University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

It was not until a late hour, late at least
for those primitive days, that Edward Hale
awoke on the morning following the revels
of the first of May; and when he did
awake it was with a fevered frame and an
aching head. Some one or other, I forget
who, has said that a man ought to get
drunk every now and then for the sake of
the serious thoughts, the earnest promises
of reformation, and the very thorough process
of remorse and repentance which he
goes through on the morning succeeding
to a hard debauch. Without entering into
the morality of this question at all, or
inquiring whether, even if the salutary effects
be not overstated, a man ought to do
ill that good may come of it, it cannot be
disputed that the frame of mind in which
a man is left on the subsidence of that violent
excitement, conjoined with the discomfort
of the body, is such as to lead him naturally
to grave and serious reflection.

And so it was, in this instance, with the
young baronet. He was not by nature at
all disinclined to calm, and, at times, almost
solemn meditation; although the
character of his reveries was for the most
part rather imaginative and romantic than
contemplative or moral. Although gay
and joyous, and endowed largely with
those high spirits which flow from youth
and health, unchecked by present ills, or
presages of future sorrow, he was rather
of a poetical temperament, and that leads
oftentimes to a reflective mood.

This morning in particular, after he had
arisen from his bed and dressed himself
partially, he sent away his valet, and began
to ponder seriously on the occurrences of
the past day. And it was not long before
he became aware, that those occurrences,
although in themselves neither very striking
nor uncommon, had given rise to feel

ings in his own bosom, to which he could
revert without pain and something near
akin to remorse.

As he sat in his armed chair, partially
leaning on the sill of the open window,
looking over the green meadow whereon
still stood the tall May-pole, although the
giddy crowd who had made all the space
around it so gay on the preceding morning
were now dispersed about their ordinary
avocations, his thoughts reverted instantly
to the beautiful queen of the May. At
this calm season of the day, ere the sun
had yet heated the earth, while the air
came in fresh and dewy from the cool
woods and grassy meadows, and fanned his
brow with its fresh breath, the feverish excitements
and hot passions of the past day
seemed out of place, unhallowed, and distasteful.
Better things were at work
within him; better thoughts were aroused
by the comparison involuntarily drawn between
that innocent and tranquil day-break,
and the wild revel of the past
night.

He was a different man this morning,
and the pictures which his mind conjured
up before him of beautiful Rose Castleton,
were not such as he had seen through the
medium of glowing Burgundy. He thought
not of her now, with her voluptuous figure
swaying and bending in the dance, its
every wavy line instinct with hidden passion;
of her white bosom, all too much exposed
by the disordered kerchief, glowing
and throbbing in soft tumult; of her eyes
now beaming bright with gratified ambibition,
now swelling, swimming, languishing
in amorous dimness; of her sweet
pouting lips; her balmy breath fluttering
and panting between surprise and half offended
modesty; of her honeyed kiss; of
her rare form struggling in his embrace,
and yet half willing to be detained, as he
snatched the kiss from her lips, and the
rose-bud from her bosom; of the low, silvery,
faltering voice in which she promised
to meet him the next evening in the Monk's
coppice! No! these were not the pictures
which his fancy this morning set be
fore him. Far, far from it. He saw her
weeping,[1] disconsolate and pensive at her
spinning wheel, in some such touching attitude
as that wherein the great German
painter has given a form and body to the
rare spiritual Margaret of the great German
poet. He saw her with every vestige
of color vanished from her wan cheek
every spark quenched in her bright eye
all the soft roundness of her lovely form
wasted away and lost. He saw her kneeling
at the village shrine with clasped
hands and streaming eyes, while the sternfiend
remorse was whispering in her ear
to despair and die. He saw her prostrate
at her gray-headed father's feet, clasping
his knees and supplicating him to pardon
his lost child—he saw the clenched hand
and the knitted brow, and the indignant
eye of the relentless father, driving forth
the dishonored girl, who had brought
shame on his gray hairs—he saw the rude
route of the village, the coarse brutal rabble
hooting the harlot through the long
sunny street, and hallooing for the beadle
and the ducking stool! He saw her by
the still pool in the dark woodland, where
the stream has no ripple on its surface, and
the black waters tell of its unusual depth,
kneeling and striving vainly to syllable a
prayer for mercy before that awful plunge
which should remove her, and forever
from the cold sneers of the ruthless world!
He saw her drawn out by the shuddering
hands of superstitious rustics, cold, wan
dishevelled, dead—dead, by her own rash
act—her own! say rather his! his whose
false love had driven her to the brink of
that abyss whose bottom is perdition!

