily, after his unheard-of insolence. Indeed, Lionel was very much in the position of the irate old Scotchwoman whose toes were trodden upon by a man in a crowd. "I beg your pardon," said the culprit. "Begging my paurdon 'll no dae," was the retort, "I'm gaun to gie ye a skelp o' the lug!"

"I hope you will accept my apology," the pale-faced young gentleman continued in the same stiff and embarrassed manner. "I don't know whether it is worth while my offering any excuse for what I did--except that it was done under a misapprehension. The--the lady in question seemed annoyed--perhaps I mistook the meaning of certain phrases she used--and certainly I must have been entirely in error in guessing as to what she wished me to do. I take the whole blame on myself. I acted hastily--on the spur of the moment; and now I am exceedingly sorry; and I ask your pardon."

"Oh, very well," Lionel said, though somewhat ungraciously. "But you see you are getting rather the best of this performance. You come here with a ridiculous cock-and-bull story, you threaten and vapor and kick up mock-heroics, you throw a bottle of ink over a book belonging to a friend of mine--and then you are to get off by saying two or three words of apology!"

"What can I do more?" said the humble penitent. "I have tried to explain. I--I was as ready to fight as you could be; but--but now I obey the person who has the best right to say what shall be done in such an affair. I have made every apology and explanation I could; and I ask your pardon."

"Oh, very well," Lionel said again.

"Will you give me your hand, then?" Mr. Percival Miles asked; and he somewhat timidly advanced a step, with outstretched palm.

"That isn't necessary," said Lionel, making no other response.

The fair-haired young warrior seemed greatly embarrassed.

"I--I was told--" he stammered; but Lionel, who was now inclined to laugh, broke in on his confusion.

"Did Miss Burgoyne say you weren't to come away without shaking hands with me--is that it?" he asked, with a smile.

"Y--yes," answered the young gentleman, blushing furiously.

"Oh, very well, there's no trouble about that," Lionel said, and he gave him his hand for a second; after which the love-lorn youth somewhat hastily withdrew, and no doubt was glad to lose himself in the busy crowd of Piccadilly.

That same afternoon Lionel drove down to Sloane Street. He was always glad to go along and have a friendly little chat about musical affairs with the eagerly enthusiastic Nina; and, as this particular evening was exceedingly fine and pleasant, he thought he might induce her to walk in to the theatre by way of Belgrave Square and the Green Park. But hardly had they left the house when Nina discovered that it was not about professional matters that Lionel wanted to talk to her on this occasion.

"Nina," said he, with befitting solemnity, "I have great news for you. I am saved. Yes, my life has been saved. And by whom, think you? Why, by Miss Burgoyne! Miss Burgoyne is the protecting goddess who has snatched me away in a cloud just as my enemy was about to pin me to the earth with his javelin."

"There is to be no duel, Leo?" she said, quickly.

"There is not," he continued. "Miss Burgoyne has forbidden it. She has come between me and my deadly foe and held up a protecting hand. I don't know that it is quite a dignified position for me to find myself in, but one must recognize her friendly intentions, anyway. And not only that, Nina, but she sent me a bottle of lemonade yesterday! Just think of it! to save your life is something, but to send you lemonade as well--that is almost too much goodness."

Poor Nina! If this careless young man had only looked at the address on the wrapper of the bottle he could easily have guessed whose was the handwriting--especially recognizable in the foreign-looking _L_ and _M_. That timidly proffered little gift was Nina's humble effort at compensation; and now he was bringing it forward as a proof of Miss Burgoyne's great good-nature! And it was Miss Burgoyne who had intervened to prevent this absurd duel--Miss Burgoyne, who knew nothing at all about it until Nina told her! Nina, as they now walked along towards Constitution Hill, was too proud to make any explanation; only she thought he might have looked at the address on the wrapper.

"Seriously," he said to his companion, "seriously, Nina, she has put me under a very great obligation and shown herself very magnanimous as well. There is no doubt she was offended with me about something or other; and she had the generosity to put all that aside the moment she found I was embroiled in this stupid affair. And, mind you, I'm very glad to be out of it. It would have looked ridiculous in the papers; and everything gets into the papers nowadays. Of course that young idiot had no right to go and tell her about the duel; but I suppose he wanted to figure as a hero in her eyes--poor devil! he seems pretty bad about her. Well, now that her intervention has got me out of this awkward scrape, how am I to show my gratitude to her? what do you say, Nina?"

