"Oh, fiddle-de-dee!" interposed Jim. "My mother will be only too glad to hear that we have hit off our day's diversion."

"Yes," observed Mr. Cottrell, in a meditative manner; "I have known Lady Mary for many years, and that is her great charm as a hostess. She is always anxious that her guests should amuse themselves after their own fashion. Too many of our entertainers, alas! will insist upon it we shall amuse ourselves in theirs."

Jim Bloxam looked sharply at the speaker as he lit his bed-room candle. Jim had a shrewd idea that Mr. Cottrell at times laughed a little at his friends as well as with them.

"Cottrell is right, however," he said. "It's time to go to bed. After dancing all last night and running races this afternoon, Beauchamp, like myself, feels no doubt fit for it."

When Mr. Cottrell reached his bed-room, he took two or three turns up and down the floor in a somewhat preoccupied manner. At length a faint smile played about his mouth, and muttering to himself, "I will!" he seated himself at the writing-table, rapidly penned a short note, addressed it, and then sought his pillow in the tranquil frame of mind that befits a man who has planned a pleasant surprise for his fellow-creatures. When his valet brought him his cup of tea the next morning at nine, Mr. Cottrell briefly informed him that there was a note on the table for the rectory.

"If you don't know where it is, Smithson," he continued, "inquire quietly. Take it at once; there is no answer; and no tattling about where you have been, mind."

Smithson vanished silently, though aggrieved. He did feel that the latter injunction to such a model of discretion as himself amounted almost to an insult. A very paragon of valets was Smithson—could be relied on to be mute as a fish concerning his master's doings, unless paid to be otherwise, when he of course held to the accepted traditions of his class.

After a previous conference with the stable authorities, Jim Bloxam at breakfast proposed the Trotbury expedition. Lady Mary listened to the proposed excursion at first with some misgivings. She expected to hear it announced that the Chipchase girls had been already asked to join the party. They had been thus invited so often before, that they would have been quite justified in themselves proposing to do so on hearing such an expedition was in contemplation; but no, neither from Blanche nor Jim came a hint of such being the case; and then Lady Mary expressed most unqualified approval of the idea. It was settled that they should start punctually at twelve; and as Mr. Cottrell had not as yet made his appearance, Lady Mary very thoughtfully sent a message up to his room to inform him of what was in contemplation. The breakfast party had nearly all dispersed, even the late comers had thrown their napkins on the table, and yet the hostess, usually one of the first to bustle off upon her own private affairs, still lingered over the Morning Post.

"Come, mother," said Jim, suddenly putting his head into the room, "if you have finished. I want you to help me to tell people off. The governor is not coming; so that leaves his hack at our disposal. I thought if we gave that to Sartoris, Beauchamp and myself can take the hunters, Blanche has her own horse, and the rest of you can go quite comfortably in the break. I told them to take the hood off. And as for Braybrooke, he is going over to Rockcliffe to see some chum of his who is quartered there."

"I have no doubt, my dear Jim, that will all do very well," replied Lady Mary. "I don't think I shall go myself; and Mrs. Evesham is also, I fancy, of my way of thinking."

"All right, then; I shall consider that as settled;" and with that observation Jim left his mother once more in the undisturbed enjoyment of her paper.

But whether the proceedings of her Majesty's Government, or whether the denunciation of her Majesty's Opposition, were not to her liking; or whether the perusal of the Court news had disturbed her serenity; whether it was that the latest discovery in tenors was reported stricken with sore throat that grieved her; or whether it was the last atrocity in crime that made her flesh creep and so disquieted her, it was impossible to say; but that Lady Mary fidgeted considerably over her journal was a fact past dispute. A looker-on, had there been one, would have noticed that her eye frequently wandered from the page to the door; and as the clock on the mantelpiece chimed eleven, she rose from her chair with a petulant gesture and walked towards the window. A few minutes more, and her patience was rewarded: Pansey Cottrell strolled into the room, and rang lazily for some fresh tea.

"You're shamefully late, Pansey; you always are, I know," she said, as she advanced with outstretched hand to greet him. "But it was too bad of you to be so when I am so particularly anxious to talk to you."

"My dear Lady Mary, why did you not send me word upstairs? You know my usual habits; but you know also that I break them without hesitation whenever I can be of service to a lady, or even gratify her caprice."

Lady Mary laughed, as she said, "I know better than to exact such a tremendous sacrifice." She was perfectly well aware that Cottrell, blandly as he might talk, never submitted to the faintest interference with what he termed his natural hours. "You are in my confidence," she continued, "and have seen how circumstances combined against me. Who could have dreamt those Chipchase girls had such a provokingly pretty cousin? They had never even mentioned her very existence."

"Yes, it is awkward," replied Cottrell slowly, "a Miss Chipchase turning up who is dangerous—decidedly dangerous."

"Yes; and the rector's daughters have always been so intimate with us all that it is difficult to keep them at a distance—in fact, since they amalgamated with our party at that dreadful ball, impossible. Tell me, what do you think of this Sylla Chipchase? You met her down in Suffolk. She is just the saucy chit men go wild about, I suppose?"

"Well," replied Cottrell, with a malicious twinkle in his eyes, "there is no real harm in the girl; but she'd flirt with a bishop if she sat next to him at dinner. And as for men going wild about her, we had two or three very pretty women at Hogden's last year; and the manner in which some of those fellows wavered in their allegiance was positively shameful."

"Men always do make such fools of themselves about girls of that sort," said Lady Mary, with no little asperity. "Tell me, did you notice anything between them?"

"Between whom?" replied Cottrell languidly, and with an expression of such utter ignorance of her meaning in his face as did infinite credit to his histrionic powers.

"Between her and Mr. Beauchamp, of course," said Lady Mary sharply.

"Beauchamp wasn't there," replied Cottrell. "I never saw him till I met him in this house."

"And what do you think about it now?"

"Two things," replied Cottrell, smiling, "both of which are calculated to give you comfort. First, people brought up together don't often fall in love; seeing too much of each other is probably an excellent antidote to that complaint. Secondly, that he seems very much devoted to Miss Bloxam at present."

"Well, I hope you are right," said Lady Mary. "It would really be a very nice thing for Blanche. At all events, we are out of the Chipchase girls for to-day." And, so saying, she rose somewhat comforted, little aware, poor woman, that another ringer was meddling with the ropes.

But now the party began to muster in the front hall. Lady Mary observed with maternal complacency that Blanche was looking her best and brightest in one of Creed's masterpieces. Jim was fidgeting about, all impatience, and, throwing open the dining-room door, called out,

"You really have time for no more breakfast, Cottrell, if you are coming with us. You must put off further satisfying of your hunger until we arrive at 'The Sweet Waters' at Trotbury. The horses will be round directly. Ah, here they are!"

And as he spoke, the sound of hoofs was heard on the gravel outside, speedily followed by a peal on the bell; and Mr. Cottrell emerged from the dining-room just in time to see Jim open the hall door to Laura Chipchase, attired in hat and habit, with Miss Sylla mounted and holding her cousin's horse in the background.

Mr. Cottrell contemplated the tableau with all the exultation of a successful artist; and as for Lady Mary, her heart sank within her as the conviction crossed her mind she was destined never to be quit of that "Suffolk girl."

"Admirable, Laura!" exclaimed Jim, as he shook hands. "What happy chance inspired you to turn up all ready for riding? We are just off to lunch at Trotbury, and of course you and Miss Sylla will join us."

"That will be charming," replied Miss Chipchase. "Sylla was wild for a ride this morning; so she and I came over to see if any of you are in the same mood;" and then the young lady passed on to greet the rest of the party.

Lady Mary, sad to say, received this statement with the utmost incredulity, and mentally arraigned her own offspring of duplicity; but whether Jim or Blanche was the traitor she could not determine. Could she but have peeped over Sylla Chipchase's shoulder as that laughter-loving damsel read Pansey Cottrell's note, she would have been both enlightened and astonished.

"DEAR MISS SYLLA," it ran, "I cannot recollect the name of the French song that you told me would just suit Mrs. Wriothesley. Please send it me. We are all going over to-morrow to lunch at Trotbury; some on horseback, and some upon wheels. You should join the riding party if you can, as it will be doubtless pleasant; and though I am not empowered to say so, Lady Mary will of course be delighted to see you."

"Song!" muttered Miss Sylla, as she read this note, "I never said anything to him about a French song; but, ah—stop—I think I see it now!" and she ran through the note again, and as she finished it, broke into a merry laugh. "What a dear, clever, mischievous old man he is!" she muttered. "Of course he means that I am to join that riding party and make Lady Mary a little uncomfortable. Well, she really does deserve it. How dare she pretend that I am setting my cap at Lionel? Such a designing matron deserves some slight punishment, and she little knows what Mr. Cottrell and I can do when we combine together to avenge ourselves."

When she descended to the breakfast-room, Sylla found no difficulty in persuading her cousin Laura to go for a ride. It was of course easy to suggest Trotbury. Then it was agreed they might as well look in at the Grange on the way, to see if they could persuade any of the party there to join them in such an expedition; and thus Sylla Chipchase successfully carried out Mr. Cottrell's design, without making mention to any one of the note that she had received from him.

The merry party were soon started. The Misses Evesham, Mrs. Sartoris, and Pansey Cottrell in the carriage—the reduced number of those electing to travel on wheels sparing the latter the indignity of the "break"—the remainder were of course upon horseback; and as Lady Mary looked after them, admiring the firm seat of her daughter sitting squarely and well back in her saddle, she wondered whether the "Suffolk chit," as she persistently termed her, could ride.