All this he saw, or seemed to see, in the
delineations of his vivid fancy; he saw
and shuddered at the strength of his own
imaginings. “And shall I,” he said to
himself, half aloud, “shall I, for the poor
gratification of a foul sensual passion, shall
I do this thing? For a few hours, or a
few days of fierce and fiery pleasure, shall
I pollute so fair a temple, a temple reared

by the hands of our common God and Father,
to be the dwelling of as fair a spirit?
shall I, for any temporal delight, perhaps
consign her to eternal ruin? God forbid?
God forbid!” and he stood up in the intensity
of his feelings, for he had worked himself
up to a state of considerable excitement,
and walked for several minutes to
and fro the room, strengthening his good
resolves at every turn, and manning the
fortress of his heart against the assaults of
the Evil One, till he at last satisfied himself
that he was again master of himself,
that he could see and converse with the
country beauty, without incurring any danger,
or feeling any undue admiration of her
charms; and finally he determined that
with a magnanimity, like that of Scipio, he
would at once bring about her marriage
with young Hunter, and give her the lease
of the home farm for a dowry. This honorable
resolution taken, well pleased with
himself, conscious of honorable feelings,
and proud of his own integrity, superior to
its first very grave temptation, he sat down
once again to reflect on the perfections of
his legitimate lady love, and anticipate in
imagination his future marriage with the
charming Lady Fanny.

In truth, he loved her very dearly; as
dearly, perhaps, and devotedly as any very
young man untried in the world, unschooled
by suffering, und undisciplined by sorrow,
can love a woman. For it is not in
very early youth that are born those deep,
interminable, everlasting passions, which
seem to become coexistent with the soul,
and, as it were, part and parcel of it. Nor
is it from the lap of happiness and luxury
and joy, that springs the pure strong love
that mocks at time and space, and defies
death itself to limit or affect its infinite duration.
No! I believe few men have ever
loved with that intensity which is the very
essence of the only love that is worthy to
be called love, until they have known what
it is to want that love, and find it not—
until they have experienced real grief and
suffering, and deep sorrow—until they have
looked in vain to the cold world for sympa
thy and affection, and learned what it is to
lack them; and then—then, when they
have found the one, true, faithful heart
wherewith to share their joys—wherefrom
to seek consolation in their sorrows—then,
then they love indeed! and their love is
well worth the winning!

But for one whose whole life had been
but one scene of success and pleasure, who
had scarce known, as yet, the meaning of
the word sorrow, so little had any touch of
it come near to him, Edward Hale did truly
and sincerely love Frances Asterly. It was
not her beauty, only, nor her sweet manners
that had won him; but her heart, her
mind—the purity and truthfulness of the
one, the kind, affectionate and cordial nature
of the other! And when a man sets
his love on the qualities of the intellect and
of the heart—the qualities that are immortal
and endure forever in never fading and
undying glory—and not upon the qualities
of the poor body, that speedily are but as
grass cut down and cast into the oven—
small risk is there of his loving unworthily,
or of his changing easily! For, in a word,
so to love is a proof of character, higher
than ordinary men possess, in the lover, and
a guarantee for the existence of unusual
qualifications in the object beloved.

And, in both points, this was true of the
present case; for Sir Edward Hale was,
beyond doubt, a person of qualifications and
mental character far above the standard
average of men. It might be doubtful,
hitherto, whether that character would
turn out powerful for good or for evil in the
end—whether those qualifications would
serve to adorn and decorate a virtuous and
honorable life, or to lend a false and meteoric
splendor to an irregular and disorderly
career; but there could be no doubt that,
whichever way the wheel of his destinies
should turn, in that course he would be
found conspicuous and above his fellows,
either in virtue or in vice.

And, perhaps, at this very time, the inward
struggle was in progress, which
should decide whether his better or worse
genius would prevail; whether his course

through this world should be like that of a
calm and abundant river, bounteous, benevolent
and fertilizing, and flowing gently,
after a long and pleasant journey, through
a fair country, into the boundless sea; or,
like that of the sublime mountain torrent,
leaping in foam and fury, full of romance
and sounding fame, and dazzling to the eye,
and stunning to the cool ear of reason, but
carrying destruction on its way, and leaving
devastation in its rear, and plunging, at the
last, headlong down some precipitous abyss,
among groans and cries, and shudderings of
horror, to be swallowed up in the nether
gloom.

