Chapter Three.
Down in the Country – The Angel

“I’m afraid you are not serious, Mr Melton,” said Lady Barmouth; shaking her head at him sadly.

“Serious, Lady Barmouth; indeed I am,” said Charley Melton, who was Viscount Diphoos’ guest down at the Hurst, Lord Barmouth’s seat in Sussex; “and as to personal matters, my income – ”

“Hush, hush! you bad, wicked boy,” exclaimed her ladyship; “what do you take me for? Just as if the union of two young hearts was to be made a question of hard cash and settlements, and such mean, wretched, sordid matters. I beg you will never utter a word to me again about such things. They are shocking to me.”

“I am very glad to hear you say so, Lady Barmouth,” said Melton, smiling frankly in her face, as in a gentle heaving billow style, she leaned, upon his arm, and undulated softly and tapped his fingers with her fan.

“I like to think of my darling Maude as a sweet innocent girl in whose presence such a sordid thing as money ought never to be mentioned. There, there, there, they are calling you from the lawn, Charley Melton; go to them and play and be happy while you have your youth and high spirits. How I envy you all sometimes?”

“Your ladyship has made me very happy,” said Melton, flushing slightly.

“It is my desire to make all belonging to me happy,” replied her ladyship. “I have seen Diana, my sweet child, settled, now it is my desire to see Maude the same. There, there, go away, for my eyes are weak with tears, and I feel half hysterical. Go away, my dear boy, go away.”

“But you will let me see your ladyship to a seat?”

“No, no, no; go away, go away.”

“Yo-hoy!” shouted a familiar voice. “Charley Melton! —are you coming!”

“Yes, yes, coming,” replied Melton, as her ladyship tapped him on the arm very significantly, and shook her head at him, while her eyes plaintively gazed at his. And she said to herself – “Yes, his expectations, Lady Rigby said, were excellent.”

The next moment he was on his way to the croquet lawn, where a gaily dressed party was engaged in preparing for a little match.

“I never expected it,” said the young man to himself; “and either I’m in luck’s way, or her ladyship is not the mercenary creature people say. She is evidently agreeable, and if she is, I have no fear of Lord Barmouth, for the old man likes me.”

“Come, old fellow,” cried Tom, advancing to meet him, with the biggest croquet mallet over his shoulder that could be found in the trade. “What have you and the old lady been chatting over? She hasn’t been dropping any hints about being de trop?”

Melton was silent, for he enjoyed the other’s interest.

“If she has,” cried Tom, “I’ll strike: I won’t stand it. It’s too bad; – it’s – ”

“Gently, gently,” said Melton, smiling. “She has been all that I could desire, and it is evident that she does not look upon my pretensions to your sister’s hand with disfavour.”

“What – disfavour? Do you mean to say in plain English that the old girl has not cut up rough about your spooning after Maude?”

“Is that plain English?”

“Never mind. Go on. What did she say?”

“Called me her dear boy, and said her sole wish was to see her child happy.”

“Gammon!” said Viscount Diphoos. “She’s kidding you.”

“Nonsense! What a miserable sceptic you are!”

“Yes; I know my dear mamma.”

“I merely quote her words,” said Melton, coldly.

“Then the old girl’s going off her chump,” said Tom. “But there, never mind; so much the better. Charley, old man, I give you my consent.”

“Thank you,” said Melton, smiling.

“Ah, you may laugh, but ’pon my soul I should like you to marry Maudey. She’s the dearest and best girl in the world, and I was afraid the old girl meant Wilters to have her. Well, I am glad, old man. Give us your fist. I’m sure Maudey likes you, so go in and win. Make your hay while the sun shines, my boy. Only stow all that now. It’s croquet, so get a mallet. You and Maudey are partners, against Tryphie Wilder and me.”

He shook hands warmly with his friend, and they went down the path together.

“I say, old man, Wilters is coming down to-day. He’s been in a fine taking. Saw him in London. Day before yesterday. Said he’d lost his diamond locket. Just as if it mattered to him with all his thousands. But he’s as mean as mean. I should like to get him in a line at billiards, and win a lot of money off him. I will, too, some day. Now girls! Ready?”

They were crossing the closely shaven lawn now to where Maude, looking very sweet and innocent, stood talking to Tryphie Wilder, and she coloured with pleasure as the young men advanced.