"That's a very good-looking one you are riding, Miss Bloxam, and up to a stone or two more than your weight, as a lady's horse always should be."

"I don't know about that," replied Blanche, laughing. "I am tall, and by no means of the thread-paper order. King Cole," she continued. leaning forward to pat the glossy neck of her black favourite, "would probably tell you he found me quite enough on his back, could he be consulted. He is as good, too, as he is handsome, as I shall perhaps have an opportunity of showing you to-day."

"How so?" inquired Beauchamp.

"Well, we very often on these excursions to Trotbury ride there quietly, and then lark home. There is a lovely piece of galloping ground over Tapton Downs, and a charming cut across country this side of it, by which we can save nearly a mile."

"That'll be great fun," replied Beauchamp, "and I advocate strongly such a saving of distance on our homeward journey. This is one of your father's hunters I am riding, is it not?"

"Yes, and a grand jumper he is too: accustomed to papa's weight, carrying you will be quite play to him."

Arrived at Trotbury, the first thing, as Jim remarked, was obviously to order lunch at "The Sweet Waters;" fortified with which they could then proceed to do the cathedral, and spend as much time as seemed good to them over that noble pile.

"There are all sorts of tombs and chapels to see," continued Jim, "with more than an average crop of historical legends concerning them; and the vergers have all the characteristics of that class: once upset them in their parrot-like description, and they flounder about in most comical manner. The last time I was here they showed me the tomb of St. Gengulphus, with an effigy of that eminent clergyman—considerably damaged about the nose—in stone, on the top. I appealed to the verger gravely to know if it was considered a good likeness. He was staggered for a moment, and then replied hurriedly that it was. But, thank goodness, here comes the lunch. I feel as hungry as an unsuccessful hawk."

"Too bad of you, too bad, Mr. Cottrell," exclaimed Sylla Chipchase; "you were not one of the riding party, and so I have had no opportunity as yet of rebuking you for your forgetfulness: you had no business to forget the name of that French song I told you to recommend to my aunt."

"Allow me to observe, Miss Sylla, that I don't consider I deserve much rebuke on the subject. I quite remembered your message to Mrs. Wriothesley; it was only the name of the song that escaped my memory."

"Is Mrs. Wriothesley an aunt of yours?" inquired Blanche, with no little curiosity; "we know her, and often meet her in town."

"Yes; isn't she charming? I am going up to stay with her as soon as the Easter holidays are over; we shall no doubt meet often."

Blanche said no more, but pondered for a minute or two over this little bit of intelligence. She did not understand why, but she was quite certain that her mother disliked Sylla Chipchase, and was conscious of being not quite in accord with that young lady herself. She knew, moreover, that if there was one person that Lady Mary detested in all her London circle, it was this very Mrs. Wriothesley.

But luncheon is finished, and the whole party proceed to view the cathedral. Pansey Cottrell, however, was not to be got beyond the threshold: he protested that he had too small a mind for so great a subject, and declared his intention of solacing himself with a cigar outside for the temporary absence of the ladies, which was, as Miss Sylla informed him, a mere pandering to the coarser instincts of his nature, whatever he might choose to call it. With the exception of Mr. Sartoris, it may be doubted whether any of the party paid much attention to what they were shown. The principal effect on Blanche's mind was a hazy conviction that Sylla Chipchase was a somewhat disagreeable girl. She considered that the familiar way in which that young lady addressed Lionel Beauchamp, to say the least of it, was in very bad taste.

But these irreverent pilgrims at last brought their inspection of the famous shrine to a conclusion, having displayed on the whole, perhaps, no more want of veneration than is usually shown by such sightseers, and, picking up the philosophic Cottrell in the close, wended their way once more back to "The Sweet Waters."

"Don't you think Lady Mary was enraptured to see me this morning, Mr. Cottrell?" inquired Sylla Chipchase, as they lingered for a minute or two behind the rest.

"Quite sure of it," was the reply, and the speaker's keen dark eyes twinkled with fun as he spoke; "and what is more, if my ears do not deceive me, we shall carry back to the Grange a little bit of intelligence that I am quite sure will gladden the heart of our hostess."

"What is that?" inquired Sylla.

"Don't you know? No; how could you possibly, considering that you are only now about to make your debut in the London world? You must know, then, that your aunt Mrs. Wriothesley is the object of Lady Mary's particular detestation."

"But how came that about? What was the cause of their quarrel? I am sure my aunt is a very charming woman."

"An assertion that I most cordially endorse, and so would all the men of her acquaintance, and most of the women; but when you come to ladies in society, there are wheels within wheels, you see. Your aunt and Lady Mary have been rivals."

"Nonsense, Mr. Cottrell!" exclaimed Sylla; "why, my aunt is at least fifteen years younger than Lady Mary. She was not only married, but all her children born, before my aunt Mrs. Wriothesley came out."

"True, Miss Sylla; but there are rivalries of many kinds, as you will find as you grow older. I can only repeat what I have said before—Mrs. Wriothesley and Lady Mary have been rivals."

"Please explain," said Sylla in her most coaxing tones.

"No, no," rejoined Cottrell, laughing; "you are quick enough, and can afford to trust to your own ears and your own observation when you reach town."

On again arriving at "The Sweet Waters" Jim ordered tea at once, and the horses in half an hour. The conversation became general around the tea-table, and Jim Bloxam was suddenly moved by one of those strokes of inspiration of which his mother had such wholesome dread.

"Miss Sylla," he explained, "I hear you are a theatrical 'star' of magnitude in your own country; there is Mrs. Sartoris too, well known on the amateur London boards; and there are others amongst us who have figured with more or less success. It would be sinful to waste so much dramatic talent; don't you think so, Blanche? We have not time to get up regular theatricals, but there is no reason we should not do some charades to-morrow evening; don't you all think it would be great fun?"

There was a general chorus of assent from all but Blanche, though Miss Bloxam did not venture upon any protest.

"Then I consider that settled," exclaimed Jim. "You will do the proper thing, Laura; my mother's compliments to your father, and she hopes you will all come up in the evening for charades and an impromptu valse or two in the hall. And now, ladies and gentlemen, to horse, to horse! or else we shall never save the dressing-bell."

"And, Jim," exclaimed Miss Bloxam, as she gathered up her habit, "let's go the cross-country way home."

"Certainly; well thought of, sister mine. It's a lovely evening for a gallop."



CHAPTER VI.

A SHORT CUT HOME.

Through the streets of Todborough and on through the environs of the city the gay cavalcade rode decorously and discreetly; but nearing Tapton Downs, the spirits of the party seemed to rise as they encountered the fresh sea-breeze.

"I am sure you must be dying for a good gallop," said Blanche, turning to Sylla Chipchase. "We turn off the main road a little farther on, and then, if you remember, we have lovely turf upon each side of the way. We generally have what Jim calls a 'real scurry' over that."

"I understand—an impromptu race; that will be great fun. But tell me, Miss Bloxam—you know all these horses—have I any chance of beating Lionel?"

"I can hardly say," returned Blanche, laughing. "We have really never tried them in that way I should think old Selim, the horse he is riding, is rather faster than yours."

"Ah; but then, you see, I am much lighter than he is. Lionel, I challenge you to a race as soon as we turn off across the downs. You shall bet me two dozen pair of gloves to one. I always make him do that, you know," she remarked confidentially to Blanche, "in all our battles, whatever they may be at."

"Very well," replied Beauchamp. "Only remember, I shall expect those gloves if I win them; and as I did my best for you yesterday at Rockcliffe, so I intend to do the best for myself now."

"A very sporting match," exclaimed Bloxam. "There's about a mile of capital going over the downs without trespassing. I'll ride forward, and be judge and winning-post, while Sartoris will start you." And so saying, Jim trotted forward.

"Now," exclaimed Blanche, as, quitting the main highway, they turned into the cross-country road that led over the downs towards the sea, "this is where you ought to start from. If one of you will take the turf on the right-hand side, and the other that on the left, and do your best till you come to Jim, we shall all have a splendid gallop, whichever of you wins. You start them, Mr. Sartoris. Let them get a hundred yards in front of us, and then we'll follow as fast as we can."

The antagonists took their places as directed; Mr. Sartoris gave the word "Go!" and away they dashed. Miss Bloxam, sailing away on King Cole in the wake of Sylla Chipchase, scans that young lady's performance with a critical eye. A first-rate horsewoman herself, she was by no means favourably impressed with it. Sylla rides well enough, but her seat is not such as would have been held in high repute in the shires. She also displays a most ladylike tendency on the present occasion to what is technically called ride her horse's head off.

"Two to one!" murmured Blanche; "why, it should be ten to one upon old Selim!" and with that she turned her eyes to ascertain after what fashion old Selim's jockey is conducting himself. But a single glance at Lionel bending slightly forward in his stirrups, with hands low and his horse held firmly by the head, pretty well convinces her that he is a first-flight man to hounds, and probably has appeared in silk on a racecourse. The match terminates as might be anticipated: Sylla, under the laudable impression that she is making her advantage in the weights tell, gallops her luckless mare pretty nearly to a standstill, and Lionel, though winning as he likes, good-naturedly reduces it to a half length, whereby his defeated antagonist lays the flattering unction to her soul that, had he carried a few more pounds, the result would have been the other way.

They jogged soberly along some couple of miles, when Blanche exclaimed gaily, "Who is for the short cut home? 'Let all who love me follow me.'" And, putting King Cole at the small fence that bordered the road, she jumped into the big grass-field on the other side. Lionel Beauchamp and Laura Chipchase followed promptly; but Jim, who was a little in advance, said quietly,

"We had better, I think, keep the road, Sartoris. The governor's hack, though admirable in his place, is not quite calculated for the inspection of the agriculture of the neighbourhood."