If it were so, thus far, at least, the better
spirit had prevailed; and, as he finished
dressing himself, which he did unassisted
by his valet, his heart was more at ease,
and he was in truth both a happier and a
better man than he had been on the previous
morning; and it was with a gay and
joyous exterior, covering a self-satisfied and
tranquil confidence in his own good intentions,
that he descended the grand staircase
to join his companions in the breakfast parlor.

Some short time, however, before he was
ready to go down, he was not a little surprised
to hear the sound of voices on the
terrace, below his windows; the rather as
he knew of old that St. Maur was habitually
a late riser—rarely displaying the glories
of his well decorated person to profane and
vulgar eyes, until high noon—and he had no
reason for suspecting that the gay captain
was more matutinal than his friend. He
looked out of the window, therefore, wondering
who these could be that were astir
already; and yet, more to his surprise, he
found that the very men whom he would
almost have sworn had not yet turned themselves
over to take their second nap, were
walking to and fro upon the terrace, pausing
every now and then, and talking earnestly
in a low voice, as if they were
unwilling that their words should be overheard.

This Hale did not observe at the time,
but afterward events occurred which often
led him to reflect on various things which
passed that morning; and then he recollected
this, and recollected, moreover, that
when they first saw him leaning out of the
window looking at them, there was a sort
of consciousness, if not embarrassment
about St. Maur's air and manner, indicating
that he was, in some sort, the subject of
their discourse.

He did notice, however, and not without
surprise, that they were both fully dressed
their periwigs arranged and powdered with
careful nicety, and the whole of their attire
showing, by its scrupulous precision
that they must have been on foot some
hours, and that their toilets had been performed
not negligently nor in haste.

Hale waited for a moment without speaking,
until they came directly under his
windows, when he dropped a rose-bud
which chanced to be lying on the table—
the same which he had snatched from the
bosom of Rose Castleton in the evening—
so that it fell immediately in front of St.
Maur.

He stooped to pick it up from the broad
flag-stones that paved the terrace, and then
cried, as he raised his eyes to the window
before seeing who it was—

“By George! a fair challenge, be you
who you may, sweet—Ah! you rogue
you rogue, Ned! so it is you, is it? I
thought it had been some fair dame or
damsel of whom my beaux yeux had made
a conquest. This is a pretty disappoint
ment! Your ugly phiz, in lieu of black
eyes and cherry cheeks, and I know no
what beside! The devil take you, Ned
the devil take you!”

“Many thanks to you,” replied Hale
laughing, “for the warmth of your morning
salutation, which I will not return. I
have to crave your pardon, Captain Spencer,
for playing such a sluggard part, as
host, who ought to have been on foot to
receive my guest. But it seems the mulled`
Burgundy made me a more sleepy night
cap than it did for you!”

“You forget, you forget,” answered
Spencer, “that St. Maur and I did not

double the said night-cap quite so often as
you did; and it sat in consequence less
heavily on us—but pray do n't think of
apologizing, we have been amusing ourselves
delightfully here this fine clear
morning, looking about your magnificent
old place.”

“Thank you for saying so,” returned
Hale, “but I fear you could have found
little to amuse you; but I will dress myself
in haste, and come down to you—will
you be so kind in the mean time as to call
for chocolate, and make yourselves quite at
home? After breakfast we will see what we
can do to kill the day. It is not a good time
of the year for country sports, unless any
of you are fishermen; there are fine trout
in the river. But I fancy Mark can find
us a heron or two, and I have a few cast
of fine hawks, if you like to see a flight;
coursing and hunting are of course out of
the question; but I can give you some
capital rabbit shooting in the fern of the
upper deer-park.”

“Oh! I have no doubt we shall do very
well; but make haste, make haste, what
we desire most is your company,” said the
captain, but almost in the same breath, he
added in a half whisper to St. Maur, “and
as our desire will be gratified in a few moments,
we must talk out our talk at once.
What were you saying—oh, yes! about
Harbottle—no, no! that will never do—he is
not at all to be trusted in delicate matters
like these. No, no! leave it to me, and
my life on it, I arrange every thing to your
wishes. But after all I cannot guess, for
my soul, why you are so wild to marry this
penniless girl. It is true, I confess, that
she is devilish handsome, and sprightly
looking also; if she were some fellow's
wife now, I could understand it; but to
marry her—to marry her! Pshaw, pshaw!
it is mere boy's play. If I were you I
would let Hale marry her, nay, help him
to her, and then take her from him; by
the Lord, there is a great game to be played
there.”

