inquiringly. ‘What is that?’
‘A tub that sails like a collier, and which, instead of taking him to Jerusalem, will hardly take him to Newcastle.’
Lord Eskdale was right. Notwithstanding all his ardour, all his inquiries, visits to Cowes and the Surrey Canal, advertisements and answers to advertisements, time flew on, and Tancred was still without a yacht.
In this unsettled state, Tancred found himself one evening at Deloraine House. It was not a ball, it was only a dance, brilliant and select; but, all the same, it seemed to Tancred that the rooms could not be much more crowded. The name of the Marquess of Montacute, as it was sent along by the servants, attracted attention. Tancred had scarcely entered the world, his appearance had made a sensation, everybody talked of him, many had not yet seen him.
‘Oh! that is Lord Montacute,’ said a great lady, looking through her glass; ‘very distinguished!’
‘I tell you what,’ whispered Mr. Ormsby to Lord Valentine, ‘you young men had better look sharp; Lord Montacute will cut you all out!’
‘Oh! he is going to Jerusalem,’ said Lord Valentine.
‘Jerusalem!’ said Mr. Ormsby, shrugging his shoulders. ‘What can he find to do at Jerusalem?’
‘What, indeed,’ said Lord Milford. ‘My brother was there in ’39; he got leave after the bombardment of Acre, and he says there is absolutely no sport of any kind.’
‘There used to be partridges in the time of Jeremiah,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘at least they told us so at the Chapel Royal last Sunday, where, by-the-bye, I saw Lord Montacute for the first time; and a deuced good-looking fellow he is,’ he added, musingly.
‘Well, there is not a bird in the whole country now,’ said Lord Milford.
‘Montacute does not care for sport,’ said Lord Valentine.
‘What does he care for?’ asked Lord Milford. ‘Because, if he wants any horses, I can let him have some.’
‘He wants to buy a yacht,’ said Lord Valentine; ‘and that reminds me that I heard to-day Exmouth wanted to get rid of “The Flower of Yarrow,” and I think it would suit my cousin. I’ll tell him of it.’ And he followed Tancred.
‘You and Valentine must rub up your harness, Milford,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘there is a new champion in the field. We are talking of Lord Montacute,’ continued Mr. Ormsby, addressing himself to Mr. Melton, who joined them; ‘I tell Milford he will cut you all out.’
‘Well,’ said Mr. Melton, ‘for my part I have had so much success, that I have no objection, by way of change, to be for once eclipsed.’
‘Well done, Jemmy,’ said Lord Milford.
‘I see, Melton,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘you are reconciled to your fate like a philosopher.’
‘Well, Montacute,’ said Lord St. Patrick, a good-tempered, witty Milesian, with a laughing eye, ‘when are you going to Jericho?’
‘Tell me,’ said Tancred, in reply, and rather earnestly, ‘who is that?’ And he directed the attention of Lord St. Patrick to a young lady, rather tall, a brilliant complexion, classic features, a profusion of light brown hair, a face of intelligence, and a figure rich and yet graceful.
‘That is Lady Constance Rawleigh; if you like, I will introduce you to her. She is my cousin, and deuced clever. Come along!’
In the meantime, in the room leading to the sculpture gallery where they are dancing, the throng is even excessive. As the two great divisions, those who would enter the gallery and those who are quitting it, encounter each other, they exchange flying phrases as they pass.
‘They told me you had gone to Paris! I have just returned. Dear me, how time flies! Pretty dance, is it not? Very. Do you know whether the Madlethorpes mean to come up this year? I hardly know; their little girl is very ill. Ah! so I hear; what a pity, and such a fortune! Such a pity with such a fortune! How d’ye do? Mr. Coningsby here? No; he’s at the House. They say he is a very close attendant. It interests him. Well, Lady Florentina, you never sent me the dances. Pardon, but you will find them when you return. I lent them to Augusta, and she would copy them. Is it true that I am to congratulate you? Why? Lady Blanche? Oh! that is a romance of Easter week. Well, I am really delighted; I think such an excellent match for both; exactly suited to each other. They think so. Well, that is one point. How well Lady Everingham is looking! She is quite herself again. Quite. Tell me, have you seen M. de Talleyrand here? I spoke to him but this moment. Shall you be at Lady Blair’s to-morrow? No; I have promised to go to Mrs. Guy Flouncey’s. She has taken Craven Cottage, and is to be at home every Saturday. Well, if you are going, I think I shall. I would; everybody will be there.’
Lord Montacute had conversed some time with Lady Constance; then he had danced with her; he had hovered about her during the evening. It was observed, particularly by some of the most experienced mothers. Lady Constance was a distinguished beauty of two seasons; fresh, but adroit. It was understood that she had refused offers of a high calibre; but the rejected still sighed about her, and it was therefore supposed that, though decided, she had the art of not rendering them desperate. One at least of them was of a rank equal to that of Tancred. She had the reputation of being very clever, and of being able, if it pleased her, to breathe scorpions as well as brilliants and roses. It had got about that she admired intellect, and, though she claimed the highest social position, that a booby would not content her, even if his ears were covered with strawberry leaves.
In the cloak-room, Tancred was still at her side, and was presented to her mother, Lady Charmouth.
‘I am sorry to separate,’ said Tancred.
‘And so am I,’ said Lady Constance, smiling; ‘but one advantage of this life is, we meet our friends every day.’
‘I am not going anywhere to-morrow, where I shall meet you,’ said Tancred, ‘unless you chance to dine at the Archbishop of York’s.’
‘I am not going to dine with the Archbishop of York,’ said Lady Constance, ‘but I am going, where everybody else is going, to breakfast with Mrs. Guy Flouncey, at Craven Cottage. Why, will not you be there?’
‘I have not the honour of knowing her,’ said Tancred.
‘That is not of the slightest consequence; she will be very happy to have the honour of knowing you. I saw her in the dancing-room, but it is not worth while waiting to speak to her now. You shall receive an invitation the moment you are awake.’
‘But to-morrow I have an engagement. I have to look at a yacht.’
‘But that you can look at on Monday; besides, if you wish to know anything about yachts, you had better speak to my brother, Fitz-Heron, who has built more than any man alive.’
‘Perhaps he has one that he wishes to part with?’ said Tancred.
‘I have no doubt of it. You can ask him tomorrow at Mrs. Guy Flouncey’s.’
‘I will. Lady Charmouth’s carriage is called. May I have the honour?’ said Tancred, offering his arm.
CHAPTER XIII.
A Feminine Diplomatist
THERE is nothing so remarkable as feminine influence. Although the character of Tancred was not completely formed—for that result depends, in some degree, upon the effect of circumstances at a certain time of life, as well as on the impulse of a natural bent—still the temper of his being was profound and steadfast. He had arrived, in solitude and by the working of his own thought, at a certain resolution, which had assumed to his strong and fervent imagination a sacred character,