and there Mrs. Bunch would be sure to be at him. | ing, in much silence, dipping his old nose in the Indeed, since the Baynes were launched in the brandy-and-water. great world, Mrs. Bunch was untiringly sarcas- Little square-faced, red-faced, whisker-dyed tic in her remarks about lords, ladies, attachés, Colonel Bunch sate opposite his old companion, embassadors, and fine people in general. regarding him not without scorn. Bunch had Baynes sate with his friend, in the falling even- a wife. Bunch had feelings. Do you suppose So those feelings had not been worked upon by that wife in private colloquies? Do you suppose -when two old women have lived together in pretty much the same rank of life—if one suddenly gets promotion, is carried off to higher spheres, and talks of her new friends, the countesses, duchesses, embassadresses, as of course she will-do you suppose, I say, that the unsuccessfal woman will be pleased at the successful woman's success? Your knowledge of your own heart, my dear lady, must tell you the truth in this matter. I don't want you to acknowledge that you are angry because your sister has been staying with the Duchess of Fitzbattleaxe, but you are, you know. You have made sneering remarks to your husband on the subject, and such remarks, I have no doubt, were made by Mrs. Colonel Bunch to her husband, regarding her poor friend Mrs. General Baynes. During this parenthesis we have left the general dipping his nose in the brandy-and-water. He can't keep it there forever. He must come up for air presently. His face must come out of the drink, and sigh over the table. "What's this business, Baynes ?" says the colonel. "What's the matter with poor Charley ?" | "Look here, Bunch," the general broke out, "I must speak, since you won't leave me alone. I am unhappy. You can see that well enough. For two or three nights past I have had no rest. This engagement of my child and Mr. Firmin can't come to any good. You see what he is, an overbearing, ill-conditioned, quarrelsome fellow. What chance has Charley of being happy with such a fellow?" "I hold my tongue, Baynes. You told me not to put my oar in," growls the colonel. "Oh, if that's the way you take it, Bunch, of course there's no need for me to go on any more," cries General Baynes. "If an old friend won't give an old friend advice, by George, or help him in a start, or say a kind word when he is unhappy, I have done. I have known you for forty years, and I am mistaken in you, that's all." "There's no contenting you. You say, Hold your tongue, and I shut my mouth. I hold my tongue, and you say, Why don't you speak? Why don't I? Because you won't like what I say, Charles Baynes; and so, what's the good of more talking?" "Confound it," cries Baynes, with a thump of his glass on the table, "but what do you say? "I say, then, as you will have it," cries the other, clenching his fists in his pockets, “I say "I do hope and trust nothing has gone wrong you are wanting a pretext for breaking off this with her and young Firmin, Baynes?" Family affairs, differences will happen," says the general. The general does not like those fixed eyes staring at him under those bushy eyebrows, between those bushy blackened whiskers. match, Baynes. I don't say it is a good one, mind; but your word is passed, and your honor engaged to a young fellow to whom you are under deep obligation." "What obligation? Who has talked to you about my private affairs?" cries the general, reddening. "Has Philip Firmin been brag "Well then, yes, Bunch, something has gone wrong; and given me and—and Mrs. Baynesa deuced deal of pain too. The young fellow has acted like a blackguard, brawling and fight-ging about his...... ?" ing in an embassador's ball, bringing us all to ridicule. He's not a gentleman; that's the long and short of it, Bunch, and so let's change the subject." "Why, consider the provocation he had!" cries the other, disregarding entirely his friend's prayer. "I heard them talking about the business at Galignani's this very day. A fellow swears at Firmin; runs at him; brags that he has pitched him over; and is knocked down for his pains. By George! I think Firmin was quite right. Were any man to do as much to me or you, what should we do, even at our age?" "We are military men. I said I didn't wish to talk about the subject, Bunch," says the general, in rather a lofty manner. "You have yourself, Baynes. When you arrived here, you told me over and over again what the young fellow had done: and you certainly thought he acted like a gentleman then. If you choose to break your word to him