He said this good-naturedly, solely upon Sylla's account. He had marked the finish of her race with Lionel, and had come to the conclusion that the young lady was not much of a horsewoman. Now this short cut, although over an easy country, did involve the negotiation of two or three good-sized fences, and he thought it just possible that the girl would prefer not being called upon to ride over anything of that sort. Sylla was possessed of a good many accomplishments, but riding across country was not one of them. She had, however, that curious but common desire to excel in that for which she had no aptitude; still, if she possessed no other attribute of a horsewoman, she was undoubtedly gifted with nerve amounting almost to recklessness.

"Oh, no, Captain Bloxam," she exclaimed; "I am sure we can go anywhere that the rest of them do. Don't you think so, Mr. Sartoris?"

Without waiting for a reply, the young lady jumped her horse into the field, and cantered smartly after Blanche and her cousin.

"Well, wilful woman must have her way," Jim said drily. "Come along, Sartoris; the governor's hack can jump well enough if you don't hurry him." And the two men promptly followed their fair leader across the grass.

King Cole enjoyed the scurry across country to the full as much as his mistress, and expressed his pleasure by shaking his head and reaching hard at his bit. Laura Chipchase's horse was also roused by the smart canter at which they were going, and began to pull unpleasantly.

"Let him go, Laura," cried Miss Bloxam; "the King, too, is fidgeting most uncomfortably. A good gallop will take the nonsense out of them."

And with that the two girls quickened their pace, and, going on side by side, led the way at a fair hunting gallop. The first few fences were small, and as she sailed triumphantly over them, Sylla's pulses tingled, and she was fired with the spirit of emulation. Although she was some little distance behind, she resolved to catch and pass the leaders, and with that intent commenced bucketing her mare along in rather merciless fashion. In vain did Jim shout words of warning. She turned a deaf ear to them. Had he not recommended that she should keep the road? Did he think the art of crossing a country was known only to the maidens of Fernshire? She was determined to catch Blanche and her cousin, whatever her escort might urge to the contrary, and saw with infinite satisfaction that she was rapidly closing the gap between them. Jim Bloxam, galloping a little to her left, and watching her closely, has already come to the conclusion that wilful woman will have her fall, and only trusts it may not be serious.

The mare Sylla was riding was a fairly good hunter, and if she would but have left her alone would have carried the girl safely over such obstacles as they had to encounter. But Jim noticed with dismay that Sylla had some indistinct idea of assisting her at her fences, the result of which could only be inevitable grief. The exhilaration of the trio in front, as attested by the wild shout sent back by Lionel Beauchamp as they cleared the first of those bigger fences previously mentioned, put Sylla's blood thoroughly up. Heedless of Jim's "For God's sake, take a pull!" she struck her mare sharply with the whip, and sent her at it as fast as she could lay legs to the ground. The consequence was the mare took off too soon, and the pair landed in the next field somewhat in a heap. Jim was over and off his horse in a minute, and at once came to the discomfited fair's assistance. It is seldom that a lady shows to advantage after a regular "crumpler," the story of Arabella Churchill notwithstanding; nor, for the matter of that, do men either look the better for the process. No real harm having been done, the ludicrous side of the situation generally presents itself; but Sylla was certainly an exception. Although her hat was broken, her habit woefully torn and mud-stained, nobody could have looked at her somewhat flushed face and flashing dark eyes without admitting that she was a very pretty girl even "in ruins."

"No, thanks; I am not in the least hurt, Captain Bloxam," she replied, as Jim helped her to her feet; "but I could cry with vexation. I had set my heart upon catching those two; but now," she continued, with a comical little grimace, "I have got to first catch my mare."

With the assistance of Mr. Sartoris, who, taking Jim's advice, had followed at a more sedate pace, this was soon done; and Sylla, having rectified her toilette as far as circumstances permitted, was once more in the saddle. That she presented a rather dilapidated and woebegone appearance, nobody could be more conscious than herself; but, as a woman always does under such affliction, she put the best face she could upon it.

"I am looking a dreadful guy," she said; "and it is very good of you two not to laugh at me. I dare not even think of my hat, for nobody ever did, nor ever will, succeed in straightening that article into any semblance of its former shape when it has been once stove in. I have only one thing to be thankful for. Do you know what that is?"

"That you are not hurt in any way," replied Jim.

"Hurt!" she rejoined, with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders; "I never thought of that. Can you guess, Mr. Sartoris?"

"I think so," he returned, laughing. "You are well pleased that your cousin and Miss Bloxam were well in front."

"Just so," said Sylla. "It is easy to see that you are married, Mr. Sartoris, and can to some extent follow the windings of our feminine minds. They would have laughed, and, under pretence of assistance, called attention," and here the girl looked ruefully down at her rent habit, "to all the weak joints in my armour; and, lastly, they would have done what you won't,—tease me to death about it for the next week."

"Matrimony has inculcated that blindness is wisdom as far as I am concerned," said Sartoris.

"You see, Captain Bloxam, how that ceremony quickens the understanding. But you are very good. I know you think that my fall was my own fault; that if I had listened to your warning it wouldn't have happened; and you remain mute. Laura is a dear good girl; but, in your place, she couldn't have resisted saying, 'Didn't I tell you so?' to save her life."

Jim muttered a courteous and most mendacious disclaimer of Miss Sylla's "grief" being due to disregard of his warning.

The leading trio, in the meanwhile, lost in all the exultation of a good gallop, and in utter ignorance of Sylla Chipchase's fall, kept on without slacking rein till they once more found themselves near the high-road, sweeping round from the point they had left it to this, in an arc, by traversing the chord of which they had saved about a mile; and now, looking round for the remainder of the party, discovered, to their surprise, that they were nowhere in sight.

"They must have gone round by the road!" exclaimed Blanche. "Perhaps your cousin, Laura, is not used to crossing a country."

"That I can't say," replied Miss Chipchase. "Till this Easter I haven't seen her since she was quite a small child; but I must say, from what I know of her, that I am rather surprised she didn't try."

"I think it most probable she has tried," observed Lionel quietly. "Shall I ride back and see what has become of them?"

"No," said Miss Chipchase, "I don't think that is necessary. Jim and Mr. Sartoris will no doubt take every care of her. We had better jump into the road, Blanche, and see if they are coming that way."

But of course there were no signs of the rearguard along the highway; and after a delay of a few minutes the party agreed that Sylla was well taken care of, and they might as well proceed leisurely homewards. The victim of her ambition to "witch the world with noble horsemanship" saw the leaders vanish from her view with much satisfaction. Under Jim Bloxam's guidance, and proceeding quietly over more moderate fences, which, though not the straightest, was perhaps the safest, path to the high-road, they regained it without further accident. It must not be supposed that Sylla's nerves were shaken by her fall. She rode as boldly as at first at everything her Mentor allowed; but she was in a strange country, and compelled, whether she liked it or not, to trust herself to Jim Bloxam's guidance.

"Now," she exclaimed, "you have come very nearly to the end of your responsibilities, Captain Bloxam. You have only, if possible, to smuggle me into the rectory; and remember—I swear you both to secresy."

"I can take you," replied Jim, "by a bridle-path through the wood, which will in all probability insure your reaching the rectory grounds unnoticed; but your getting into the house I must leave to your own ingenuity."

When, in the course of the evening, Jim, in his own impetuous fashion, told that he had asked the Chipchase girls to come up to the Grange the next evening, with a view to charades and an impromptu valse or two, Lady Mary received the intelligence with the calm resignation of a follower of Mahomet. She saw it was hopeless attempting any further to control the march of events.

"No," she murmured confidentially to Mr. Cottrell in the drawing-room, "the Fates are against me. I have done all that woman could, but I cannot contend with destiny. It is sad; but whatever with due forethought I propose, destiny, embodied in the shape of that wretch Jim, persistently thwarts. There is no such thing as instilling the slightest tact into him."

"But, my dear Lady Mary," rejoined Cottrell, whose sense of the humorous was again highly gratified by the outcome of the trip to Trotbury, "I really cannot see that you have any cause for complaint. Things look to me progressing very favourably in the direction you wish."

"My dear Pansey," replied her ladyship, solemnly, "you do not understand these things quite so well as I thought you did. A variety of belles disturbs concentration, and prevents that earnestness of purpose which is so highly desirable."

"I see," rejoined Pansey, laughing. "To revert to the metaphor you used in our conversation some days since, you object to a peal of belles. Your doctrine may be embodied in the formula, I presume, of one belle and one ringer."

"Yes," rejoined her ladyship, smiling, "that about describes it. And now I think it is about bed-time. Jim, my dear," she continued, as she took her bed-room candle, "as you have thought fit to improvise a ball, you had better take care that the young ladies have partners by asking three or four of the officers from Rockcliffe, if they will waive ceremony and come."

"All right," he replied, "I will send over the first thing to-morrow morning;" and from the inflexion of his mother's voice, Jim gathered that his programme for the morrow had, at all events, not met altogether with her approval.

But there were still a few more bitter drops to be squeezed into the cup of Lady Mary's discontent before she laid her head upon her pillow. She had not been ten minutes in her room when there was a tap at the door, and Blanche entered.

"I just looked in, mamma dear, to ask you if you knew that the Chipchases were related to Mrs. Wriothesley?"

