Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, No. 707, July 14, 1877

'Don't say that,' entreats Halkett gently; 'and don't vex yourself. I would rather the mare was dead, than that you tormented yourself about her. Besides' – stooping to examine the injury – 'from what I can see it is only skin-deep, and won't matter in a day or two; eh, Connor?'

'Yessir; only a scratch, sir. Right as ever in a week, sir.'

These words carry balm to Miss Mordaunt's breast; and presently the bandages being finally adjusted, and the Baby consoled by an additional feed, they leave the stables; and Blake considerately diverging to the right, Miss Mordaunt and Halkett go leisurely towards the house.

As they reach the stone steps leading to the Hall door, Cissy pauses. 'You are sure you forgive me?' she asks sweetly.

'How can you speak to me like that!' says Halkett, almost angry. 'Did you think I should cut up rough with you? What an ill-tempered brute you must consider me; you ought to know me better by this time.'

'I have not known you for so very long,' says Cissy smiling; then impulsively, while her colour once more deepens: 'Why is that horse such a favourite with you? – beyond all others, I mean. Was it a present?'

'Yes,' says Halkett in a low voice.

'From a very dear friend?'

'Very dear; more than a friend.'

'From – a gentleman?'

'No. From a lady,' says Halkett shortly, and turns away his head.

On the instant, the words the major had uttered in the stables come back to Miss Mordaunt's mind, and without further comment she sweeps past Halkett into the house, and he sees her no more until dinner-time.

When half-past seven chimes out, and the solemn retainer of the House of Mordaunt announces dinner as being served, both Major Blake and Captain Halkett make a hard fight of it to take Miss Cissy down; but Fate, in the person of Sir Thomas Lobin, interferes, and balks them of their prey. Halkett, however, may be said to have the best of it, as he succeeds in seating himself directly opposite his Irish divinity, and so can watch the changes of her beloved face, and perhaps edge in a word or two, addressed particularly to her, during the repast. All this can be the more readily accomplished, as he has been told off to a young lady who, if not actually insane, is at all events three parts silly, and so does not feel it incumbent upon him to supply her with the orthodox amount of small-talk.

Major Blake falling into line, finds himself presently situated somewhat low down, with Mrs Fairfax on one side of him, and Grace Elton, a cousin of Cissy's, on the other. If it were not that his thoughts are altogether centred on Miss Mordaunt, he might have considered himself in luck, as he is undoubtedly in very good quarters. Grace Elton is as unaffected as she is charming, and extremely pretty into the bargain. But the major will neither acknowledge nor see anything beyond the tip of Cissy's nose, as it shews itself provokingly every now and then from behind the epergne.

On a line with Sir Thomas, and the third from him, sits Mrs Leyton the Indian widow, in a ravishing costume of pearl and blue that speaks alone of worth. She is looking wonderfully handsome to-night, and has a bright adorable spot on each cheek that is not born of rouge. She is keeping her hand in by trying a little mild flirtation with the vicar, who occupies her right, and is making very pretty play; while his daughter – who is almost too young for society – watching them from the opposite side, finds her mind much exercised, and wonders in her heart if Mrs Leyton is really very fond of papa. Surely she must be; else why does she raise her large soft dark eyes so tenderly to his once in every three minutes precisely, by the marble clock on the chimney-piece?

Aunt Isabel, at the head of the table, is radiant as usual, and dispenses roast turkey and smiles with equal alacrity. She is carving with even more than her customary vigour and well-known proficiency, while at the same time she is listening to and adding a word here and there to every topic under discussion. She is, however, particularly attentive to Miss Lobin, who sits beside her, and who is as deaf as a post; though no trouble to any one except herself, poor lady, as she seeks not for conversation, and as long as she gets a bit of everything mentioned in the menu, is perfectly content.

There are two or three stray men from the neighbouring barracks scattered up and down; and these, with the three Misses Brighton – who being evidently not cut out by mother Nature for the civil service, have been considered suitable to ask to meet them – make up the party.

'Well, Cis, you had a pleasant day, I hope?' says Uncle Charlie, presently addressing his favourite niece.

'A delicious day, dear uncle; only we wound up with a misfortune. I was stupid enough to hurt Captain Halkett's horse on my way home through the Park; though indeed I scarcely think it was my fault. However, as it was to happen, we were lucky in having it occur at the end, instead of the beginning of our day, as we had our ride in spite of it.'

As she makes this little speech, she never once glances at Halkett (indeed she has taken no notice of him since the commencement of dinner), and purposely treats the whole thing as unworthy of regret. Halkett, contrasting her pretty contrition of the morning with this off-hand dismissal of the matter, is, manlike, thoroughly mystified.

'I am sorry to hear of an accident,' says Uncle Charlie, who holds all good animals dear to his heart. – 'Nothing serious, I hope, Frank?'

'A mere scratch,' returns Halkett carelessly.

'That is right. It could not have happened through any great desire on the rider's part to reach her home, as she delayed her return so long we all imagined an elopement had taken place. But there was no such excitement in store for us. – I do think, as your guardian and uncle, Cis, I have every right to know what you and the major were talking of all that time.'