Soon after the match began, and for ten minutes the two couples played vigorously and well. Then the game languished, and the various players missed their turns, and were soon in a terrible tangle, forgetting their hoops, so that at last, Tom, who was standing under a hawthorn that was one blush of pink, was heard by a knowing old thrush, sitting closely over four blue speckled eggs, to whisper in a low tone —

“Don’t be hard on a fellow, Tryphie dear, when you know how fond he is of you.”

The thrush laughed thrushly, and blinked her eyes as she recalled the troubles of matrimony: how long eggs were hatching, and what a deal of trouble the little ones were to feed when the weather was dry and worms were scarce.

Just at the same time too Charley Melton and Maude had come to a stand-still where a great laburnum poured down a shower of rich golden drops, through which rained the rays of the sun, broken up into silvery arrows of light which forced themselves through the girl’s fair hair, as she stood trembling and palpitating that happy June day, while Charley Melton’s words grew deeper and more thrilling in their meaning.

For their theme was love, one that has never seemed tiring to young and willing ears, though it must be owned that folks do talk, have talked, and always will talk a great deal of nonsense.

This was in the calm and peaceful days of croquet, before people had learned to perspire profusely over lawn-tennis as they flew into wild attitudes and dressed for the popular work. This was croquet à la Watteau, and in the midst of the absence of play, Lord Barmouth came slowly down the path, stepped upon the soft lawn as soon as possible, and, choosing a garden seat in a comfortably shady nook, he sat down and began to tenderly rub his leg.

“Heigho!” he sighed; “they, they – they say an Englishman’s house is his castle. If it is, his wife’s the elephant – white elephant. Why – why don’t they go on playing? Ha, there’s Tom starting,” he continued, putting up his glasses. “I’d give five hundred pounds to be able to stoop and pick up a ball like that young Charley Melton – a strong, straight-backed young villain. And there’s my son Tom, too. How he can run! I’d give another five hundred pounds, if I’d got it, to be able to run across the grass like my son Tom. It strikes me, yes, damme, it strikes me that my son Tom’s making up to little Tryphie. Well, and he’s no fool if he does.”

The game went on now for a few minutes, and then there was another halt.

“I said so to Tom on the morning of Di’s wedding,” said the old gentleman, caressing his leg; “and that Charley Melton is making up to Maudey, damme that he is, and – and – and – damme, she’s smiling at him, bless her, as sure as I’m a martyr to the gout.”

There were a few more strokes, and as many pauses, during which the old gentleman watched the players in their laurel-sheltered ground with his double glasses to his eye.

“Let me see, her ladyship said he was one of the Mowbray Meltons, but he isn’t. He belongs to the poor branch, but I didn’t contradict her ladyship; it makes her angry. He, he, he, he! It’s – its – it’s very fine to be young and good-looking, and – and – damme, Tom, you young dog,” he continued, chuckling, “I can see through your tricks. He’s – he’s – he’s always knocking Tryphie’s ball in amongst the bushes, and then they have to go out of sight to find it.”

The old man chuckled and shook his head till a twinge of the gout made him wince, when he stooped down and had another rub.

“Why – why – why,” he chuckled again directly after, “damme, damme, if young Charley Melton isn’t doing the same. He has knocked Maudey’s ball in amongst the laurels, and – oh – oh – oh – you wicked young rogues – they’re coming to look for it.”

He got up and toddled towards the young couple, patting Maude on the cheek, and giving Charley Melton a poke in the side.

“I – I – I – see through you both,” he said, laughing. “Won’t do – won’t do. Both as transparent as glass, and I can see your hearts playing such a tune.”

He crossed to another garden seat, and sat down, putting his leg up in a comfortable position.

“There,” said Melton, earnestly. “You see we have both in our favour. Your father would not refuse.”

“Pray say no more now,” said the girl, gazing up in his face. “It is so new, it troubles me. Let us go on playing. Tom and Tryphie must be waiting.”

“I think not,” said Melton, with a quiet smile. “Maude, love, to-day I am so happy that it all seems too delightful to be real. Does it seem so to you?”

“I hardly know,” she replied, turning her eyes to his for a few moments, and then lowering them; “but somehow I feel sad with it and as if I were too happy for it to last.”