now...' "Break my word! Great Powers, do you know what you are saying, Bunch?” "Yes, and what you are doing, Baynes." Doing, and what?" 66 You "A d- -d shabby action; that's what you are doing, if you want to know. Don't tell me. Why, do you suppose Fanny-do you suppose every body doesn't see what you are at? think you can get a better match for the girl, and you and Eliza are going to throw the young fellow over; and the fellow who held his hand, "You mean that Tom Bunch has no need to and might have ruined you if you liked. I say put his oar in ?" "Precisely so," says the other, curtly. "Mum's the word! Let us talk about the dukes and duchesses of the ball. That's more in your line, now," says the colonel, with rather a sneer. "What do you mean by duchesses and dukes? What do you know about them, or what the deuce do I care ?" asks the general. it is a cowardly action!" "Colonel Bunch, do you dare to use such a word to me?" calls out the general, starting to his feet. "Dare be hanged! I say it's a shabby action!" roars the other, rising too. "Hush! unless you wish to disturb the ladies! Of course you know what your expression means, Colonel Bunch?" and the general "Oh, they are tabooed too! Hang it, there's drops his voice and sinks back to his chair. no satisfying yon," growls the colonel. "I know what my words mean, and I stick to 'em, Baynes," growls the other, "which is more than you can say of yours." "I am deed if any man alive shall use this language to me," says the general in the softest whisper, "without accounting to me first." “Did you ever find me backward, Baynes, at that kind of thing?" growls the colonel with a face like a lobster and eyes starting from his head. "Very good, Sir. To-morrow, at your earliest convenience. I shall be at Galignani's from eleven till one." "With a friend if possible. What is it, my love? A game at whist? Well, no thank you, I think I won't play cards to-night." It was Mrs. Baynes who entered the room when the two gentlemen were quarreling; and the blood-thirsty hypocrites instantly smoothed their ruffled brows and smiled on her with perfect courtesy. "Whist, no! I was thinking should we send out to meet him. He has never been in Paris." "Never been in Paris!" said the general, puzzled. "They will be here to-night, you know. Madame has a room ready for them." "The very thing, the very thing!" cries General Baynes, with great glee. And Mrs. Baynes, all unsuspicious of the quarrel between the old friends, proceeds to inform Colonel Bunch that her sister MacWhirter and the major were expected that evening. And then that tough old Colonel Bunch knew the cause of Baynes's delight. A second was provided for the general -the very thing Baynes wanted. We have seen how Mrs. Baynes, after taking counsel with her general, had privily sent for MacWhirter. Her plan was that Charlotte's uncle should take her for a while to Tours, and make her hear reason. Then Charley's foolish passion for Philip would pass away. Then, if he dared to follow her so far, her aunt and uncle, two dragons of virtue and circumspection, would watch and guard her. Then, if Mrs. Hely was still of the same mind, she and her son might easily take the post to Tours, where, Philip being absent, young Walsingham might plead his passion. The best part of the plan, perhaps, was the separation of our young couple. Charlotte would recover. Mrs. Baynes was sure of that. The little girl had made no outbreak until that sudden insurrection at dinner which we have witnessed; and her mother, who had domineered over the child all her life, thought she was still in her power. She did not know that she had passed the bounds of authority, and that with her behavior to Philip her child's allegiance had revolted. Bunch then, from Baynes's look and expression, perfectly understood what his adversary meant, and that the general's second was found. His own he had in his eye, a tough little old army surgeon of Peninsular and Indian times, who lived hard by, who would aid as second and doctor too, if need were-and so kill two birds with one stone, as they say. The colonel would go forth that very instant and seek for Dr. Martin, and be hanged to Baynes, and a plague on the whole transaction and the folly of two old friends burning powder in such a quarrel. But he knew what a blood-thirsty little fellow that hen-pecked, silent Baynes was when roused; and as for himself-a fellow use that kind of language to me? By George, Tom Bunch was not going to balk him! Whose was that tall figure prowling about Madame's house in the Champs Elysées when Colonel Bunch