and son. And as a matter of fact, they went everywhere, and saw a great deal of society. So far were they from being under the standard at that Chiswick fête, as Rintoul nervously anticipated, that the graceful mother and pretty daughter were noticed by eyes whose notice is the highest distinction, and inquired into with that delightful royal curiosity which is so complimentary to mankind, and which must be one of the things which make the painful trade of sovereignty tolerable. Both the ladies, indeed, had so much
succès, that the anxious young Guardsman, who stalked about after them, too much disturbed to get any satisfaction in his own person, and watching their demeanour as with a hundred eyes, gradually allowed the puckers in his forehead to relax, and went off guard with a sigh of relief. Rintoul was more than relieved—he was delighted with the impression produced by Edith’s fresh beauty. “Oh, come! she’s a pretty little thing, if you please; but not all that,” he said, confused by the excess of approbation accorded to her by some complimentary friend. There was one drawback, however, to this satisfaction, and that was, that neither did Edith “mind a bit” who was introduced to her, who danced with her, or took her down to dinner—whether a magnificent young peer or a penniless younger son; nor, still more culpable, did her mother pay the attention she ought to this, or take care as she ought that her daughter’s smiles were not thrown away. She was known once, indeed, to have—inconceivable folly!—actually gone the length of introducing to Edith, in a ballroom bristling with eligible partners, a brilliant young artist, a “painter-fellow,” the very last person who ought to have been put in the girl’s way. “If a girl goes wrong of herself, and is an idiot, why, you say, it’s because she knows no better,” Rintoul said; “but when it’s her mother!” The young painter danced very well, and was bright and interesting beyond, it is to be supposed, the general level; and he hung about the ladies the whole evening, never long away from one or the other. Rintoul felt that if it happened only one other evening, all the world would say that there was something going on, and possibly some society paper would inform its anxious readers that “a marriage is arranged.” On the other hand, that evening was marked with a white stone on which the young Marquis of Millefleurs, son of the Duke of Lavender, made himself conspicuous as one of Edith’s admirers, pursuing her wherever she went, till the foolish girl was disposed to be angry; though Lady Lindores this time had the sense to excuse him as being so young, and to add that he seemed “a nice sort of boy,”—not a way, certainly, to recommend so desirable an adorer to a fanciful girl, but still perhaps, in the circumstances, as much as could be expected. Lady Lindores received with great composure a few days after, an announcement from her husband that he had asked the youth to dinner. She repeated her praise with a perfectly calm countenance—
“I shall be glad to see him, Robert. I thought him a mere boy, very young, but frank and pleasant as a boy should be.”
“I don’t know what you call a boy. I believe he is four-and-twenty,” said Lord Lindores, with some indignation; and then he added in a subdued tone, as knowing that he had something less easy to suggest, “I have asked someone else whom you will probably not look on in the same light. I should much rather have left him out, but there was no getting Millefleurs without him. He has been travelling with him as a sort of tutor-companion, I suppose.” Here he seemed to pause to get up his courage, which was so remarkable that his wife’s suspicions were instantly aroused. She turned towards him with a look of roused attention.
“I don’t hesitate to say that I am sorry to bring him again in contact with the family. Of course the whole affair was folly from beginning to end. But the young fellow himself behaved well enough. There is nothing against him personally, and I am rather willing to let him see that it has entirely passed from our minds.”
“Of whom are you speaking?” cried Lady Lindores.
The Earl actually hesitated, stammered, almost blushed, so far as a man of fifty is capable of blushing. “You remember young Beaufort, whom we saw so much of in—”
“Beaufort!” cried Lady Lindores—“Edward!” her voice rose into a sort of shriek.
“He certainly was never Edward to me. I thought it best, when Millefleurs presented him to me, to receive him at once as an old acquaintance. And I hope you will do so also, without any fuss. It is very important that it should be made quite clear we have no fear of him, or feeling in the matter.”
“Edward!” Lady Lindores said again. “How can I receive him as if I had no feeling in the matter? He has called me mother. I have kissed him as Carry’s future husband. Good heavens! and Carry poor Carry!”
“I did not know you had been such a fool,” he cried, reddening; then after a pause, “I see no reason why Carry should be called poor. Her position at home is in some points better than our own. And it is not necessary to tell Carry of everyone who enters this house, which is so much out of her way.”
“My poor child, my poor child!” the mother said, wringing her hands. “She divined this. She had a fear of something. She thought John Erskine might invite him. Oh, you need not suppose this was ever a subject of conversation between us!—but it seems that Mr. Torrance suspected John Erskine himself to be the man. Edith surprised them in the midst of a painful scene on this subject, and then Carry told me of her terror lest John should
