you seen Lady Ellinor?"
"Yes – this morning."
"Poor woman! – a great blow to her – we have tried to console each other. Fanny, you know, is staying at Oxton, in Surrey, with Lady Castleton, – the poor lady is so fond of her – and no one has comforted her like Fanny."
"I was not aware that Miss Trevanion was out of town."
"Only for a few days, and then she and Lady Ellinor join Trevanion in the north – you know he is with Lord N – , settling measures on which – but alas, they consult me now on those matters – force their secrets on me. I have, heaven knows how many votes! Poor me! Upon my word, if Lady Ellinor was a widow, I should certainly make up to her: very clever woman – nothing bores her." (The marquis yawned – Sir Sedley Beaudesert never yawned.) "Trevanion has provided for his Scotch secretary, and is about to get a place in the Foreign Office for that young fellow Gower, whom, between you and me, I don't like. But he has bewitched Trevanion!"
"What sort of a person is this Mr Gower? – I remember you said that he was clever, and good-looking."
"He is both, but it is not the cleverness of youth; he is as hard and sarcastic as if he had been cheated fifty times, and jilted a hundred! Neither are his good looks that letter of recommendation which a handsome face is said to be. He has an expression of countenance very much like that of Lord Hertford's pet bloodhound, when a stranger comes into the room. Very sleek, handsome dog, the bloodhound is certainly – well-mannered, and I dare say exceedingly tame; but still you have but to look at the corner of the eye, to know that it is only the habit of the drawing-room that suppresses the creature's constitutional tendency to seize you by the throat, instead of giving you a paw. Still this Mr Gower has a very striking head – something about it Moorish or Spanish, like a picture by Murillo: I half suspect that he is less a Gower than a gipsy!"
"What!" – I cried, as I listened with rapt and breathless attention to this description. "He is then very dark, with high narrow forehead, features slightly aquiline, but very delicate, and teeth so dazzling that the whole face seems to sparkle when he smiles – though it is only the lip that smiles, not the eye."
"Exactly as you say; you have seen him, then?"
"Why, I am not sure, since you say his name is Gower."
"He says his name is Gower," returned Lord Castleton, drily, as he inhaled the Beaudesert mixture.
"And where is he now? – with Mr Trevanion?"
"Yes, I believe so. Ah! here we are – Fudge and Fidget! But perhaps," added Lord Castleton, with a gleam of hope in his blue eye, – "perhaps they are not at home!"
Alas, that was an illusive "imagining," as the poets of the nineteenth century unaffectedly express themselves. Messrs Fudge and Fidget were never out to such clients as the Marquis of Castleton: with a deep sigh, and an altered expression of face, the Victim of Fortune slowly descended the steps of the carriage.
"I can't ask you to wait for me," said he; "heaven only knows how long I shall be kept! Take the carriage where you will, and send it back to me."
"A thousand thanks, my dear lord, I would rather walk – but you will let me call on you before I leave town."
"Let you! – I insist on it. I am still at the old quarters, under pretence," said the marquis, with a sly twinkle of the eyelid, "that Castleton House wants painting!"
"At twelve to-morrow, then?"
"Twelve to-morrow. Alas! that's just the hour at which Mr Screw, the agent for the London property, (two squares, seven streets, and a lane!) is to call."
"Perhaps two o'clock will suit you better?"
"Two! – just the hour at which Mr Plausible, one of the Castleton members, insists upon telling me why his conscience will not let him vote with Trevanion!"
"Three o'clock?"
"Three! – just the hour at which I am to see the Secretary of the Treasury, who has promised to relieve Mr Plausible's conscience! But come and dine with me – you will meet the executors to the will!"
"Nay, Sir Sedley – that is, my dear lord – I will take my chance, and look in, after dinner."
"Do so; my guests are not lively! What a firm step the rogue has! Only twenty, I think – twenty! and not an acre of property to plague him!" So saying, the marquis dolorously shook his head, and vanished through the noiseless mahogany doors, behind which Messrs Fudge and Fidget awaited the unhappy man, – with the accounts of the great Castleton coal mine.
CHAPTER LXXVII
On my way towards our lodgings, I resolved to look in at a humble tavern, in the coffee-room of which the Captain and myself habitually dined. It was now about the usual hour in which we took that meal, and he might be there waiting for me. I had just gained the steps of this tavern, when a stage coach came rattling along the pavement, and drew up at an inn of more pretensions than that which we favoured, situated within a few doors of the latter. As the coach stopped, my eye was caught by the Trevanion livery, which was very peculiar. Thinking I must be deceived, I drew near to the wearer of the livery, who had just descended from the roof, and, while he paid the coachman, gave his orders to a waiter who emerged from the inn – "Half-and-half, cold without!" The tone of the voice struck me as familiar, and, the man now looking up, I beheld the features of Mr Peacock. Yes, unquestionably it was he. The whiskers were shaved – there were traces of powder in the hair or the wig – the livery of the Trevanions (ay, the very livery – crestbutton, and all) upon that portly figure, which I had last seen in the more august robes of a beadle. But Mr Peacock it was – Peacock travestied, but Peacock still. Before I had recovered my amaze, a woman got out of a cabriolet, which seemed to have been in waiting for the arrival of the coach, and, hurrying up to Mr Peacock, said in the loud impatient tone common to the fairest of the fair sex, when in haste – "How late you are – I was just going. I must get back to Oxton to-night."
Oxton – Miss Trevanion was staying at Oxton! I was now close behind the pair – I listened with my heart in my ear.
"So you shall, my dear – so you shall; just come in, will you."
"No, no; I have only ten minutes to catch the coach. Have you any letter for me from Mr Gower? How can I be sure, if I don't see it under his own hand, that" —
"Hush!" said Peacock, sinking his voice so low that I could only catch the words, "no names, letter, pooh, I'll tell you." He then drew her apart, and whispered to her for some moments. I watched the woman's face, which was bent towards her companion's, and it seemed to show quick intelligence. She nodded her head more than once, as if in impatient assent to what was said; and, after a shaking of hands, hurried off to the cab; then, as if a thought struck her, she ran back, and said —
"But in case my lady should not go – if there's any change of plan?"
"There'll be no change, you may be sure: Positively to-morrow – not too early; you understand?"
"Yes, yes; good-by" – and the woman, who was dressed with a quiet neatness, that seemed to stamp her profession as that of an abigail, (black cloak, with long cape – of that peculiar silk which seems spun on purpose for ladies'-maids – bonnet to match, with red and black ribbons,) hastened once more away, and in another moment the cab drove off furiously.
What could all this mean? By this time the waiter brought Mr Peacock the half-and-half. He despatched it hastily, and then strode on towards a