But Nina had nothing to say.

"There's one thing I can do for her," he continued. "You know how fond actors and actresses are of titled folks. Well, Miss Burgoyne is going down to Henley Regatta with a lot of other professionals, and I am going too, with another party--Lady Adela Cunyngham has got a house-boat there. Very well, if I can find out where Miss Burgoyne is--and I dare say she will be conspicuous enough, though she's not very tall--I will take Lord Rockminster to pay his respects to her and leave him with her; won't that do! They have already been introduced at the theatre; and if Rockminster doesn't say much, I have no doubt she will chatter enough for both. And Miss Burgoyne will be quite pleased to have a lord all to herself."

"Leo," said Nina, gently, "do you not think you yourself have too much liking for--for that fine company?"

"Perhaps I have," said he, with perfect good-humor. "What then? Are you going to lecture me, too? Is Saul among the prophets? Has Maurice Mangan been coaching you as well?"

"Ah, Leo," said she, "I should wish to see you give it all up--yes--all the popularity--and your fine company--and that you go away back to Pandiani--"

"Pandiani!" he exclaimed. "Here's romance, indeed! You want us both to become students again, and to have the old days at Naples back again--"

"No, no, no!" she said, shaking her head. "It is the future I think of. I wish to hear you in grand opera or in oratorio--I wish to see you a great artist--that is something noble, something ambitious, something to work for day and night. Ah, Leo, when I hear Mr. Santley sing 'Why do the nations'--when I see the thousands and thousands of people sitting entranced, then I say to myself, 'There is something grand and noble to speak to all these people--to lift them above themselves, to give them this pure emotion, surely that is a great thing--it is high, like religion--it is a purification--it is--'" But here she stopped, with a little gesture of despair. "No, no, Leo, I cannot tell you--I have not enough English."

"It's all very well," said he, "for you to talk about Santley; but where will you get another voice like his?"

"Leo, you can sing finer music than 'The Starry Night,'" she said. "You have the capacity. Ah, but you enjoy too much; you are petted and spoiled, yes? you have not a great ambition--"

"I'll tell you what I seem to have, though, Nina," said he. "I seem to have a faculty of impressing my friends with the notion that I could do something tremendous if only I tried; whereas I know that this belief of theirs is only a delusion."

"But you do not try, Leo," said this persistent counsellor. "No? life is too pleasant for you; you have not enthusiasm; why, your talk is always _persiflage_--it is the talk of the fashionable world. And you an artist!"

However, at this moment Lionel suddenly discovered that this leisurely stroll was likely to make them late in getting to the theatre; so that perforce they had to leave these peaceful glades of the Green Park and get into Piccadilly, where they jumped into a hansom-cab and were rapidly whirled away eastward.

But if Lionel was to be reproached for his lack of ambition, that was a charge which could not be brought against certain of those fashionable friends of his at whom Nina (in unconscious collusion with Maurice Mangan) seemed inclined to look askance. At the very height of the London season Lady Adela Cunyngham and her sisters, Lady Sybil and Lady Rosamund Bourne, had taken the town by storm; and it seemed probable that, before they departed for Scotland, they would leave quite a trail of glory behind them in the social firmament. The afternoon production of "The Chaplet," in the gardens of Sir Hugh's house on Campden Hill, had been a most notable festivity, doubtless; but then it was a combination affair; for Miss Georgie Lestrange had shared in the honors of the occasion; moreover, they had professional assistance given them by Mr. Lionel Moore. It was when the three sisters attacked their own particular pursuits that their individual genius shone, and marked success had attended their separate efforts. His royal highness, the commander-in-chief, it is true, had not as yet invited the colonels of the British army to recommend Lady Sybil's "Soldiers' Marching Song" to the band-masters of the various regiments, but, in default of that, this composition was performed nightly, as the concluding ceremony, at the international exhibition then open in London; and as the piece was played by the combined bands of the Royal Marines, with the drums of the 1st Battalion Grenadier Guards, the Highland Pipers of the 2d Battalion Scots Guards, and the drums of the 2d Battalion Grenadier Guards, the resultant noise was surely sufficient to satisfy the hungriest vanity of any composer, professional or amateur, who ever lived. Then not only had Lady Rosamund exhibited a large picture at the Lansdowne Gallery (a decorative work this was, representing the manumission of a slave, with the legend underneath, "_Hunc hominem liberum esse volo_"), but also the proprietors of an illustrated weekly newspaper had published in their summer number, as a colored supplement, what she had ventured to call "An All-the-year-round Valentine." She had taken the following rhyme (or perhaps some one had found it for her)--

"In these fair violets of the veins,
The verdure of the spring remains;
Ripe cherries on thy lips display
The lustre of the summer day;
If I for autumn were to seek,
I'd view the apples on thy cheek;
There's nought could give me pain in thee,
But winter in thy heart to see."