"Nonsense!" exclaimed Lady Mary; "what can you be dreaming of? Why, I have known Laura and her sister all their lives; and had they been related to that detestable woman, I must have heard of it."

"Well, I can only say that Sylla Chipchase told me to-day at Trotbury that Mrs. Wriothesley was her aunt, and that she was going up to stay with her as soon as the holidays were over."

"Good Heavens!" exclaimed Lady Mary, "I might have guessed it; I might have known there was some reason for my instinctive dislike to that girl. That a niece of that horrid woman should turn out as objectionable as herself is only what one might expect."

"But really, mamma dear," expostulated Blanche, "although I don't quite like Sylla Chipchase myself, you cannot say that of her. I know you don't like Mrs. Wriothesley; but she is a very pretty woman, and Jim declares a very pleasant one."

"Don't talk to me of Jim!" cried Lady Mary petulantly. "He is too provoking, and thinks every woman not positively ugly that smiles upon him delightful; but I lose all patience when I speak of Mrs. Wriothesley. Of course it's quite possible for Mrs. Wriothesley to be Sylla's aunt, although no relation to her cousins; and you say this girl is going to stay with her?"

"Yes, for the remainder of the season," rejoined Blanche.

"Upon my word," exclaimed Lady Mary, "I really cannot think what sins I have committed, that such a trial should be laid upon me. Mrs. Wriothesley is bad enough as it is, and hard enough to keep at arms' length; but Mrs. Wriothesley with a pretty girl to chaperon—and I am sorry to own that Sylla is that—a girl, moreover, who has forced her way upon us in the country, will be simply unendurable."

Pansey Cottrell, had he been present at this scene, would most thoroughly have enjoyed it, and even Blanche could not help laughing at her mother's dismay. Lady Mary's was no simulation of despair. She pictured, as Cottrell would have divined, herself and her former foe once more pitted against each other as rivals, and recalled rather bitterly that campaign of four or five years back, when another niece of that lady's successfully carried off an eligible parti that she, Lady Mary, had at that time selected as suitable for her eldest daughter. She had congratulated her antagonist in most orthodox fashion when the engagement was announced; and, though nothing but the most honied words were exchanged between them, Mrs. Wriothesley had contrived to let her see, as a woman always can, that she was quite aware of her disappointment, and thoroughly cognizant that her soft speeches were as dust and ashes in her mouth.

"Well, good night, mamma," said Blanche, breaking in upon her mother's reverie. "Although you don't like Mrs. Wriothesley, I really don't think that need interfere with your slumbers."

"My dear, you don't know her," rejoined Lady Mary, with a vindictive emphasis that sent Blanche laughing out of the room.

Jim Bloxam might have his faults, but no one could charge him with lack of energy. Whatever he busied himself about, Jim did it with all his might. He had—as in these days who has not?—dabbled a little in amateur theatricals; and, whatever his audience might think of his performance, the stage-manager would emphatically testify that he threw himself into the business heart and soul. That he should take counsel with Mrs. Sartoris next morning concerning the proposed charades was only what might have been expected; and then, an unusual thing in a country-house party, a dearth of talent was discovered. Neither Blanche nor the Misses Evesham had ever taken part in anything of the kind, and declared in favour of being lookers-on. Mr. Sartoris promised to assist to the extent of his ability; but neither he nor his wife would accept the responsibility of deciding what they should do, or in fact undertaking the management. The trio seemed rather nonplussed, when Pansey Cottrell, who had taken no part in the discussion, said quietly,

"Why don't you go down to the rectory, and talk things over with the young ladies there? Miss Sylla is very clever in that way, I can vouch, having seen her."

"Of course," exclaimed Jim. "How stupid of me not to think of it before! Get your hat, Mrs. Sartoris. We have just nice time to slip across before lunch."

Upon arriving at the rectory, Jim plunged at once in medias res.

"We are come across to consult you about what we are to do to-night. Rumour, in the shape of Pansey Cottrell, declares, Miss Sylla, that you are 'immense' in all this sort of thing."

"Mr. Cottrell, as you will soon discover, has been imposing upon you to a great extent," replied Sylla; "but still I shall be glad to be of any use I can."

"Our difficulty is this," interposed Mrs. Sartoris: "when I have acted, it has always been in a regular play. My words have been set down for me, so that of course I knew exactly what I had to say and when to say it; but in charades, Captain Bloxam tells me, I shall have to improvise my words. I have never seen one acted; but that strikes me as dreadfully difficult."

"You are perfectly right, Mrs. Sartoris; it is. And yet people who have serious misgivings about their ability to act a play have no hesitation about taking part in charades. It is wont to result in all the characters wanting to talk together, or else in nobody apparently having anything to say, or in one character being so enamoured with the ease he or she improvises, that the affair resolves itself into a mere monologue. I would venture to suggest that our charades should be merely pantomimic."

"Glorious!" exclaimed Jim. "I vote we place ourselves in Miss Sylla's hands, and elect her manageress. Will you agree, Mrs. Sartoris?"

"Most certainly. The idea sounds excellent, and to leave the originator to carry it out is undoubtedly the best thing we can do."

"Very well, then; if you will give me an hour or two to think out my words, I will explain how they ought to be done."

"If you wouldn't mind coming up to the Grange, we might have a rehearsal this afternoon, rummage up the properties, and all the rest of it," exclaimed Jim, energetically.

"That will do admirably," said Laura Chipchase. "And now, Sylla, the sooner you set that great mind of yours to work, the better."



CHAPTER VII.

"THE PLAY'S THE THING."

Todborough Grange rejoiced in what should be the adjunct of every country house—a large unfurnished room. It had been thrown out expressly as a playroom for the children by Cedric Bloxam's father, and as they grew up proved even more useful. Should the house be full and the weather prove wet, what games of battledore and shuttlecock, "bean-bags," &c., were played in it in the daytime, and what a ball-room it made at night! There was no trouble moving out the furniture or taking up the carpet, there being nothing but a few benches and a piano in the room. At one end was a slightly-raised stage, and off that was a tiny chamber, originally known as the toy-room, and pretty well dedicated to the same use now, being stored with properties for cotillons, the aforesaid games, theatrical representations, &c. There was a regular drop-curtain to the stage, but that was all. Scenery there was none. That was fitted in when required, but would have been considered in the way as a permanency, the stage being used at times as an orchestra, at others as a tea-room. It was raised not quite a foot above the floor, and could therefore be easily stepped on to; in fact, upon the few occasions that the Theatre Royal Todborough opened, the entertainment had been confined invariably to one-act farces. At such times it was spoken of with considerable ostentation as a theatre; but as a rule the old appellation was adhered to, and it was generally known as the play-room. It was in this room that the Misses Chipchase found Blanche, Jim, Mr. Cottrell, Lionel Beauchamp, and the Sartorises awaiting their arrival in the afternoon.

"Now, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Jim, "we are all ready for you. We have installed you in command, and hereby promise attention and obedience."

"Honour and obey, Jim," interrupted Blanche, laughing; "but it is the lady who should say it."

"It does sound a little as if he had strayed into the marriage service," observed Cottrell.

"Ladies and gentlemen not intending to assist in this representation are requested to withdraw," retorted Jim, "by order of the stage-manager, James Bloxam."

"Come along, Mr. Cottrell: he has right on his side; the audience have certainly no business at the rehearsals."

And, followed by the younger Miss Chipchase, Cottrell, and Beauchamp, Blanche crossed towards the door. At the threshold they were arrested by Sylla, who exclaimed,

"You cannot all go; I must have another gentleman. If Mr. Cottrell won't act, you must, Lionel."

"I had no idea you acted," said Blanche Bloxam, with some little surprise; "you said nothing about it this morning when we were talking this over."

It may have been some slight inflexion of the voice that prompted the deduction; but certain it was that as Pansey Cottrell heard that commonplace little speech, he muttered to himself, "The lady is beginning to take things in earnest, whatever Beauchamp may be."

"I have no idea that I can act," rejoined Lionel, laughing; "but I can stand still in whatever attitude I am placed, and that, I fancy, is all Sylla requires of me. You do not feel any disposition to volunteer, I suppose, Mr. Cottrell?"

"Heaven forbid!" rejoined Mr. Cottrell fervently, "Miss Sylla might want me to stand upon one leg. She will put some of you in most uncomfortable attitudes, just for the fun of the thing, I know."

"Now," said the manageress-elect, as Mr. Cottrell closed the door behind him, "what we have got to do is very simple. I have thought of two words which will each represent in three tableaux. Now, I propose that we arrange these tableaux—six in all—and then, if we run through them a second time, just to be sure we have not forgotten our places, we shall have nothing to do but to talk over any details that may occur to us. First, Mrs. Sartoris, which will you represent, the Lady or the Chambermaid of my charades?"

"Well, if you will allow me, I think I will do the Lady," said Mrs. Sartoris, laughing. "I ought, at all events, to be best in that; but there are three of us. What is Miss Chipchase going to do?"

"Oh, she is the Band," rejoined Sylla. "You see, we must have soft music all the way through these charades; and we want somebody to play for us who knows what we are about, and so can follow us."

"And so," interposed Miss Chipchase, "we have settled that I shall play the piano."

"Very well, Mrs. Sartoris," said Sylla; "then we will consider that settled; you do the Ladies and I do the Chambermaids. Now, gentlemen, you must select your own lines. What will you be, Mr. Sartoris—Walking Gentleman, Low Comedian, or Melodramatic Villain?"

"Oh, Melodramatic Villain," cried Mrs. Sartoris,—"he will be delighted. Tom's theatrical proclivities, shocking to relate, are murderous in the extreme. He is always complaining that he is never entrusted with a real good assassination."