“Hold, Spencer, hold!” St. Maur interrupted
him, “you forget that you are talk
ing of a girl whom I seriously intend to
make my wife.”

“Indeed I do not, my good fellow; I
only wish to give you all the good advice I
can beforehand; after she is your wife I
shall remember it, you may be sure—unless
indeed I should take a fancy to her myself
—there is no saying what may happen,
when men marry handsome wives; a
friend's wife now is twice as good as an
acquaintance's, and an acquaintance's as a
stranger's!”

“By heavens! Spencer, you are incorrigible;
I should be hurt and angry with
you, if I did not know that it is only your
wild way of talking, and that you would
not do the things you talk about to win the
world!”

“Oh no,” said Spencer, with a dubious
smile, “not at all, not at all! only, as there
is no saying what may happen, and as I
hate treachery as I do the devil or the parson;
only don't say, if any thing should
turn up, that I did not give you fair warning,
Harry.”

St. Maur looked at him for a minute or
two steadily, as if to see whether he was
in earnest, and then said, bursting into a
light laugh—

“You are a sad fellow, but I am not afraid
of you. Well, go on, what is the whole of
your scheme? let us be perfect in it.”

“Why it seems that this old she devil
has arranged all the preliminaries with
pretty Fan already. She is to be made to
believe Hale a perfect devil of licentiousness,
and so to break off the match with
him; when you will have it all your own
way; for there was never a man yet, who,
backed by father and mother, could not win
any girl's love at any time, when her fancy is
disengaged, unless he is a greater fool than
I take you to be. Then she will be piqued
and her vanity wounded in this case, which
will make it easier yet for you; and if, as
you say, she does dislike you now, that does
not hurt your chance a straw's value; for
my own part, when I want to win a woman,
next to her loving me beforehand, I
would choose to have her hate me! Nothing

is so difficult to deal with as indifference—
for they always go by contraries and extremes—women
do, I mean Harry—and so
if they begin by hating you, and thinking
you a fiend of darkness, they are pretty
sure to adore you in six weeks, and discover
that you are an angel of light.”

“Yes, yes! that is all very fine—one of
your wiredrawn theories that come to nothing!
However I do not doubt but I can
win her easily enough if we can set her
against Hale.”

“Well, that is easily done enough, I am
sure. Why here is luck playing into our
very hand. The old woman has laid the
foundation of distrust in her daughter's
heart already; and here is this young baby
half wild now after this country girl—who
by the way is pretty enough to make a
wiser man wild. My only fear was that
she would be too willing. But I have taken
care of that—she will not meet him to-night,
and that will whet his appetite;
then you must play your part well—extol
her beauty, feed his passion as much as you
can; and I will sneer at him—we will bet
high on his success, you for and I against
it! I saw at a glimpse that game-keeper
was a rogue, and I have bought him; he
will help us through any thing. Then I
have sent for my lieutenant and a press
gang to be here to-morrow, and we will
screw him up to-night to sign an order to
have Hunter pressed. It is a devil of a
stretch I know; but we who serve King
Jamie to the utmost, know how to stretch
a commission without cracking it; and we
will have him carry off the girl, and so
arrange things that it shall all come out
directly; and so he will be disgraced in the
eyes of all good people, and dished with
lady Fan.”

“Yes, that will do, if we can accomplish
it.”

“If, if!—to the devil with your ifs!—I
tell you it is half accomplished now. I
should not at all wonder, if he have half
repented of his wicked wishes this fine
morning, now that he is maudlin—your
maudlin state is a great virtue-breeder!
But I have laid a trap for him that will set
his tinder in a blaze presently. Do you
but play your part well, and talk all day of
her charms, and try to make him jealous of
that fool Harbottle, who is I think smitten
a little with the wench already—get him
to show that if you can—and now, do not
forget to write to Delaval, as I told you,
expressing your surprise at finding Hale,
as he had hinted to you, such a wild rake
and jolly fellow. Invent, invent!—describe
his harems and his orgies! Draw, draw
upon imagination, or if that fail you, look
to the Arabian Nights! But hark you, all
in your proper character—reckless and
rash—no sermonizing, or you will spoil
all. Do you understand?”