'Politics,' says the major lightly; 'we never talk anything but politics. – Do we, Miss Mordaunt?'

Here Blake dodges to one side of the epergne, that he may the more surely get a full view of Miss Mordaunt's face.

'Never,' replies Cissy emphatically, dodging the epergne in her turn; and then they both laugh.

Here Halkett mutters something under his breath that is so far audible as to rouse the silly young lady by his side into some kind of life. She sighs and uplifts her head.

'Were you speaking to me?' she asks in a somewhat startled tone.

'No – yes – was I?' stammers Halkett, rather shocked. 'I ought to have been, of course; but I have fallen so low as to allow dinner to engross all my attention. Pray, forgive me. It comes entirely of going down to dinner with a middle-aged gourmet.'

'Dear me – I fancied you quite young,' responds his companion with a simper; and lapses again into silence after the effort.

'Politics!' says Uncle Charlie, going back to the subject, after he has desired the butler to take several different dishes to Miss Lobin. 'How you must have enjoyed yourselves – especially Cissy. I never met any woman with such keen and comprehensive views on all matters connected with the state. It was only yesterday I asked her opinion of Gladstone, and she told me she always thought he was' —

'Now– Uncle Charlie,' interrupts Miss Mordaunt with such indignation, that the old gentleman, though chuckling to himself, audibly refuses all further information.

'May we not hear your opinion of Gladstone?' demands Sir Thomas, who is an old beau, and much addicted to Miss Mordaunt.

'Certainly not. And remember I distinctly forbid you to ask Uncle Charlie any questions when my back is turned; as he is capable of saying anything once my eye is off him.'

'Your will is my law,' says the old beau with a bow that would have reflected credit on a Chesterfield; and shortly afterwards, at a signal from Aunt Isabel, the ladies rising, leave the gentlemen to their own devices.

On entering the drawing-room, Mrs Leyton walking with the undulating graceful motion that belongs to her, and that cannot be acquired, goes straight to the fireplace, where she sinks into a lounging-chair, leaving the opposite one for Aunt Isabel, who almost instantly falls into a gentle doze. Little Miss Millar, the vicar's daughter, losing sight of her shyness in her desire to obtain her object, seeks a resting-place that will enable her still to keep a fascinated watch over Mrs Leyton, the widow having cast a glamour over the timid country maiden. The Misses Brighton and Grace Elton keep up a continual chatter, and are evidently enjoying themselves immensely; while Miss Lobin taking the cosy corner of the sofa, emulates her hostess, and letting her face lengthen until it reaches a state of utter imbecility, sweetly snoozes.

Cissy is standing in one of the windows, somewhat apart; she gazes out upon the stilly night, and softly cogitates. She cannot quite make up her mind whether she has been most sinned against or sinning; she cannot wholly approve her conduct at dinner, and finds it impossible to divest herself entirely of the idea that Halkett was looking miserable the entire time. But all men make a point of appearing injured when placed in the wrong position, and of course he had not liked her cross-examination of the morning. Yet again, why should he not receive presents from women? What right had she to question act or word of his? No matter what thoughts and hopes she may have encouraged in the secret recesses of her heart, she feels now she has no certain data to go upon to prove that Halkett cares for her beyond all others. Somebody – who was it? – had said he was a flirt. Well, one thing was positive – he should not flirt with her.

Here Aunt Isabel, slowly rousing, sneezes, and hems audibly, to let her friends know she has not been sleeping.

'Cissy, child,' she says, 'you will be perished over there. Come to the fire and warm yourself.'

'I am warm, thank you, and quite comfortable.'

'My love, I don't believe it' (with extreme mildness); 'it is freezing as hard as it can, and there is always a draught near a window. Come here, when I desire you.'

'Oh, I shall die near that blazing log.'

'And I shall die if you remain over there,' says Aunt Isabel; and carries her point.

'Better I than you, Auntie,' says Miss Mordaunt, and coming over, good-humouredly kneels down beside her kinswoman.

'Cold hands – warm heart,' murmurs the old lady, caressing the soft white fingers that lie upon her lap.

'A troublesome possession,' remarks Mrs Leyton with a lazy smile. 'No one is really happy in this world except he or she who carries an empty bosom.'

'Are you happy?' asks Miss Cissy innocently.

'Almost. The little worn-out article that beats here' – laying her hand over the region of the heart – 'has pulsations hardly strong enough to cause me any uneasiness. Now and then I feel a faint pang – not often.'

'I would rather keep my heart, even at the expense of my suffering,' says Cissy warmly. 'She who cannot feel anguish, can know no perfect joy. Without love, life is a mistake, an unutterably stupid gift. That is how I think; but then I am Irish, and therefore of course unreasonable.'

'O no,' says Mrs Leyton graciously. 'The Irish are the most charming people in the world – so light-hearted, so quick to sympathise. Though I have been here only two days, and have asked no questions, I knew you to be Irish before you told me. Most of my friends come from your land; even Captain Halkett is half Irish, his mother being from Galway.'