"Then that's settled," exclaimed Sylla. "Captain Bloxam will take the Walking Gentleman, and Lionel can do the Low Comedy part."

Under the young manageress's energetic directions the tableaux were rapidly run through. The little troupe worked with a will, and in something under two hours they pronounced themselves perfect, and predicted, as people always do under these circumstances, that the performance would be a great success.

"Now comes a question," said Jim, "as to scenery, properties, and dresses. There is some little scenery in the granary that has been used before at different times, and of course we have a certain amount of properties. What shall you want, Miss Sylla?" and Jim, taking a sheet of paper and pencil in a very business-like manner, prepared to make notes on the top of the piano.

"For the first charade," said Sylla, "the scenery should be a wood scene, and then we want a lady's bed-chamber. The second charade is simply a drawing-room scene all through. For properties a brace of pistols, a pair of handcuffs, a jewel-box with plenty of bracelets, rings, &c.—we ladies can easily find those amongst us. In the second, nothing but a letter in bold handwriting. As for dresses, Mrs. Sartoris and I can easily manage; and as for you gentlemen, you want nothing but a policeman's dress, a livery, and a low comedy wig."

"No trouble about any of those things, Miss Sylla, unless it's the low comedy wig, and about that I have my doubts. However, Beauchamp must manage the best he can with his own hair if I can't find one. There is only one thing more you forgot to tell us,—what the second word is."

"No forgetfulness at all, Captain Bloxam," replied the young lady, laughing. "I am very curious to see if any of you, or any of the audience, make that word out."

"It's high time we were on our way home," observed Miss Chipchase; "as soon as you have given us a cup of tea, Jim, Sylla, and I will be off."

When the evening came there was really a good sprinkling of visitors to look on or join in whatever entertainment might be provided for them. Jim the energetic, in pursuance of his mother's hints overnight, had not only sent over to the Rockcliffe Camp, but had dispatched missives in all directions by a groom on horseback, with the pithy intimation, "Charades and an impromptu dance this evening at nine. If you have nothing better to do, please come." Jim Bloxam was a popular man in his neighbourhood, and the Grange had a reputation for improvising pleasant entertainments in such fashion. Lady Mary contemplated the forthcoming proceedings with resignation, if not with satisfaction. She had a presentiment that the evening would end unpleasantly for her. She felt certain that Sylla would contrive to pose as its heroine; and that the niece of the woman she most detested in the world should have the opportunity of for once assuming such a position in the house of which she, Lady Mary, was mistress, was exasperating. Pansey Cottrell, too, had contributed not a little to her irritation by dwelling somewhat persistently at dinner on Miss Sylla's dramatic talent. He had done this, dear pleasant creature! simply for his own diversion. He was acting as prompter to a little comedy of real life; and it is ideas, not words, that the prompters on such occasions instil into our minds. As a rule, Pansey Cottrell would have judiciously shirked such an entertainment as the one which he was now with genuine curiosity taking his seat to witness. Neither host nor hostess ever succeeded in persuading him to do what he did not fancy. He would be ill, retire to his own bed-room at the shortest possible notice, would no more make up a fourth at whist, or conduce to the entertainment of his fellows, than volunteer for a turn on the treadmill. If his entertainers troubled him much, he did not come their way again. Of course, they need not ask him unless they liked. But Mr. Cottrell knew society well. Once assure such recognition as he had done, and how obtained matters not an iota: the more unmeasured your insolence to society, the more does society bow down and worship.

"Where's Brummell dished?"

Yes, but it was a mere matter of L.s.d. that dished him. That he ever did tell the Prince to ring the bell is unlikely; but society thought him capable of doing so, and reverenced him accordingly.

The bell rings, and the fingers of Laura Chipchase, who has already seated herself at the piano, begin to move dreamily over the keys. She plays well, and a soft weird-like melody attunes the minds of the spectators to what is to follow. Again the bell rings, and as the curtain slowly rises comes the sharp report of a pistol. "Good Heavens! there is some accident," escapes from three or four lips. But the wild ghostly music still falls, without ceasing, from the piano. Slowly the curtain continues to rise, and discovers two men confronting each other after the approved custom of duelling. On the proper stage right stands Mr. Sartoris, with brows bent and sullen scowl upon his lip; the nerveless hand by his side grasps the still-smoking pistol. Opposite, and as far from him as the space will admit, is Bloxam, his right arm upraised, and his hand holding a pistol pointed upwards. In the background stands Beauchamp, in an attitude expressive of intense anxiety. Having reached the ceiling, the curtain slowly commences to descend. As it does so, Bloxam's pistol is discharged in the air, and the performers remain unmovable till once more masked from the view of the spectators.

"A duel!" exclaims Miss Evesham; "what are we to make of that?"

"No, no, that won't do," ejaculates the Squire: "he has missed—missed, don't you see? Can't be quite right; but that's the idea."

"I have it," rejoins Miss Evesham; "you are right, Mr. Bloxam, that is it. It's not missed, but a miss. There are lots of words, you know, begin with 'miss.'"

Some slight delay, during which the soft dreamy music still falters unceasingly from Laura Chipchase's fingers, and then the curtain once more begins to ascend. There is no such sensational effect as a pistol-report to startle the audience this time. The scene represents a lady's dressing-room. In an arm-chair, placed on the stage right opposite the toilette-table on the stage left, attired as a smart lady's-maid, reclines Sylla sound asleep; on the table are scattered bracelets, &c., and also stands an open jewel-case. Mr. Sartoris, got up to represent a dog-stealer, a burglar, or other member of the predatory classes, is in the act of getting in a practicable window at the back of the stage. A dark lantern is in his hand, and his feet are artistically enshrined in india-rubbers. Stealthily, with many melodramatic starts and gestures, and anxious glances at the sleeping girl, he makes his way to the toilette-table, fills his pockets with the glittering gewgaws, then turns to depart, with his plunder, silently as he had come. As he passes the sleeping soubrette, she moves uneasily in her chair. With a ferocious gesture the robber draws from his breast an ominous-looking knife, pauses for a moment, and then, reassured by her tranquillity, makes his way to the window. As he disappears, Mrs. Sartoris, an opera-cloak thrown over her ball-room dress, and carrying a bed-room candle in her hand, enters and crosses to the toilette-table. Placing her candle on the table, she seizes the jewel-box, and, it is evident, becomes cognizant that robbery has been committed. As she turns, Sylla starts from the chair in great confusion; Mrs. Sartoris points to the table, and then with a start notices the open window. The curtain descends upon Mrs. Sartoris pointing in an accusing manner to the window, and Sylla with clasped hands mutely protesting her innocence and ignorance of the robbery.

With the clue afforded by the solution of the first syllable, the audience very soon make out the second; and that the word was either "mistake" or "mistaken" they entertained little doubt. Curiosity now centred on what version they would give of the whole, for that each word was to be rendered in three tableaux had been stated before the performance commenced.

The curtain rises again upon the last scene; and upon this occasion the representation is motionless. In the centre of the stage, Lionel Beauchamp, in the guise of a policeman, is snapping-to the hand-cuffs on the weeping Sylla. On the left, with averted head, stands Mrs. Sartoris, indicating sorrow for the offender, but entire belief in her guilt. On the opposite side, Jim Bloxam, attired in evening costume, is unmistakably directing the officer to remove his prisoner. Slowly the curtain descends amid much acclamation and cries of "Mistake!" In his capacity of stage-manager, Jim Bloxam glides for a moment in front, and, in a few off-hand words to the audience, acknowledges the correctness of their apprehension.

"I give Jim credit for his exertions. That really was most successful," said Lady Mary, as her son disappeared.

"I fancy the success is due more to Miss Sylla than him," rejoined Pansey Cottrell, suavely. "Jim, as we all know, though one of the best of fellows, is the most execrable of actors; and I don't think those tableaux look like his inspiration."

"I am sure he is quite as good as the generality of amateurs," retorted Lady Mary, with no little asperity.

She was no more exempt from the true womanly instinct that prompts the regarding of her own chicks as swans than any of her sex. Mr. Cottrell was much too quick-witted not to see that his criticism was distasteful, but he never could resist the temptation of teasing his fellow-creatures.

"Admitting, for the sake of argument, Lady Mary," he replied, "that Jim is an average actor, when one knows that there is rather exceptional talent in the troupe, one is apt to regard that as the guiding spirit. Sylla Chipchase is very clever at all this sort of thing, I know, because I have seen her on previous occasions."

"You seem to be losing your head about that girl, Pansey, like the rest of them. You all seem to think that she is wonderfully clever because she happened to know that Mr. Beauchamp could run."

"I fancy she knows a good deal more about him than that," replied Mr. Cottrell demurely.

"What do you mean? What have you heard about her?" inquired Lady Mary, somewhat eagerly.

"Nothing, further than she seemed to be equally well aware that he could act. But stop, they are commencing again."

Slowly, as before, the curtain ascends to a dreamy melody of the piano, and discovers Sylla, attired as the smartest of soubrettes, in close juxtaposition to Lionel Beauchamp in a groom's livery. Taking a letter from him, she places it in her bosom, and then looks up at him with all the devilry of coquetry in her eyes. She toys with the corner of her apron, twiddling it backwards and forwards between her fingers. She glances demurely down at her feet, then looks shyly up at him again; then once more studying her apron, she, as if unconsciously, proffers her cheek in a manner too provocative for any man to resist, and as the curtain descends Lionel Beauchamp is apparently about to make the most of his opportunity.