issued forth in quest of his friend? Who had been watched by the police and mistaken for a suspicious character? Who had been looking up at Madame's windows now that the evening shades had fallen? O you goose of a Philip! (for of course, my dears, you guess the spy was P. F., Esq.) you look up at the premier, and there is the Beloved in Madame's room on the ground-floor; in yonder room, where a lamp is burning and casting a faint light across the bars of the jalousie. If Philip knew she was there he would be transformed into a clematis, and climb up the bars of the window, and twine round them all night. But you see he thinks she is on the first floor; and the glances of his passionate eyes are taking aim at the wrong windows. And now Colonel Bunch comes forth in his stout strutting way, in his little military cape-quick march—and Philip is startled like a guilty thing surprised, and dodges behind a tree in the avenue. The colonel departed on his murderous errand. Philip still continues to ogle the window of his heart (the wrong window) defiant of the policeman, who tells him to circuler. He has not watched here many minutes more ere a hackney-coach drives up with portmanteaux on the roof and a lady and gentleman within. You see Mrs. MacWhirter thought she as well as her husband might have a peep at Paris. As Mac's coach-hire was paid, Mrs. Mac could afford a little outlay of money. And if they were to bring Charlotte back-Charlotte in grief and agitation, poor child-a matron, an aunt, would be a much fitter companion for her than a major, however gentle. So the pair of MacWhirters journeyed from Tours-a long journey it was before railways were invented-and after four-and-twenty hours of squeeze in the diligence, presented themselves at nightfall at Madame Smolensk's. The Baynes's boys dashed into the garden at the sound of wheels. "Mamma, mamma! it's Uncle Mac!" these innocents cried, as they ran to the railings. "Uncle Mac! what could bring him? Oh, they are going to send me to him! they are going to send me to him!" thought Charlotte, starting on her bed. And on this, I dare say, a certain locket was kissed more vehemently than ever. "I say, ma!" cries the ingenuous Moira, jumping back to the house; it's Uncle Mac and Aunt Mac, too!" "What?" cries mamma, with any thing but pleasure in her voice; and then turning to the dining-room, where her husband still sate, she | this last remark had no effect, he bethought him called out, "General! here's MacWhirter and of recurring to their mutual friend, "How's Tom Emily!" Bunch?" the major asked, charily. Mrs. Baynes gave her sister a very grim kiss. "Dearest Eliza, I thought it was such a good opportunity of coming, and that I might be so useful, you know!" pleads Emily. "Thank you. How do you do, MacWhirter?" says the grim générale. "Glad to see you, Baynes, my boy! How d'ye do, Emily? Boys, bring your uncle's traps. Didn't know Emily was coming, Mac; hope there's room for her!" sighs the general, coming forth from his parlor. The major was struck by the sad looks and pallor of his brother-in-law. "By George! Baynes, you look as yellow as a guinea. How's Tom Bunch ?" "Come into this room along with me. Have some brandy-and-water, Mac?-Joseph! O de vie, O sho!" calls the general; and Joseph, who out of the new-comer's six packages has daintily taken one very small Macintosh cushion, says, "Comment? encore du grog, général?” and, shrugging his shoulders, disappears to procure the refreshment at his leisure. The sisters disappear to their embraces; the brothers-in-law retreat to the salle-à-manger, where General Baynes has been sitting, gloomy and lonely, for half an hour past, thinking of his quarrel with his old comrade, Bunch. He and Bunch have been chums for more than forty years. They have been in action together, and honorably mentioned in the same report. They have had a great regard for each other; and each knows the other is an obstinate old mule, and in a dispute will die rather than give way. They have had a dispute out of which there is only one issue. Words have passed which no man, however old, by George! can brook from any friend, however intimate, by Jove! No wonder Baynes is grave. His family is large; his means are small. To-morrow he may be under fire of an old friend's pistol. In such an extremity he knows how each will behave. No wonder, I say, the general is solemn. "What's in the wind now, Baynes ?" asks the major, after a little drink and a long silence. "How is poor little Char?" Infernally ill-I mean behaved infernally ill," says the general, biting his lips. "Bad