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.