"By Jove!" laughed the Squire, "in Beauchamp's place I think I would have been thoroughly realistic—the proper thing in these days!"

"Well," whispered Lady Mary to Pansey Cottrell, "of all the audacious minxes! Mr. Beauchamp deserves great credit for his discretion in waiting until the curtain fell before he kissed her."

That Lady Mary assumed the ceremony was concluded may be easily imagined, while the audience generally differed considerably about the scene, some of the ladies contending that there was no necessity for carrying dramatic representation quite so far; while the men, on the other hand, thought that Beauchamp did not carry it far enough.

The second scene discovers Mrs. Sartoris in the centre of the stage, with Jim Bloxam on one knee, kissing the hand she extends towards him. On her other side, Mr. Sartoris, made up as an elderly gentleman, with coat thrown very much back, thumbs stuck in the armholes of his waistcoat, contemplates the pair with a look of bland satisfaction. Again the curtain descends, leaving the audience more at sea than ever as to what the word can be. Nor is the third scene calculated to throw much enlightenment on the subject. In it Lionel Beauchamp, in his groom's dress, appears to be pantomimically explaining something to the remainder of the company, who are artistically grouped in the centre of the stage, and which shrugs of the shoulders, upraised eyebrows, and other gestures, indicate they either fail to understand, or, it may be, to agree with. But the whole word, like more ambitious dramatic representations, is somehow involved in fog. You cannot help thinking that it must be a good charade if you could only make out what it was about; but when the curtain descends, the audience, instead of at once proclaiming the word, can hardly even make a guess at it. There are cries for the stage-manager; and when Jim Bloxam appears in reply to a laughing call, "The word? the word?" he bows low to the audience, and regrets his inability to comply with their request.

"The distinguished authoress," continued Jim, "has taken none of us into her confidence. She has, I presume, strong opinions on the subject of copyright, and is determined to give no opportunity of its infringement."

Jim's speech created both merriment and curiosity, and was followed by a prompt call of "Author, author!" A few seconds, and then the stage-manager responds by leading Sylla forward in her soubrette dress. Dropping the sauciest of curtsies in acknowledgment of the applause with which she is greeted, she replies in clear distinct tones,

"Ladies and gentlemen, you find our word unintelligible. Paradoxical as it may seem, that is precisely the result we have aimed at; and now that I have told you the word, I am sure you will admit our efforts have been successful;" and once more bowing to her audience, Sylla disappeared behind the curtain Jim held back for her.

What can she mean? What do they mean? What is it? What was the word? were questions responded to by the jolly laugh of Cedric Bloxam.

"Can't you see?" he said, "it's all a sell: we found it unintelligible, and that is precisely what we were meant to do—that's the word."

And once more the Squire indulged in a hearty guffaw.

But now the company flock into the drawing-room for tea or other refreshment, while the servants rapidly clear the play-room for dancing. The curtain is pulled up, the stage occupied by a select section of the Commonstone band, and, in something like a quarter of an hour Jim's impromptu dance is in full swing.

"My dear Sylla," exclaimed Lady Mary, as that young lady, leaning upon Bloxam's arm, stopped near her in one of the pauses of the valse, "I have not had an opportunity of congratulating you upon your very spirited pantomime—carried, my dear, a little too far in that last charade."

"Oh, I hope you don't really think so, Lady Mary," cried Sylla; "but you cannot half act a thing. When the exigencies of the stage require one to be embraced, one must admit of that ceremony. Surely if a girl has scruples about going through such a mere form, she had much better decline to act at once."

"That's a question that we will not argue," said Lady Mary. "I hear you are going to stay with Mrs. Wriothesley for the remainder of the London season."

"Yes, she is an aunt of mine; you know her, I believe."

"Very well; we are old friends, although I don't see so much of her as I once did. The London world has got so very big, you see, and Mrs. Wriothesley and I have drifted into different sets."

"Yes," chimed in Pansey Cottrell, who was standing by, "it has got perfectly unendurable. One could calculate at one time upon seeing a good deal of one's friends during the season; now half of them we only come across some once or twice. But surely you and Mrs. Wriothesley see a good deal of each other."

"No, not in these days," rejoined Lady Mary, tartly, much to Mr. Cottrell's amusement.

He knew perfectly well that the two ladies met continually, although there was little cordiality between them. But Lady Mary's last speech showed him she intended to keep Mrs. Wriothesley at arms' length, if possible, for the future; and Pansey Cottrell smiled as he thought that his hostess's schemes would, in all likelihood, be as persistently thwarted in town as they had been in the country.

"Well, I trust that Blanche and I will contrive to see a good bit of each other all the same," replied Sylla courteously. "You know my aunt, Captain Bloxam," she continued, as she moved away. "I should have thought her an easy person to get on with; but I am afraid Lady Mary does not like her."



CHAPTER VIII.

MRS. WRIOTHESLEY.

When Ralph Wriothesley of the Household Cavalry, better known among his intimates as the "Rip," married pretty Miss Lewson, niece of that worldly and bitter-tongued old Lady Fanshawe, everybody said what a fool he had made of himself. What did he, a man who had already developed a capacity for expenditure much in excess of his income, want with a wife who brought little or no grist to the mill? The world was wrong—as the world very frequently is on such points. It was about the first sensible thing that the "Rip," in the course of his good-humoured, blundering, plunging career, had done. It saved him. Without the check that his clever little wife almost imperceptibly imposed upon him, "Rip" Wriothesley would probably, ere this, have joined the "broken brigade," and vanished from society's ken. As it was, the pretty little house in Hans Place throve merrily; and though people constantly wondered how the Wriothesleys got on, yet the unmistakable fact remained, that season after season they were to be seen everywhere and ruffling it with the best.

The Wriothesleys had advantages for which those who marvelled as to how they managed failed to make due allowance. They were both of good family—in fact, their escutcheons were better to investigate than their banker's account. Both popular in their own way, they were always in request to make up a party for Hurlingham dinners, the Ascot week, or other similar diversion. They did not affect to entertain; but the half-dozen little dinners—strictly limited to eight persons—that they gave in that tiny dining-room in the course of the season were spoken of with enthusiasm by the privileged few who had been bidden. An invitation to Mrs. Wriothesley's occasional little suppers after the play was by no means to be neglected; the two or three plats were always of the best, and the "Rip" took care that Giessler's "Brut" should be unimpeachable. They had both a weakness for race-meetings; but Wriothesley's plunging days were over, and his modest ventures were staked with considerably more discretion than in the times when he bet heavily. The lady was a little bit of a coquette, no doubt; but the most unscrupulous of scandalmongers had never ventured to breathe a word of reproach against Mrs. Wriothesley. A flirting, husband-hunting little minx, she had fallen honestly in love with this big, blond, good-humoured Life Guardsman; and, incredible as it might seem to the world she lived in, remained so still. They understood each other marvellously well, those two. The "Rip" regarded his wife as the cleverest woman alive; and, though she most undoubtedly looked upon him in a very different light, nobody more thoroughly appreciated the honest worth of his character than she did. As she once said, to one of her female intimates, of her husband, "He has one great virtue: he is always 'straight,' my dear. The 'Rip' couldn't tell me a lie if he tried."

Mrs. Wriothesley is sitting in her pretty little drawing-room listening to Sylla Chipchase's spirited account of her visit to Todborough Rectory.

"It was great fun," continued the girl. "Lady Mary Bloxam was thoroughly convinced, and no doubt is still, that I was setting my cap at Lionel Beauchamp. She had no idea that we had known each other from childhood; and her face, when I first called him Lionel, would have sent you into fits of laughter."

"But Lady Mary was right about one thing, Sylla. Lionel Beauchamp would be a very nice match for you."

"Don't talk nonsense, mine aunt, or speculate upon the impossible. I couldn't care for Lionel in that way any more than he would care for me. I am only eighteen, and I am sure I need not think about marriage as a speculation for some years yet."

"Well," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, laughing, "I am certainly not entitled to preach worldly wisdom. I was as mercenary, speculative a little animal at your age as you could wish to see; and what came of it? I forgot all my prudent resolutions, fell over head and ears in love, married the 'Rip,' and have been the genteel pauper you see me ever since."

"Consigned to such a poor-house as this," exclaimed Sylla melodramatically, and glancing round at the china and other knicknacks scattered about the room, "methinks that the stings of poverty are not so hard to bear."

"Ah, yes," replied Mrs. Wriothesley; "but then, you see, I meant to have had my country seat, my box at the opera, my two or three carriages, and that my balls should be the balls of the season."

"Now, aunt, I want to ask you one question. Mr. Cottrell told me that you and Lady Mary were once rivals. What did he mean by that?"

"No! Did Pansey tell you that?" laughed Mrs. Wriothesley. "He has a good memory. It's now some six or seven years ago that your cousin, Lady Rosington, then unmarried, was staying with me for the season, Mary Bloxam at that time was trailing that grenadier eldest girl of hers about" (a little bit of feminine exaggeration this, the lady referred to being only half an inch taller than Blanche), "and thought Sir Charles would suit very well for her husband. Unluckily for Mary Bloxam, I thought Sir Charles equally suitable for Jessie, and—well, in short, we won."

"Ah, now I understand; and I suppose you have never been friends since. Lady Mary told me that she saw very little of you in London now."

"That is not quite the case. I think we meet as often as formerly. Friends we never were, but acquaintances we have been for some years. Jim Bloxam, though, is one of my intimates. He is a great friend of both mine and the 'Rip's,' and we see a good deal of him when he is in London; and, indeed," she continued, laughing, "for the matter of that, when he is not; for he has a way of turning up at all places generally when there is anything going on. Indeed, we have half promised to lunch at their regimental tent at Ascot. And you, what do you think of Captain Bloxam?"

