CHAPTER IX
Mr. Aubrey and Kate, some day or two after the strange occurrence narrated in the last chapter, were sitting together playing at chess, about eight o'clock in the evening; Dr. Tatham and Mrs. Aubrey, junior, looking on with much interest; old Mrs. Aubrey being engaged in writing. Mr. Aubrey was sadly an overmatch for poor Kate—he being in fact a first-rate player; and her soft white hand had been hovering over the three or four chessmen she had left, uncertain which of them to move, for nearly two minutes, her chin resting on the other hand, and her face wearing a very puzzled expression. "Come, Kate," said every now and then her brother, with that calm victorious smile which at such a moment would have tried any but so sweet a temper as his sister's. "If I were you, Miss Aubrey," was perpetually exclaiming Dr. Tatham, knowing as much about the game the while as the little Blenheim spaniel lying asleep at Miss Aubrey's feet. "Oh dear!" said Kate, at length, with a sigh, "I really don't see how to escape"–
"Who can that be?" exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey, looking up and listening to the sound of carriage wheels.
"Never mind," said her husband, who was interested in the game—"come, come, Kate." A few minutes afterwards a servant made his appearance, and coming up to Mr. Aubrey, told him that Mr. Parkinson and another gentleman had called, and were waiting in the library to speak to him on business.
"What can they want at this hour?" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, absently, intently watching an anticipated move of his sister's, which would have decided the game in his favor. At length she made her long-meditated descent—but in quite an unexpected quarter.
"Checkmate!" she exclaimed with infinite glee.
"Ah!" cried he, rising with a slightly surprised and chagrined air, "I'm ruined! Now, try your hand on Dr. Tatham, while I go and speak to these people. I wonder what can possibly have brought them here. Oh, I see—I see; 'tis probably about Miss Evelyn's marriage-settlement—I'm to be one of her trustees." With this he left the room, and presently entered the library, where were two gentlemen, one of whom, a stranger, was in the act of pulling off his great-coat. It was Mr. Runnington; a tall, thin, elderly man, with short gray hair—of gentlemanly appearance—his countenance bespeaking the calm, acute, clear-headed man of business. The other was Mr. Parkinson; a thoroughly respectable, substantial-looking, hard-headed family solicitor and country attorney.
"Mr. Runnington, my London agent, sir," said he to Mr. Aubrey, as the latter entered. Mr. Aubrey bowed.
"Pray, gentlemen, be seated," he replied with his usual urbanity of manner, taking a chair beside them.
"Why, Mr. Parkinson, you look very serious—both of you. What is the matter?" he inquired surprisedly.
"Mr. Runnington, sir, has arrived, most unexpectedly to me," replied Mr. Parkinson, "only an hour or two ago, from London, on business of the last importance to you."
"To me!—well, what is it? Pray, say at once what it is—I am all attention," said Mr. Aubrey, anxiously.
"Do you happen," commenced Mr. Parkinson, very nervously, "to remember sending Waters to me on Monday or Tuesday last, with a paper which had been served by some one on old Jolter?"
"Certainly," replied Mr. Aubrey, after a moment's consideration.
"Mr. Runnington's errand is connected with that document," said Mr. Parkinson, and paused.
"Indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, apparently a little relieved. "I assure you, gentlemen, you very greatly over-estimate the importance I attach to anything that such a troublesome person as Mr. Tomkins can do, if I am right in supposing that it is he who—Well, then, what is the matter?" he inquired quickly, observing Mr. Parkinson shake his head, and interchange a grave look with Mr. Runnington; "you cannot think, Mr. Parkinson, how you will oblige me by being explicit."
"This paper," said Mr. Runnington, holding up that which Mr. Aubrey at once identified as the one on which he had cast his eye upon its being handed to him by Waters, "is a Declaration in Ejectment, with which Mr. Tomkins has nothing whatever to do. It is served virtually on you, and you are the real defendant."
"So I apprehend that I was in the former trumpery action!" replied Mr. Aubrey, smiling.
"Do you recollect, sir," said Mr. Parkinson, with a trepidation which he could not conceal, "several years ago, some serious conversation which you and I had together on the state of your title—when I was preparing your marriage-settlements?"
Mr. Aubrey started, and his face was suddenly blanched.
"The matters which we then discussed have suddenly acquired fearful importance. This paper occasions us, on your account, the profoundest anxiety." Mr. Aubrey continued silent, gazing on Mr. Parkinson with intensity.
"Supposing, from a hasty glance at it, and from the message accompanying it, that it was merely another action of Tomkins's about the slip of waste land attached to Jolter's cottage, I sent up to London to my agents, Messrs. Runnington, requesting them to call on the plaintiff's attorneys, and settle the action. He did so; and—perhaps you will explain the rest," said Mr. Parkinson, with visible trepidation, to Mr. Runnington.