“Yes, to be sure; it will be shown—”

“To her cousin, Lady Serena Fortescue
who will tell her so, that she shall never
doubt the channel. I, too, will write to
Davenant, in a quite different strain, but
to the same effect. I only wish I could
have got him to commit some outrage or
indecency before that puritanical old beast
and idiot, Rochefort; that would have set
him talking.”

At this moment Sir Edward appeared
coming down the steps from the front door
to join them; and at the same time Eversly
passed them going to meet his master,
with a beautiful black greyhound bitch
following at his heel, and a large bunch of
violets in his hand.

“Ha! Master Keeper,” exclaimed Spencer,
as the man went by; “what's in the
wind now?” and he spoke loud, on purpose
that Hale might hear him; and then,
as Eversly turned round to answer him,
he went on—“By George! what a posy
thou hast got there! Here, give it to me,
man, give it to me, and take this guinea
in exchange, for I am mortal fond of
posies.”

“Excuse me, Captain Spencer,” said
the fellow, grinning and pocketing the
guinea which the sailor flung to him; “excuse
me, for I would give it willingly if it
was mine, which it is not; it is a present I
am carrying to master.”

“What's all this? what's all this?”
said the young Lord of the Manor, laughing
“Why don't you give Captain
Spencer the flowers, Mark?”

“Nay, nay, Sir Edward, she that gave
them to me desired me to put them in
your own hand, and by the same token she
sent a message, too.”

“She? she!” exclaimed St. Maur;
“Sponcer, I'll bet you a rouleau I can
put a name to the she!”

“Done! done!” replied the captain;
“done, that you cannot put the right one.
Whisper it now to me, and we will leave
it to his honor afterward.”

“Well, then, I say Rose Castleton,” replied
St. Maur, in what was meant to pass
for a whisper, although it reached Edward's
ears as plainly as if it had been uttered
in a shout.

“I bide my bet,” said Spencer, in the
same sort of whisper; “I shall win it, too;
that girl is not to be won so easily—he
will never win her! But come,” he added,
now speaking in his natural tones,
“come; Mercury, it seems, will not deliver
his message in the presence of the
assembled gods, but keeps it for the private
ear of Jove. Let us leave them”—
and they moved off a little way, out of earshot,
although they watched every movement
of the parties.

They saw the hot blood mount crimson
to the fair brow of the young man as he
received the nosegay and the message;
but it was evident that his face reddened
not with anger, for his eye sparkled and
there was a smile upon his lip, as he asked
several questions, to all of which he got
prompt answers from the keeper, who had
been primed already for his part by the
wily plotters, and now played it to perfection.

The conference did not last above five
minutes, when Hale turned away, saying—

“Be in the way, keeper—be in the way,
after breakfast; for we will either shoot,
or see those new merlins fly. Canst find
us a heron-shaw this fine morning?”

“I'll warrant you, Sir Edward?”

“Well, we will see anon. Now let us
go to breakfast, gentlemen. I think a
broiled turkey's gizzard will suit my stomach
to a turn this morning, for, to speak
truth, I do feel a little squeamish after the
Burgundy. But where is Harbottle? has
nobody seen Harbottle? Run, Mark, and
send some one to call Mr. Harbottle to
breakfast.”

“But in the mean time, baronet,” said
Spencer, “touching this bouquet, of which
I see you think so well that you are wearing
it next to your heart; will you decide
our bet, upon your honor?”

“Is it correct to do so, Captain, when it
concerns a woman?”

“No, if it be a lady—yes! if a country
girl, Sir Edward.”

“I believe you are in the right; the rather
that she seems to me rather a light o'
love. How stands your bet?”

“St. Maur bets that it was Rose Castleton
sent you the violets. I hold the opposite.”

“St. Maur has won, captain; it was
she!”

“There, Spencer, there,” cried the
young lord, triumphantly, “unbuckle, sailor-man,
unbuckle your fat bags; out with
the rouleau.”

Spencer pulled out his purse, and with
apparent reluctance handed to him the
sum which he had lost, saying, as he
did so,

“I must look out for Percy Harbottle,
now—for you dare not stand the other bet,
St. Maur.”