business! Bad business! Poor little child!" cries the major. "Insubordinate little devil!" says the pale general, grinding his teeth. "We'll see which shall be master!" "What, you have had words?" "At this table, this very day. She sat here and defied her mother and me, by George, and dang out of the room like a tragedy queen. She must be tamed, Mac, or my name's not Baynes." Baynes knew his relative of old, and that this quiet submissive man, when angry, worked up to a white heat as it were. "Sad affair, hope you'll both come round, Baynes," sighs the major, trying bootless commonplaces; and seeing At this question Baynes grinned in such a ghastly way that MacWhirter eyed him with wonder. "Colonel Bunch is very well," the general said, in dismal voice; "at least, he was half an hour ago. He was sitting there;" and he pointed to an empty spoon lying in an empty beaker, whence the spirit and water had departed. "What has been the matter, Baynes?" asked the major. "Has any thing happened between you and Tom?" "I mean that, half an hour ago, Colonel Bunch used words to me which I'll bear from no man alive; and you have arrived just in the nick of time, MacWhirter, to take my message to him. Hush! here's the drink." "Voici, Messieurs!" Joseph at length has brought up a second supply of brandy-and-water. The veterans mingled their jorums; and while his brother-in-law spoke, the alarmed MacWhirter sipped occasionally, intentus que ora tenebat. COURTSHIP BY CHARACTER. HE people of Godalming have made their THIE people of Godalming by ved elegance. Their homesteads are the lodges of this beautiful garden, which they occupy during the summer. They are the children of cities-those tropics of the soul in which alone human character is developed in its full luxuriance and power. It was in the month of June, the May of New England. Soft sounds of the harp and piano, sustaining the clear voices of young girls, made the air of evening tender, and poured a delicious languor over the gardens of Godalming. Every homestead was alive with children, running to and fro, as if intoxicated with the novelty of liberty and air. Through orchards, all up the slopes of green-crowned and laughing Mount Silenus, the snowy dresses of maidens gleamed among the blossoms. The sunshine had been golden for an hour, and a broad shadow from the mountain was moving across the village, and began to darken the meadows. Pyramids of dun clouds rose up in the west, and a "ragged rim" of storm rushed eastward and bent downward. The flower-gatherers hasten homeward to the house of the Cecils, which stood upon a rising, surrounded at a respectful distance by smaller but not less beautiful cottages. A bower of clematis concealed the portico of this house, under which a crowd of guests were gathered. expecting the young mistress of the mansion. A carriage, drawn swiftly and smoothly along the white roadway by a span of shining bays, made a circuit of the lawn and stopped before the entrance, welcomed by joyous cries and eager welcome, interrupted by the first heavy burst of thunder; and as Clara Cecil stepped from the carriage, assisted by her gray-haired and stately father, great drops began to fall, and in a moment the roar of the rain-storm sounded on the mountain and swept over the valley. Now for the first time mistress of her father's with delicate but pinched and nun-like features, house, a child in innocence, and not yet beyond showed the remains of a beauty which, at eighther seventeenth year, Clara was an object of een, was incomparable, had it not been falsely general admiration or envy. Although many intellectual; but which now faded into fretful of the women who surrounded her were more insignificance beside a face merely simple, and beautiful, there was a grace and composure, without a pretension even to regular beauty. tempered by a sweetness not too demonstrative, | The calm, lustrous eyes, the tone and rich comwhich gave her an undisputed first place in ev-posure of her speech, and noble manners, made ery circle where she chanced to move. Her her at once an acknowledged princess of the grave and easy manners-almost, but not quite social circle. severe-repelled the well-dressed vulgar, and Among the gentlemen who came forward to drew toward her all that was excellent. With- welcome Clara was young Harry Eustis, an out regular beauty of face, her form more than adopted ward and removed connection of Mr. compensated for the defect, if such it could be Cecil's, who had lately returned from an adcalled, in a countenance illumined by a lambent venturous