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