--and she had drawn four pretty little landscapes, which, when reproduced on one sheet by chromo-lithography, looked very neat and elegant, while the fair artist was much gratified to observe her name figuring on the placards at railway-stations or on the boards in front of stationers' shops, as she drove along Kensington High Street.

But, of course, the crowning achievement of the gifted family was Lady Adela Cunyngham's novel. If it was not quite the success of the season, as far as the outer world was concerned, it certainly was the most-talked-of book among Lady Adela's own set. Every character in it was identified as somebody or another; and although Lady Adela, as a true artist, maintained that she did not draw individuals, but types, she could not stem the tide of this harmless curiosity, and had to submit to the half-humorous inquiries and flattering insinuations of her friends. As for the outer world, if it remained indifferent, that only showed its lack of gratitude; for here, there, and everywhere, among the evening and weekly papers (the morning papers were, perhaps, too busy with politics at the time), attention was drawn to Lady Arthur Castletown's charming and witty romance of modern life. Alp called to Alp, and deep to deep, throughout Satan's invisible world; "Kathleen's Sweethearts" was dragged in (apparently with ten men pushing behind) for casual allusion in "Our Weekly Note-book;" Lady Arthur's smart sayings were quoted in the gossip attached to this or that monthly magazine; the correspondent of a country journal would hasten to say that it was not necessary to inform _his_ readers that Lady Arthur Castletown was, in reality, Lady Adela Cunyngham, the wife of the well-known breeder of polled cattle, Sir Hugh Cunyngham of the Braes. In the midst of all this Lionel went to his friend Maurice Mangan.

"Look here, Maurice," said he, "that book can't be as bad as you tried to make out."

"It is the most insensate trash that was ever put between boards," was the prompt reply.

"But how can that be? Look at what the papers say!"

"The papers--what papers? That isn't what the papers say--that is what the small band of log-rollers say, calling industriously to one another, like frogs in a pond. Didn't I tell you what would happen if you got hold of Octavius Quirk, or any one of them? How many dinners did your swell friends expend on Quirk?"

"Oh, I don't know. He is pretty often at the house."

"He is pretty often at the house, is he?" Mangan repeated.

"I hope they won't ask him to Scotland," Lionel said, ruefully. "I can't bear the fellow; it's just as you say, he's always in a whirlwind of insistence--about nothing; and he doesn't grin through a horse-collar, he roars and guffaws through it. But then, you see, he has been very kind about this book; and, of course, a new author, like Lady Adela, is grateful. I admit what you say is right enough--perhaps the family are a little anxious for notoriety; but so are a good many other people; and there's no great harm in writing or painting or composing music as well as you can. Mind, I think there's a little professional jealousy about you, Maurice," continued this sage Mentor. "You don't like a woman of fashion to come into your literary circles. But why shouldn't she? I'm sure I don't object when any one of them tries to produce a little dramatic or musical piece; on the contrary, I would rather help. And look at Mellord--the busiest painter of the day--look at the trouble he takes in advising Lady Rosamund; she has the free _entree_ into his studio, no matter who is sitting to him. I think, for amateurs, the work of all the three sisters is very creditable to them; and I don't see why they shouldn't like to have the appreciation of the public, just as other people like it."

"My dear fellow," Mangan said, but with obvious indifference, "do you think I resent the fact of your friend Lady Arthur or Lady Adela writing a foolish novel? Far from it. You asked my opinion of it, and I told you; if you don't see for yourself that the book is absolute trash--but harmless trash, as I think--then you are in a happy condition of mind, for you must be easily pleased. Come, let's talk of something worth talking about. Have you been down to Winstead lately?"

"No--never since that Sunday."