“Then you are happy?” he said, eagerly.

For answer she raised her eyes to his, and the game was resumed, for Tom and Tryphie came out of the shrubbery with the lost ball.

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his lordship. “Tom’s a sad dog – a sad dog. I was just like him when I was young.”

He glanced to the right and left, and, seeing that he was unobserved, drew out a d’oyley from his coat-tail pocket, and from within picked out a slice of tongue and a piece of bread and butter, which he ate with great gusto, but not without turning his head from side to side like some ancient sparrow on the look-out for danger.

He wiped his fingers carefully upon his handkerchief, put away the d’oyley, and smiled to himself.

“That was nice – and refreshing,” he said. “I don’t suppose Robbins would miss it, and mention the fact to her ladyship. Ah,” he continued, raising his glass once more to his eye, “they are having a nice game there. Why, damme, they’re all courting like birds in spring-time. But Tom’s a sad dog. He, he, he! I was just like him. I was a sad dog too when I was young. I remember once when I was at Chiswick, at the Duke’s – he – he – he! with Lady Ann Gowerby, I told her there was not a flower in the whole show to compare with her two lips, and I kissed her behind the laurestinus – damme, that I did, and – and – he, he, he! the old woman – the countess – came and caught us.”

The old man chuckled over this recollection till he had to wipe the tears out of his eyes, and then he had a fresh look at the croquet players.

“Tom, you dog,” he said, “the old lady will come and catch you, and then, he, he, he! there’ll be a devil of a row, for she means my little Tryphie for some one else. Eh – eh – eh? What! Look there now, Maudey dropped her mallet, and Charley Melton picked it up and kissed her hand. Well, it’s nice,” he said, smacking his lips, “I was a devil of a fellow to squeeze and kiss the little girls’ hands when I was a youngster, but now – ”

He bent down to rub his gouty leg, and uttered a low groan as he continued —

“But they’re all going wrong, the silly young lambs; I wish Charley Melton was well off. Her ladyship will come over it all like a cloud directly, for I know – she said so – she means Tryphie for old Bellman, and Maudey for that Sir Grantley Wilter. Well, well, well, little gnats, enjoy your bit of sunshine while you can.”

“Now, Charley, are you going on?” shouted Tom in indignant tones, “two blue plays – two blue plays.”

“There’s a dog for you,” chuckled Lord Barmouth, “any one would think he had been busy over the game all the time instead of courting Tryphie.”

“Coming, Tom,” cried Melton; then turning to Maude he whispered, “Darling, you are mine, come what may – Maude, my love – my love!”

Their eyes met for a few moments, and from that look it was evident that the work so nearly completed on the morning of the wedding party had now received the finishing strokes, that the fresh young heart had placed itself in another’s keeping, and that henceforth Charley Melton was lord of someone’s will, and her duty only to obey.

“I ought to go and stop them,” said his lordship, sadly, “but making love without thinking of money used to be nice; but – hallo!” he exclaimed, as a cold nose touched his hand; and looking down there was the ugly massive face of a bull-dog gazing up into his. “Charley Melton’s dog, eh! Well, you’re a very ugly dog, but you seem to like me. Eh, eh!” he added, as, after a quiet wag of his tail, Joby smelt at his lordship’s tail pocket. “So you knew there was a little bit of game pie in there, did you!”

Joby uttered a low whine.

“Well, so there is, good dog,” said his lordship, chuckling as he felt in his other pocket, and brought out something very unpleasant-looking crushed up as it was in a piece of paper.

“I’m afraid I have been sitting upon it, my dog,” said his lordship, ruefully, “and the jelly and cold gravy have got into the crust. But you will not mind, will you?”

The dog gave a short bark, and evidently did not mind, for he and Lord Barmouth finished the last morsel of the game pie, and Joby ate the jelly-smeared paper afterwards as a kind of digestive pill.

“Ah,” said his lordship, patting the dog’s head. “I’m glad of that – good dog then – for I did not know what to do with that piece of paper. Eh, eh? whom have we here?” he continued, putting up his glasses. “Her ladyship and Sir Grantley Wilters. There, I told you young people that you were to enjoy your game as you could, for here comes the shadow.”

He alluded to Lady Barmouth, who, like the good general she was, had made her plans, which were rapidly approaching fruition.