"Certainly," said that gentleman, with a serious air, but much more calmly and firmly than Mr. Parkinson had spoken. "I called accordingly, early yesterday morning, on Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap—they are a very well—but not enviably—known firm in the profession; and in a few minutes my misconception of the nature of the business which I had called to arrange, was set right. In short"– he paused, as if distressed at the intelligence which he was about to communicate.
"Oh, pray, pray go on, sir!" said Mr. Aubrey, in a low tone.
"I am no stranger, sir, to your firmness of character; but I shall have to tax it, I fear, to its uttermost. To come at once to the point—they told me that I might undoubtedly settle the matter, if you would consent to give up immediate possession of the whole Yatton estate, and account for the mesne profits to their client, the right heir—as they contend—a Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse." Mr. Aubrey leaned back in his chair, overcome, for an instant, by this astounding intelligence; and all three of them preserved silence for more than a minute. Mr. Runnington was a man of a very feeling heart. In the course of his great practice he had had to encounter many distressing scenes; but probably none of them had equalled that in which, at the earnest entreaty of Mr. Parkinson, who distrusted his own self-possession, he now bore a leading part. The two attorneys interchanged frequent looks of deep sympathy for their unfortunate client, who seemed as if stunned by the intelligence they had brought him.
"I felt it my duty to lose not an instant in coming down to Yatton," resumed Mr. Runnington, observing Mr. Aubrey's eye again directed inquiringly towards him; "for Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap are very dangerous people to deal with, and must be encountered promptly, and with the greatest possible caution. The moment that I had left them, I hastened to the Temple, to retain for you Mr. Subtle, the leader of the Northern Circuit; but they had been beforehand with me, and retained him nearly three months ago, together with another eminent king's counsel on the circuit. Under these circumstances, I lost no time in giving a special retainer to the Attorney-General, in which I trust I have done right, and in retaining as junior a gentleman whom I consider to be incomparably the ablest and most experienced lawyer on the circuit."
"Did they say anything concerning the nature of their client's title?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, after some expressions of amazement and dismay.
"Very little—I might say, nothing. If they had been never so precise, of course I should have distrusted every word they said. They certainly mentioned that they had had the first conveyancing opinions in the kingdom, which concurred in favor of their client; that they had been for months prepared at all points, and accident only had delayed their commencing proceedings till now."
"Did you make any inquiries as to who the claimant was?" inquired Mr. Aubrey.
"Yes; but all I could learn was, that they had discovered him by mere accident; and that he was at present in very obscure and distressed circumstances. I tried to discover by what means they proposed to commence and carry on so expensive a contest; but they smiled significantly, and were silent." Another long pause ensued, during which Mr. Aubrey was evidently silently struggling with very agitating emotions.
"What is the meaning of their affecting to seek the recovery of only one insignificant portion of the property?" he inquired.
"It is their own choice—it may be from considerations of mere convenience. The title, however, by which they may succeed in obtaining what they at present go for, will avail to recover every acre of the estate, and the present action will consequently decide everything!"
"And suppose the worst—that they are successful," said Mr. Aubrey, after they had conversed a good deal, and very anxiously, on the subject of a presumed infirmity in Mr. Aubrey's title, which had been pointed out to him in general terms by Mr. Parkinson, on the occasion already adverted to—"what is to be said about the rental which I have been receiving all this time—ten thousand a-year?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, looking as if he dreaded to hear his question answered.
"Oh! that's quite an after consideration—let us first fight the battle," said Mr. Runnington.
"I beg, sir, that you will withhold nothing from me," said Mr. Aubrey. "To what extent shall I be liable?"
Mr. Runnington paused.
"I am afraid that all the mesne profits, as they are called, which you have received"—commenced Mr. Parkinson–
"No, no," interrupted Mr. Runnington; "I have been turning that matter over in my mind, and I think that the statute of limitations will bar all but the last six years"–
"Why, that will be sixty thousand pounds!" interrupted Mr. Aubrey, with a look of sudden despair. "Gracious Heavens, that is perfectly frightful!—frightful! If I lose Yatton, I shall not have a place to put my head in—not one farthing to support myself with! And yet to have to make up sixty thousand pounds!" The perspiration bedewed his forehead, and his eye was laden with alarm and agony. He slowly rose from his chair and bolted the door, that they might not, at such an agitating moment, be surprised or disturbed by any of the servants or the family.
"I suppose," said he, in a faint and tremulous tone, "that if this claim succeed, my mother also will share my fate"–
They shook their heads in silence.
"Permit me to suggest," said Mr. Runnington, in a tone of the most respectful sympathy, "that sufficient for the day is the evil thereof."
"But the night follows!" said Mr. Aubrey, with a visible tremor; and his voice made the hearts of his companions thrill within them. "I have a fearful misgiving as to the issue of these proceedings! I ought not to have neglected the matter pointed out to me by Mr. Parkinson on my marriage! I feel as if I had been culpably lying by ever since!—But I really did not attach to it the importance it deserved: I never, indeed, distinctly appreciated the nature of what was then mentioned to me!"
"A thousand pities that a fine was not levied, is it not?" said Mr. Runnington, turning with a sigh to Mr. Parkinson.