"Do you know, your people were awfully good to me," this long, lank, lazy-looking man went on--but now he seemed more interested than when talking about Lady Adela's novel. "I never spent a more delightful evening--never. I wonder they did not turn me out, though; for I stayed and stayed, and never noticed how late it was getting. Missed the last train, of course, and walked all the way up to London; not a bit sorry, either, for the night was cool, and there was plenty of starlight; I'd walk twice as far to spend another such evening. I--I'm thinking of going down there next Sunday," he added, with a little hesitation.

"Why not?" Lionel said, cordially enough.

"You see," Mangan continued, still rather hesitatingly, "the fact is--I'm rather in the way of getting illustrated papers--and--and summer numbers--and children's books--I mean, when I want them, I can get them--for lots of these things come to the newspaper offices, and they're not much use to anybody; so I thought I would just make up a parcel and send it down to Miss Frances, don't you understand, for her sick children--"

"I dare say you went and spent a lot of money." Lionel said, with a laugh.

"And she was good enough to write back that it was just what she wanted; for several of the children--most of them, I should say--couldn't read, but they liked looking at pictures. And then she was kind enough to add that if I went down next Sunday, she would take me to see how the things had been distributed--the pictures hung up on walls, and so forth--and--and that's why I think I may go down."

"Oh, yes, certainly," Lionel said, though he did not understand why any such excuse was necessary.

"Couldn't you come down, too, Linn?" Mangan suggested.

"Oh, no, I couldn't, I'm so busy," was the immediate reply. "I'm going to Scotland the first or second week in August. The doctor advises me to give my voice a long rest; and the Cunynghams have asked me to their place in Ross-shire. Besides, I don't care about singing in London when there's nobody but country cousins, and none too many of them. Of course I'll have to go down and bid the old folks good-bye before starting for Scotland, and Francie, too. Mind you tell that wicked Francie that I am very angry with her for not having come up to see 'The Squire's Daughter.'"

"Linn," said his friend, after a second, "why don't you take the old people over to Aix or some such place for a month? They're so awfully proud of you; and you might take Miss Frances as well; she seems to work so hard--she deserves a rest. Wouldn't that be as sensible as going to Scotland?"

"My good chap, I would do that in a moment--I should be delighted," said he--for he was really a most generously disposed young man, especially as regarded money; time was of greater consideration with him. "But it's no use thinking of such a thing. The old folks are much too content with home; they won't travel. And Francie--she wouldn't come away from those precious babes. Well, I'm off. Mind you scold Francie for me!"

"Perhaps," said Mangan, as he accompanied his friend to the door.

So it was that on a certain evening in August, Lionel Moore drove up to Euston Station and secured a sleeping-berth in the train going north; and no doubt the consciousness that after a long spell of hard work he was entering upon a well-earned holiday was a very welcome and comfortable thing. If only he had been a little more reflective, he might have set to work (here in the railway-carriage, as he lit his cigar, and proceeded to fix up his reading-lamp) and gone on to consider how entirely satisfactory all his circumstances were at this moment. Prince Fortunatus, indeed! Was ever any one more happily situated? Here he was, young, full of health and high spirits, excellent-tempered, and sufficiently good-looking; he had acquired a liberal measure of fame and popularity; he had many friends; he had ample means, for he did not know the difference between a backer and a layer, nor yet the difference between a broker and a jobber--in fact, gambling, either in stocks or on the turf, had never even occurred to him as a thing worth thinking about. But there was something further than all this for which he ought to have been profoundly grateful. As the long train thundered away into the night, there was no dull misery of farewell weighing heavily upon him; there were no longing fancies wandering wistfully back to a certain house, a certain figure, a pair of too-eloquent eyes. He dragged no lengthening chain with him on this journey north. For, notwithstanding his pleasant companionship with Nina, and her constant sympathy with him and her interest in his professional career; notwithstanding the affectionate regard of his cousin Francie, which was none the less sincere that it remained unspoken and only to be guessed at; notwithstanding the somewhat jealous favor which the prima-donna of the New Theatre seemed inclined to bestow on him; notwithstanding the pert coquetries and fascinations of Miss Georgie Lestrange, to say nothing of the blandishments and pettings showered upon him by crowds of ladies of exalted rank, this fortunate young man (so far at least as he was himself aware) was going away to Scotland quite heart-whole. _

Read next: Chapter 7. In Strathaivron

Read previous: Chapter 5. Wars And Rumors

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