relieved. I have done her mischief enough—though nature and the devil had done half the work to my hand.”
Solmes at length was permitted to withdraw to execute his various commissions, with an assurance that his services would not be wanted for the next twenty-four hours.
“Soh!” said the Earl, as his agent withdrew, “there is a spring put in motion, which, well oiled, will move the whole machine—And here, in lucky time, comes Harry Jekyl—I hear his whistle on the stairs.—There is a silly lightness of heart about that fellow, which I envy, while I despise it; but he is welcome now, for I want him.”
Jekyl entered accordingly, and broke out with “I am glad to see one of your fellows laying a cloth for two in your parlour, Etherington—I was afraid you were going down among these confounded bores again to-day.”
“
“No?—then I may be a third, I hope, if not second?”
“Neither first, second, nor third, Captain.—The truth is, I want a tete-a-tete with Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's,” replied the Earl; “and, besides, I have to beg the very particular favour of you to go again to that fellow Martigny. It is time that he should produce his papers, if he has any—of which, for one, I do not believe a word. He has had ample time to hear from London; and I think I have delayed long enough in an important matter upon his bare assertion.”
“I cannot blame your impatience,” said Jekyl, “and I will go on your errand instantly. As you waited on my advice, I am bound to find an end to your suspense.—At the same time, if the man is not possessed of such papers as he spoke of, I must own he is happy in a command of consummate assurance, which might set up the whole roll of attorneys.”
“You will be soon able to judge of that,” said Lord Etherington; “and now, off with you—Why do you look at me so anxiously?”
“I cannot tell—I have strange forebodings about this tete-a-tete with Mowbray. You should spare him, Etherington—he is not your match—wants both judgment and temper.”
“Tell him so, Jekyl,” answered the Earl, “and his proud Scotch stomach will be up in an instant, and he will pay you with a shot for your pains.—Why, he thinks himself cock of the walk, this strutting bantam, notwithstanding the lesson I gave him before—And what do you think?—He has the impudence to talk about my attentions to Lady Binks as inconsistent with the prosecution of my suit to his sister! Yes, Hal—this awkward Scotch laird, that has scarce tact enough to make love to a ewe-milker, or, at best, to some daggletailed soubrette, has the assurance to start himself as my rival!”
“Then, good-night to St. Ronan's!—this will be a fatal dinner to him.—Etherington, I know by that laugh you are bent on mischief—I have a great mind to give him a hint.”
“I wish you would,” answered the Earl; “it would all turn to my account.”
“Do you defy me?—Well, if I meet him, I will put him on his guard.”
The friends parted; and it was not long ere Jekyl encountered Mowbray on one of the public walks.
“You dine with Etherington to-day?” said the Captain—“Forgive me, Mr. Mowbray, if I say one single word —Beware.”
“Of what should I beware, Captain Jekyl,” answered Mowbray, “when I dine with a friend of your own, and a man of honour?”
“Certainly Lord Etherington is both, Mr. Mowbray; but he loves play, and is too hard for most people.”
“I thank you for your hint, Captain Jekyl—I am a raw Scotchman, it is true; but yet I know a thing or two. Fair play is always presumed amongst gentlemen; and that taken for granted, I have the vanity to think I need no one's caution on the subject, not even Captain Jekyl's, though his experience must needs be so much superior to mine.”
“In that case, sir,” said Jekyl, bowing coldly, “I have no more to say, and I hope there is no harm done.— Conceited coxcomb!” he added, mentally, as they parted, “how truly did Etherington judge of him, and what an ass was I to intermeddle!—I hope Etherington will strip him of every feather!”
He pursued his walk in quest of Tyrrel, and Mowbray proceeded to the apartments of the Earl, in a temper of mind well suited to the purposes of the latter, who judged of his disposition accurately when he permitted Jekyl to give his well-meant warning. To be supposed, by a man of acknowledged fashion, so decidedly inferior to his antagonist—to be considered as an object of compassion, and made the subject of a good-boy warning, was gall and bitterness to his proud spirit, which, the more that he felt a conscious inferiority in the arts which they all cultivated, struggled the more to preserve the footing of at least apparent equality.
Since the first memorable party at piquet, Mowbray had never hazarded his luck with Lord Etherington, except for trifling stakes; but his conceit led him to suppose that he now fully understood his play, and, agreeably to the practice of those who have habituated themselves to gambling, he had every now and then felt a yearning to try for his revenge. He wished also to be out of Lord Etherington's debt, feeling galled under a sense of pecuniary obligation, which hindered his speaking his mind to him fully upon the subject of his flirtation with Lady Binks, which he justly considered as an insult to his family, considering the footing on which the Earl seemed desirous to stand with Clara Mowbray. From these obligations a favourable evening might free him, and Mowbray was, in fact, indulging in a waking dream to this purpose, when Jekyl interrupted him. His untimely warning only excited a spirit of contradiction, and a determination to show the adviser how little he was qualified to judge of his talents; and in this humour, his ruin, which was the consequence of that afternoon, was far from seeming to be the premeditated, or even the voluntary work of the Earl of Etherington.
On the contrary, the victim himself was the first to propose play—deep play—double stakes; while Lord Etherington, on the other hand, often proposed to diminish their game, or to break off entirely; but it was always with an affectation of superiority which only stimulated Mowbray to farther and more desperate risks; and, at last, when Mowbray became his debtor to an overwhelming amount, (his circumstances considered,) the Earl threw down the cards, and declared he should be too late for Lady Penelope's tea-party, to which he was positively engaged.
“Will you not give me my revenge?” said Mowbray, taking up the cards, and shuffling them with fierce anxiety.
“Not now, Mowbray; we have played too long already—you have lost too much—more than perhaps is convenient for you to pay.”
Mowbray gnashed his teeth, in spite of his resolution to maintain an exterior, at least, of firmness.
“You can take your time, you know,” said the Earl; “a note of hand will suit me as well as the money.”
“No, by G—!” answered Mowbray, “I will not be so taken in a second time—I had better have sold myself to the devil than to your lordship—I have never been my own man since.”
“These are not very kind expressions, Mowbray,” said the Earl; “you
“And they who win will expect to be paid,” said Mowbray, breaking in. “I know that as well as you, my lord, and you shall be paid—I will pay you—I will pay you, by G—! Do you make any doubt that I will pay you, my lord?”
“You look as if you thought of paying me in sharp coin,” said Lord Etherington; “and I think that would scarce be consistent with the terms we stand upon towards each other.”
“By my soul, my lord,” said Mowbray, “I cannot tell what these terms are; and to be at my wit's end at once, I should be glad to know. You set out upon paying addresses to my sister, and with your visits and opportunities at Shaws-Castle, I cannot find the matter makes the least progress—it keeps moving without advancing, like a child's rocking-horse. Perhaps you think that you have curbed me up so tightly, that I dare not stir in the matter; but you will find it otherwise.—Your lordship may keep a haram if you will, but my sister shall not enter it.”
“You are angry, and therefore you are unjust,” said Etherington; “you know well enough it is your sister's fault that there is any delay. I am most willing—most desirous—to call her Lady Etherington—nothing but her unlucky prejudices against me have retarded a union which I have so many reasons for desiring.”
“Well,” replied Mowbray, “that shall be my business. I know no reason she can pretend to decline a marriage so honourable to her house, and which is approved of by me, that house's head. That matter shall be arranged in twenty-four hours.”
“It will do me the most sensible pleasure,” said Lord Etherington; “you shall soon see how sincerely I desire your alliance; and as for the trifle you have lost”——
“It is no trifle to me, my lord—it is my ruin—but it shall be paid—and let me tell your lordship, you may