expedition, undertaken with the enfire of intellect and feeling; where the pure thusiasm of a boy, in the course of which he had blood rose often at the bidding of noble impulse made the circuit of the globe, had seen all lands, and generous sympathy. Her hair, gathered in and returned a man. A full and powerful frame, large and simple braids, like a coronet, from the and a countenance ruddy with youth and ardor broad ivory forehead, shone with points of golden-expressing frankness, courage, and modesty— fire; and her wide, classic shoulders and swell-made Harry a sudden favorite of women; nor ing bosom disclosed the highest favor and vigor of early womanhood. The wealth of Mr. Cecil gave his daughter the power of indulging a liberal hospitality, in which all the higher pleasures and graces of art and brilliant sociality were blended with and adorned the fullness of sensuous gratification. The city residence of the Cecils had been always a rendezvous of talent and refinement; but the daughter, devoted to superior cultivation, was not allowed until now to mingle unrestrained in sociality and fashion. Clara was received in her new home with an excessive, and perhaps a real, enthusiasm by friends and neighbors assembled at this fête, given by the ancient housekeeper on resigning her charge over Mr. Cecil's household in favor of his daughter. The presence of Mr. Cecil himself they could have spared; the young gentlemen, more especially, dreaded his gray eye and commanding style, which silently guarded every action of the daughter, and raised around her an impenetrable barrier of respect. A shower of kisses and embraces came frankly from the younger people, but Miss Clara was not as entirely acceptable to the older. She was the young and generous housekeeper, with whom competition would be impossible. "However," thought they, "the poor young thing will need advice, and it will be some comfort to watch and restrain her follies." Agitated by a far different jealousy the cousin of Clara-whom we shall call Asteria-a woman approaching her thirtieth year, and "still unmarried, though renowned," received her young relative with an ill-concealed agitation, of which it was hard to understand the cause. She embraced her warmly, and, by one of those revulsions of feeling known only to the sentimentalist, wept upon her shoulder. Asteria-tall, graceful, elegant in manners, and celebrated for skill in letters and conversation, displayed a nervous vehemence and excitability in strong contrast with the dignity and composure of her young cousin. Her slender, even lean figure, was his drawing-room reputation of that Puritanical style which quite repels the naughty admiration of the frailer sex. His curling chestnut locks, too, were dressed with a certain care. A thrill of pain shot through the bosom of Clara Cecil as the generous Harry came forward and gave her his simple welcome, for at that mement she saw a paleness come over the countenance of Asteria. "Asteria," thought she, "must be in love with Harry; but I do not believe that Harry is in love with Asteria. She is so wise and learned he would be afraid, as I am." The first entertainment of the evening was the singing of Asteria, who accompanied herself on the harp. Her voice-feeble and low, but delicately cultivated-was received by those who gathered around her as only music in New England is listened to, with silent and appreciative attention. Then Asteria, gratified with the subdued murmur of applause, and who had never heard her cousin Clara sing, went to her with an air of kindness and favor, and led her to the piano. The observant Mr. Cecil came behind his daughter, causing a half dozen of supple beaux to fall back, and turning the leaves of an old music-book selected a simple English air. Clara, forgetting every other presence but her father's, sang freely and without restraint. Her voice had a rich simplicity that disguised its great power and cultivation, and, ringing full and broad on the contralto passages, poured a flood of soul-thrilling sound through the house and far out into the night air. The singer was forgotten; only the wonderful beauty of the music, which had the grand novelty of being old, threw the listeners into a trance of delight. From the houses and gardens all around kitchen-folk and children came creeping up to hear and see; and when she ceased a crowd of eager faces, unseen till then, disappeared suddenly from the doors and windows. It was a triumph-a conquest: from that moment Clara Cecil became an object of adoration to the men, and of fear and admiration to the women. |