“Really, Sir Arthur,” interrupted Jennings, changing colour slightly, and affecting a cool hauteur, which he was far from feeling—“I don’t precisely know to what particular circumstances you are pleased to allude.”
“Come, come, my dear fellow,” said Sir Arthur, in the same tone of rough good humour, which, in all his dealings, alike with friend or foe, whether with the dice-box or the pistol, he had ever maintained—“we are, both of us, men of the world—eh? I an old, and you a young one; but both of us unquestionably men of the world, and perfectly wide awake. You know just as well as I, and I as well as you, what is usually termed, ‘paying attentions to a young lady’—let us have no shamming at either side—we both of us know this; and I don’t approve of Miss Chadleigh’s receiving any such distinction from you, my dear Jennings; and now I hope I have made myself perfectly intelligible.”
Jennings bowed stiffly, and the baronet continued—
“A set of meddling old women have begun to talk, you see, and I took this, the earliest opportunity, of putting you on your guard—for, of course, it would not answer your cards either, to have such nonsense put about, and so, without anything abrupt or remarkable, your acquaintance must become cooler, and—and—more distant; and, in short, when you do happen to meet in society, the less you are thrown together, the better; in a word, my dear Jennings, your coolness must effectually give the lie to this ridicu lous piece of gossip.”
As Sir Arthur concluded, he was slowly rising from his seat, and having, just at its termination, established his ponderous and gouty person in an erect position, he took Jennings’ hands in both his, and shaking them very cordially, said, in precisely the tone which might have conveyed a hospitable and pressing invitation—
“And, by the way, my dear Jennings, I think it would be very advisable, don’t you, by way of a beginning, to put an immediate stop to these little visits—these foolish little morning calls, which make people talk, and serve no possible purpose, as matters stand, except as a very unnecessary tax upon your time; so, for the future”—here he renewed the shaking, with increasing warmth—“when we do meet, let it be abroad, my dear Jennings, and not here; you understand me, not on any account here; in society, of course, I shall always be delighted to meet you; we shall there, of course, be the best possible friends; and now, my dear Jennings, I think we perfectly understand one another, and I’ll not waste any more of your time, for, of course, you have many more amusing ways of employing it. Good morning, Jennings, my boy—farewell.”
The perfect radiation of cordiality and good humour with which this very peremptory dismissal was conveyed, was so incongruously disconcerting, that Jennings felt totally unable to resent the procedure as he felt disposed to do—for, truth to say, he was more nettled than he cared to confess, even to himself. Returning the old gentleman’s salutation, therefore, stiffly and coldly enough, he withdrew, and had walked nearly halfway along the side of St. Stephen’s-green (in the immediate neighbourhood of which Sir Arthur resided) before he began to recover the angry confusion of this affronting congé. Slackening his pace, however, he began to revolve the occurrences in his mind, and, with the resignation of necessity, began to discover many things to be grateful for among the consequences of this explanation, brusque and unexpected as it undoubtedly was.
“Well, well,” he muttered, “it is, perhaps, much better as it is. She is a devilish fine girl, to be sure, and, I do believe, had well nigh turned my head; but, egad, I was acting like a fool—a ⸻ fool, to follow her about, and get myself entangled at all—heaven knows what an infernal piece of mischief it might have ended in, if I had been left to my own foolish fancies—I’m a deuced deal a happier man, as matters stand—a safer one, at all events.”
Jennings was a singularly handsome young man, as we have said—very vain and very selfish; he knew no control except that involved in a punctilious subservience to the code of fashionable society in which he lived; and, without any one grain of positive malevolence in his disposition, he had about him a great deal of the raw material out of which circumstances and opportunity might eventually fabricate a villain; an inconsiderate impetuosity, too often mistaken for generosity and impulsive candour; an exacting and ambitious vanity, which, ever seeking for new homage, inspired a constant desire to please—and, with the desire, stimulated the constant practice, too, of all the little arts of pleasing—and which, however despicable a passion in itself, was yet, in its effects, the prime cause of his popularity—these, combined with a constitutional selfishness which instinctively governed all his views and actions, were the leading attributes of a character—unfortunately for the dignity of human nature—commonplace enough. Externally, however, he was a very fascinating person—accomplished, elegant, agreeable, and blessed with an inexhaustible flow of gay and sparkling spirits.
Of course, it was to be presumed that Sir Arthur had conveyed to Miss Chadleigh his views respecting Jennings’ attentions; and the baronet’s stern and implacable severity in punishing disobedience, and enforcing compliance with his commands, was so thoroughly known and understood, that not one of his children dared openly to disobey his lightest order. Mary Chadleigh and Jennings, however, were destined often to meet—indeed it could not be otherwise, unless one or other of them had withdrawn from that gay society in which both of them mixed so freely. There was, however, a very marked change in their mutual demeanour. There was an obvious reserve on her part; though ill-natured people observed that her eyes were oftener seen following his movements in the crowded saloons than was either to be accounted for by pure accident, or altogether