"I like him very much indeed," replied Sylla. And she looked her inquisitor so steadily in the face, that Mrs. Wriothesley came promptly to the conclusion that no love passages had taken place between the pair as yet. But it had suddenly shot through the energetic little woman's mind that her favourite, Jim Bloxam, would make a most suitable husband for her niece. Jim was an eldest son, and Todborough, from all accounts, a very respectable property. Yes, it would do very well if it could be brought about, to say nothing of the satisfaction there would be in stealing from her old enemy's flock the only lamb that was worth the taking. All this ran through Mrs. Wriothesley's mind as quick as lightning; and though she said nothing to Sylla on the subject, she had pretty well resolved to do her best to marry those two.

When Mrs. Wriothesley took charge of nieces for the season, she conceived it her clear and bounden duty to provide for them satisfactorily if possible. If Sylla could not be brought to think of Lionel Beauchamp, it might be possible for her to take a more favourable view of Captain Bloxam. True, he was not quite so good a parti as the other; but it was comforting to think that there was every probability that it would occasion her old antagonist equal annoyance. It further struck her that, engrossed in her plans for her daughter, Lady Mary would probably totally overlook any flirtation of her son's. There is a species of fascination in countermining difficult to resist; and, though of course she would have in some measure to be guided by events, Mrs. Wriothesley had pretty well determined upon the course she would pursue.

"What are you thinking about?" inquired Sylla, breaking in upon her aunt's reverie. "They should be pleasant thoughts, judging from the smile on your lips."

"Thinking, my dear, that if we don't get our bonnets on, the world will all have gone home to luncheon before we get to the Row, and it is good for us to get the fresh air of the morning."

A little later, and the two ladies passed into the Park by the Albert Gate, and made their way to the High Change of gossip of fashionable London. A bright fresh spring morning filled the Row to overflowing. It was thronged, as it always is on a fine day after Easter. Fashionable London comes to see who of its acquaintances may be in town; and numberless parties and plans for the future are sketched out on these occasions. As for Mrs. Wriothesley's acquaintance, their name was legion. Everybody seemed to know her; and that she was popular was evident from the numbers who stopped to speak to her. They had not been long installed in their chairs before Sylla perceived Mr. Cottrell lounging towards them, and pointed him out to her aunt.

"Ah," exclaimed Mrs. Wriothesley, "I must signal him as soon as he gets within range. I want to speak to him. I should like to hear his account of your Todborough party."

"Do," replied Sylla, laughing. "He is my fellow-conspirator, remember, though I don't suppose he will confess anything. It's delicious to see the utterly unconscious way in which he will upset people's schemes. I used really at first to think he did it innocently, but I soon discovered it was malice prepense."

"Yes, I know Pansey Cottrell very well. He is very mischievous; though not malicious, unless you interfere with his personal comfort; rather given to playing tricks upon his fellow-creatures; but he is more of a Puck than a Mephistopheles.—Good morning, Mr. Cottrell. Pray come and give an account of yourself. Sylla tells me you have been passing Easter with the Bloxams."

"Quite so," replied that gentleman, as he raised his hat. "Miss Sylla and I have been dedicating our poor talents to the amusement of Lady Mary's guests, and to the furtherance of Lady Mary's plans. I am sure she was much delighted at all the dancing and theatricals we inveigled her into. I presume," he continued, turning to Sylla, "that you have seen her since your arrival in town."

"Not yet," returned the girl. "She told me, you know, at Todborough, that she and my aunt moved in somewhat different sets."

"Which is hardly the case, as you know," interrupted Mrs. Wriothesley. "What do you suppose she meant by that?"

"I?" replied Cottrell. "My dear Mrs. Wriothesley, I never pretend to understand what a woman means by doubtful speech of any kind. Our masculine understandings are a great deal too dense to penetrate the subtleties of feminine language. She might mean that she intends your grooves to lie far apart for the future; and then again she might mean something—something—else," continued Mr. Cottrell, rather vaguely.

"So you think Mary Bloxam intends to see as little of me in future as possible?" rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley, taking no manner of notice of her companion's last words.

"No; don't say I think so," interrupted Mr. Cottrell. "I told you particularly I could form no conclusion as to what she meant. However, this place is neutral ground, and all the world meets here, or rather would, if it was not so crowded that it is almost impossible to find anybody. But—ah, here comes Lady Mary and la belle Blanche! Shall I stop her, and ask her what she does mean?" And Mr. Cottrell looked so utterly unconscious, that any one who did not know him might have deemed him actually about to put this awkward interrogatory. But the two ladies to whom he was speaking knew him better than that, and only laughed.

Whether Lady Mary intended to pass Mrs. Wriothesley with merely a bow it would be difficult to say, but certain it is that Mr. Cottrell supposed that to be her intention. Prompted by his insatiable passion for teasing his fellow-creatures, he took advantage of his situation, and, turning from Mrs. Wriothesley and Sylla, placed himself in Lady Mary's way, and stopped her to shake hands. It was only natural that Sylla should jump up to say "How do you do?" to Blanche; and then suddenly occurred to Mrs. Wriothesley the audacious idea of capturing her enemy and bearing her off in triumph to luncheon. She rose, greeted Lady Mary and Blanche warmly, and then strongly urged that they should come home with her to Hans Place when the Park should begin to thin.

"You know, I am close to Prince's, and the Canadians are going to play a match at La Crosse, which is well worth looking on at; such a pretty game. We can go across and have our afternoon tea at the little tables overlooking the cricket-ground. Everybody will be there."

"Mrs. Wriothesley is quite right," interposed Cottrell gravely. "Not to have seen La Crosse played is as grave an omission this season as not to have done the Opera, the Royal Academy, or other of the stereotyped exhibitions. If you can't rave about the 'dexterity of the dear Indians,' you are really not doing your duty to society. They are the last new craze; and admitting that you have not seen them being out of the question, as a lover of veracity I counsel you to do so at once."

We lunch and dine at a good many places that we would rather not; entertain, and are entertained by, a good many people for whom we feel a by no means dormant aversion. It is only the Pansey Cottrells of this world who successfully evade all such obligations, and persistently decline to do aught that does not pleasure them.

Lady Mary was too much a woman of the world to be entrapped by a tour de force such as this. She hesitated; thought it was impossible. It was very kind of Mrs. Wriothesley; but they had so many visits to pay, so much to do, &c. But here, somewhat to her mother's astonishment, Blanche interposed, and suggested that their other engagements could be postponed. The young lady was great at lawn tennis, having a natural aptitude for all games of that description. She had heard a great deal about this La Crosse, and was extremely curious to see it; therefore it was not surprising that she should advocate the acceptance of Mrs. Wriothesley's invitation.

"It's a thing you will have to do some time or other, Lady Mary," observed Mr. Cottrell, "unless you are setting up as an 'eccentric.' By-the-bye, Miss Sylla, of course you will see Beauchamp at Prince's. Tell him I have heard of a park hack worth his looking at. He was wanting one the other day."

That settled the question. Lady Mary felt now it was essential that she should be at Prince's and see how Sylla progressed in her insidious designs. For that Miss Chipchase, under her aunt's guidance, was not doing her best to entangle Lionel Beauchamp in her toils, no power could have persuaded Lady Mary. Mrs. Wriothesley was one of the few people who thoroughly understood the whimsical perversity of Mr. Cottrell's character, and she shrewdly suspected, as was indeed the case, that he had no more heard of that hack than that he had that Beauchamp wanted one.

It was seldom that Ralph Wriothesley honoured his wife's luncheon-table, so the four ladies had that meal all to themselves. Mrs. Wriothesley exerted herself to be agreeable; and if Lady Mary had still doubts about her hostess's sincerity, she was not insensible to the charm of her manner; so that in spite of her mother's misgivings and Blanche's own nascent jealousy of Sylla, the afternoon glided pleasantly by, until it was time to stroll across to Prince's. They found quite a fashionable mob already there assembled, for, as Mr. Cottrell had told them, to see the Canadians play La Crosse was one of the novelties of the season. That gentleman's idle words proved true also in more senses than one, for they had not long taken chairs overlooking the cricket-field, before Lionel Beauchamp joined them, and, as he greeted Sylla, thanked her for her very pretty present.

"I am very glad you like it," replied Sylla, smiling; "but I can't take much credit for my generosity. I am afraid, strictly speaking, it only amounts to the payment of a debt. You deserved a testimony of your prowess, and I to pay a penalty for my rashness."

"What is this testimony?" inquired Blanche. "What has Sylla given you? and what have you done to deserve it?"

"A mere trifle," interposed Miss Chipchase; "I daresay he will show it you some day. He got me out of my scrape that day at Rockcliffe, you know, as indeed he has been called upon to do before, though not quite in that fashion. He saved my bracelet, you remember; it's rather a pet bangle, and I should have been very sorry to have lost it. Have you done my other commission for me?"

"Not as yet," replied Lionel. "I haven't had time; but I will see about it in a day or two."

All this fell very unpleasantly upon Blanche's cars. She was utterly unconscious of her mother's schemes and hopes. She had not as yet recognized that she was drifting into love with Lionel Beauchamp, but she did know that his confidential intimacy with Sylla Chipchase was very distasteful to her. What was this present she had made him? and what was this commission she had given him? She did not like to ask further questions just then, but she made up her mind that she would know all about these things the first time she got Lionel to herself. People who make mysteries of trifles at times exercise their friends a good deal,—the imagination so often converts molehills into mountains; and then there is always a power in the unknown.