“What other bet? what other bet, Captain
Spencer?” answered Lord Henry
with well feigned eagerness, and a little
show of anger. “I do not like such remarks
as these! I stand any bet, that
any man dare stand, at least if I see a
possibility of winning it. What bet is it
you mean?”

“That he wins her,” answered Spencer,
“that he wins the girl in any reasonable
time; you dare not bet that, St. Maur;
but it does not come within your category—there

is no possibility of your winning
it.”

“I will, though—I will!” exclaimed St.
Maur; “I will bet you a cool thousand
that he has her living with him as his
mistress in a fortnight.”

“A cool thousand! done! I shall win
that,” said the captain, confidently.

They had been all walking together toward
the house, while this conversation,
if conversation it can be called, was going
forward; but now Sir Edward stopped
short, piqued not a little at the sort of undervaluing
way in which Spencer spoke of
his chances with the girl, and said, trying
to laugh, but evidently a little mortified—

“And why do you think so, Captain
Spencer? Have you so vast an idea of the
girl's virtue?”

“Why, I had rather you would pardon
me. I was in the wrong to speak as I
did; I would rather you should ask me no
more.”

“No, no! speak out. You have said too
much, or too little. I insist on it, that you
let us have the whole. Do you think her
impregnable?”

“Oh dear, no! Far from it. She is
willing enough, any one can see. But
you will excuse me, Sir Edward, I have
some experience in these matters, and I
do not think you are the man.”

“Who then? yourself, perhaps, captain?”
replied Hale, still more piqued by
his answer, although perfectly good humored.

“Oh, no! not myself, upon my word!
though I should like very well to have the
wench in London for a month or so, for she
is a devilish handsome woman, that is certain;
and her slim, rounded figure would
show admirably well in a mazarine blue
riding-dress of the last mode, slashed with
gold colored brocade. By heaven! I think
I can see her now, reining that strawberry
roan Spanish jennet of mine through the
Parks. Heavens! St. Maur, how she
would catch men's eyes. It would be a
year's renown to return to London as her
protector. But I beg your pardon, Sir Edward,
for wandering from your question—
no! I assure you, on my honor, that I had
not myself in mind at all, when I spoke.
No! I think Percy Harbottle a likelier
man. I saw her look at him out of the
corners of those large languishing eyes of
hers, two or three times while you were
dancing with her.”

“Perhaps you would like, captain,” replied
Hale, assuming a tranquillity which
he did not feel, “perhaps you would like
to bet that she will be Harbottle's mistress
in a week, and not mine, for I intend
to try all means to make her mine.”

“Of course you do,” said St. Maur;
“nobody doubted that—nobody, at least,
who knows you. With the encouragement
you have had, you would be a precious
ninny if you did not. Of course you
will try, and succeed, too. I'll be sworn
of it.”

“I cannot bet that she will be Harbottle's
mistress; for I don't know, at all,
that he is thinking about her. I would
bet—but no, no! baronet,” he interrupted
himself, “I am your guest, and I don't
wish to win your money. Besides, it is
my jesting that has put you up to the notion.
It would not be fair.”

“To the notion of what?” asked Hale,
very quickly, “put me up to the notion of
what?”

“Of courting this girl, to be sure,” answered
Spencer. “But let us say no
more about it. Come, let us go to breakfast.”

“You forget that I told you yesterday at
Barnsley that my eye was upon her—you
forget—”

“Yes, to be sure he does,” interrupted
St. Maur, “or rather he pretends to forget,
to get off betting. He knows as well
as we do that you will win her.”

“I know nothing of the sort! I know
that he will not.”

“Once again, will you bet?” said Sir
Edward, who was growing almost angry.

“If you insist upon it, yes.”

“I say, then, that I will have her openly
as my mistress within one week from
this day.”

“I understand you perfectly, and take
the converse. For how much?”

“For any thing you please, from one to
five thousand.”

“Oh! one—one is enough; for one thousand
be it. It is a bet!”

“Very well, there is an end of that—
then let us go to breakfast; and here
comes Percy Harbottle,” and he took several
quick steps forward in advance of the
rest, to greet him. As he did so Spencer
fell back to St. Maur a pace or two, and
whispered in his ear—

“You stand my loss to him, if I should
lose the bet; as it is most likely that I
shall.”

“Yes, yes! I understand it so,” said the
other, “but come on quickly, or he will
see us whispering together, and suspect
something.”

And overtaking him, they all walked on
together, and entered the breakfast room,
joking and laughing merrily.