"Have you seen this game of La Crosse before, Miss Bloxam?" inquired Lionel. "It looks incomprehensible and never-ending, to start with; but when you have seen a goal or two taken you will understand it, and admire the dexterity of the players."

"Mrs. Wriothesley explained it to me at luncheon. As I told you at Todborough, I am good at games, and can follow it very fairly. But, Sylla, you have a message for Mr. Beauchamp, which you have forgotten to give him."

Sylla had not forgotten Mr. Cottrell's message at all, but she thought it more than doubtful whether that message was intended to be delivered. She had her own opinion as to the motive of that message, but, thus challenged, immediately replied, "Oh, yes, something about a hack from Mr. Cottrell; he told me to tell you he had heard of one to suit you."

"There he is wrong," rejoined Beauchamp: "a thing can't suit you when you don't want it; and that's my case with regard to a hack."

"Curious that he should be so misinformed," said Lady Mary. "He certainly said you had asked him if he knew of one."

"Mixed up with somebody else," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley. "Mr. Cottrell is a very idle man with a very numerous acquaintance. Somebody wanted a hack, and he has forgotten who."

If Lady Mary's suspicions had been lulled to sleep during luncheon, they had been now most thoroughly reawakened. She, like her daughter, had overheard the conversation between Sylla and Lionel upon the latter's first arrival. She had always had misgivings that the relations between the two would change into something much warmer, to the downfall of her own hopes. She was annoyed with herself for having accepted the hand of amity extended by her ancient antagonist. She felt sure that the battle that she pictured to herself on that night at the Grange, when she had first heard of the relationship between Sylla and Mrs. Wriothesley, was already begun. She had a horrible conviction that she was once more destined to undergo the bitterness of offering her congratulations to her successful opponent. What cruel fatality had ordained that whenever she had a daughter to settle, Mrs. Wriothesley should invariably appear upon the scene with a niece? And in the anguish of her spirit she gave way to very harsh thoughts concerning poor Sylla's conduct. If she could but have divested herself of all prejudice, and looked on matters with dispassionate eyes, she would have seen, as Pansey Cottrell had told her at Todborough, that things were travelling much in the way she wished them. At this very moment, when she is inwardly raging against Mrs. Wriothesley, Lionel Beauchamp is undoubtedly paying at least as much, if not more, attention to Blanche than he is to Miss Chipchase; but the spectacles of prejudice are never neutral-tinted.

However, it is time to leave; and Lady Mary, rising, signals her daughter, and makes her adieu.

"I really have no patience with that girl," said Lady Mary, when she found herself outside. "I think her making a present to a young man like Mr. Beauchamp is going a great deal more than half-way."

"Oh, I don't know, mamma," replied Blanche; "she has known him all her life; and you know he did save her bracelet."

"Very indelicate of her ever to have made such a wager," retorted Lady Mary, quite trumpeting in her wrath.

"I have known you bet yourself, mamma," rejoined Blanche; "and I think she was perhaps carried away by the excitement of the occasion. I wonder what it is that she has given him?"

It was curious, that although Miss Bloxam was as uncomfortable concerning that gift as her mother, she still took Sylla's part regarding it. She was a proud girl, and it was probable that she shrank from owning even to her mother that it could possibly matter to her what presents any lady might choose to bestow on Mr. Beauchamp.



CHAPTER IX.

SATURDAY AT HURLINGHAM.

Hurlingham in the merry month of June, just when the east winds have ceased to trouble; when the roses and strawberries are at their best; when the lamb is verging towards muttony, and the whitebait are growing up; when the leaves are yet young, and Epsom and Ascot either pleasant or grim memories of the past. Can anything be more delightful than Hurlingham on a fine Saturday afternoon? that one week-day when the daughters of Venus throng the pleasant grounds, and the birds sacred to the goddess are held sacred for fear that the shooters should scatter the coaches—it would be too grievous that the destruction of pigeons, through frightening the horses, should result in the upsetting of a drag bearing a bevy of London's fairest daughters. What matches have been made here both for life and for centuries—as, in the "shibboleth" of our day, a hundred pounds is sometimes termed! Much damage at times has no doubt accrued both to the hearts of humanity and the legs of the polo ponies. The coaches gather thick about their allotted end of the grassy paddock; drag after drag drops quietly into its position; the teams are unharnessed and led slowly away; and their passengers either elect to view the forthcoming match from their seats of vantage, or, alighting, stroll up and mix with the fashionable crowd that throngs the far side of the lawn-like paddock. All London has flocked to Hurlingham to-day to enjoy the bright afternoon, indulge in tea, gossip, or claret-cup, and look lazily on at the polo match between the —th Hussars and Monmouthshire. Both teams are reported very strong, and opinion is pretty equally divided as to which way the match will go.

Mrs. Wriothesley is, of course, there. That lady is a pretty constant habituee, and with Sylla to chaperon is not likely to miss it on this occasion. She has joined forces already with Lady Mary: as she said, they have all a common interest in the event of the day, for was not Captain Bloxam the life and soul of the Hussar side, and were they not all there ready to sympathize or applaud? Applause at Hurlingham, by the way, being in as little accord with the traditions of the place as it is in the stalls of a fashionable theatre. The match has not yet begun. Two or three wiry ponies, with carefully-bandaged forelegs, are being led up and down on the opposite side of the paddock. The centre is still unoccupied, save for a few late-comers walking quietly across, none of the competitors having so far put in an appearance.

"Just the sort of thing to interest you, this, Miss Sylla," exclaimed Pansey Cottrell, after lifting his hat in a comprehensive manner to the whole party. "I know you are passionately fond of horses and have a taste for riding."

"Now, what does he mean by that?" thought Sylla. There was nothing much in the remark, but she was getting a little afraid of this mischievous elderly gentleman. She was beginning to look for a hidden meaning in his speeches. Could this be a covert allusion to her mishap at Todborough? Had the story of her fall come to his ears, and was he about to indulge his love of teasing people at her expense? "I don't know," she replied, guardedly, "that I am so very passionately fond of horses; but I have no doubt I shall enjoy this very much. Knowing one of the players will of course make it interesting."

"Quite so," replied Cottrell. "It is a pity Mr. Beauchamp is not playing. If he were, I should consult you as to which side to back. You judge his capabilities in all ways so accurately."

Neither Lady Mary nor Mrs. Wriothesley could help noticing this speech. It was just one of those wicked little remarks to which Pansey Cottrell treated his friends when they were wanting in deference to his comments on things generally.

"Sylla has known him all her life," interposed Mrs. Wriothesley; "but because she happened to know that Lionel could run, it does not follow that she knows whether he can play polo. However, as he is not playing, it is a matter of very little account whether he can or no."

"Quite right. Nothing is much in this world, except the weather and the cooks. The sun shines to-day; and whatever the rest of us are called upon to endure, Mrs. Wriothesley, I know, can always rely upon her soup and entrees. I always look upon it as rather good of you to dine out."

It was probable that such judicious remarks had done Mr. Cottrell good service in the early part of his career; but now he was the fashion, and realised his position most thoroughly.

"Very pretty of you to recognize the fact that my poor little kitchenmaid is not a barbarian," rejoined Mrs. Wriothesley.

She also had her foible, and always spoke in disparaging tones of her establishment. She would ask her friends to take a cutlet with her, or to come and eat cold chicken with her after the play, but took good care that the menu should be of very different calibre. She, like Pansey Cottrell, was the fashion, and he knew it. Besides, not only was the lady a favourite of his, but he never would have permitted himself to commit the folly of quarrelling with any one who so thoroughly understood the mysteries of gastronomy.

But now, clad in white flannels, butcher-boots, and scarlet caps, a couple of players make their appearance, and walk their sturdy little steeds up the ground; another and another quickly follow, and soon the contending sides group themselves together at opposite ends of the enclosure. The Monmouthshire quintet in their all white and scarlet caps are faced by the Hussars in their blue and scarlet hoops. The umpire walks to the centre, glances round to the captains of either side to see that they are all in readiness, and then drops the ball. Quick as thought the contending teams are in motion, the "players up" of each party scudding as fast as their wiry little ponies can carry them for the first stroke. It is a close thing; but the white and scarlet obtains the first chance, and by some fatality misses the ball. Another second, and Jim Bloxam has sent it flying towards the Monmouthshire goal, and is pelting along in hot pursuit, only to see the ball come whizzing back past him from a steady drive by one of the adversary's back-players. Backwards and forwards flies the ball, and the clever little ponies, at the guidance of their riders, bustle now this way, now that, in chase of it. Over and over again it is driven close to the fatal posts at either end—the being driven between which scores the first goal of the game—only to be sent again in the reverse direction by the back-player. Then comes a regular scrimmage in the centre of the ground, and the ball is dribbled amongst the ponies' legs, first a little this way, and then that, but never more than a few yards in any direction. Suddenly it flies far away from the melee, and Jim Bloxam races after it, hotly pursued by one of the white and scarlet men. Jim fails to hit the ball fair, and it spins off at a tangent. His antagonist swerves, quick as thought, to the ball, and by a clever back-stroke sends it once more into the centre of the field; another short melee, and then the Monmouthshire men carry the ball rapidly down on the Hussar goal. The back-player of the Hussars rides forward to meet it; but a dexterous touch from the leader of the white and scarlet men sends it a little to the right, and before any of the Hussars can intervene, a good stroke from one of the Monmouthshire men galloping on that side sends it between the posts, and the first goal is credited to the white and scarlet.