"Ay, indeed it is!" replied that gentleman—and they spoke together for some time, and very earnestly, concerning the nature and efficacy of such a measure, which they explained to Mr. Aubrey.
"It comes to this," said he, "that in all probability, I and my family are at this moment"—he shuddered—"trespassers at Yatton!"
"That, Mr. Aubrey," said Mr. Parkinson, earnestly, "remains to be proved! We really are getting on far too fast. A person who heard us might suppose that the jury had already returned a verdict against us—that judgment had been signed—and that the sheriff was coming in the morning to execute the writ of possession in favor of our opponent." This was well meant by the speaker; but surely it was like talking of the machinery of the ghastly guillotine to the wretch in shivering expectation of suffering by it on the morrow. An involuntary shudder ran through Mr. Aubrey. "Sixty thousand pounds!" he exclaimed, rising and walking to and fro. "Why, I am ruined beyond all redemption! How can I ever satisfy it?" Again he paced the room several times, in silent agony. Presently he resumed his seat. "I have, for these several days past, had a strange sense of impending calamity," said he, more calmly—"I have been equally unable to account for, or get rid of it. It may be an intimation from Heaven; I bow to its will!"
"We must remember," said Mr. Runnington, "that 'possession is nine-tenths of the law;' which means, that your mere possession will entitle you to retain it against all the world, till a stronger title than yours to the right of possession be made out. You stand on a mountain; and it is for your adversary to displace you, not by showing merely that you have no real title, but that he has. If he could prove all your title-deeds to be merely waste paper—that in fact you have no more title to Yatton than I have—he would not, if he were to stop there, have advanced his own case an inch; he must first establish in himself a clear and independent title; so that you are entirely on the defensive; and rely upon it, that though never so many screws may be loose, so acute and profound a lawyer as the Attorney-General will impose every difficulty on our opponents"–
"Nay, but God forbid that any unconscientious advantage should be taken on my behalf!" said Mr. Aubrey. Mr. Runnington and Mr. Parkinson both opened their eyes pretty wide at this sally; the latter could not at first understand why everything should not be fair in war; the former saw and appreciated the nobility of soul which had dictated the exclamation.
"I suppose the affair will soon become public," said Mr. Aubrey, with an air of profound depression, after much further conversation.
"Your position in the county, your eminence in public life, the singularity of the case, and the magnitude of the stake—all are circumstances undoubtedly calculated soon to urge the affair before the notice of the public," said Mr. Runnington.
"What disastrous intelligence to break to my family!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, tremulously. "With what fearful suddenness it has burst upon us! But something, I suppose," he presently added with forced calmness, "must be done immediately?"
"Undoubtedly," replied Mr. Runnington. "Mr. Parkinson and I will immediately proceed to examine your title-deeds, the greater portion of which are, I understand, here in the Hall, and the rest at Mr. Parkinson's; and prepare, without delay, a case for the opinion of the Attorney-General, and also of the most eminent conveyancers of the kingdom. Who, by the way," said Mr. Runnington, addressing Mr. Parkinson—"who was the conveyancer that had the abstracts before him, on preparing Mr. Aubrey's marriage-settlement?"
"Oh, you are alluding to the 'Opinion' I mentioned to you this evening?" inquired Mr. Parkinson. "I have it at my house, and will show it you in the morning. The doubt he expressed on one or two points gave me, I recollect, no little uneasiness—as you may remember, Mr. Aubrey."
"I certainly do," he replied with a profound sigh; "but though what you said reminded me of something or other that I had heard when a mere boy, I thought no more of it. I think you also told me that the gentleman who wrote the opinion was a nervous, fidgety man, always raising difficulties in his clients' titles—and one way or another, the thing never gave me any concern—scarcely ever even occurred to my thoughts, till to-day! What infatuation has been mine!—But you will take a little refreshment, gentlemen, after your journey?" said Mr. Aubrey, suddenly, glad of the opportunity it would afford him of reviving his own exhausted spirits by a little wine, before returning to the drawing-room. He swallowed several glasses of wine without their producing any immediately perceptible effect; and the bearers of the direful intelligence just communicated to the reader, after a promise by Mr. Aubrey to drive over to Grilston early in the morning, and bring with him such of his title-deeds as were then at the Hall, took their departure; leaving him outwardly calmer, but with a fearful oppression at his heart. He made a powerful effort to control his feelings, so as to conceal, for a while at least, the dreadful occurrence of the evening. His countenance and constrained manner, however; on re-entering the drawing-room, which his mother, attended by Kate, had quitted for her bedroom—somewhat alarmed Mrs. Aubrey; but he easily quieted her—poor soul!—by saying that he certainly had been annoyed—"excessively annoyed"—at a communication just made to him; "and which might, in fact, prevent his sitting again for Yatton." "Oh, that's the cause of your long stay? There, Doctor, am I not right?" said Mrs. Aubrey, appealing to Dr. Tatham. "Did I not tell you that this was something connected with politics? Oh, dearest Charles—I do hate politics! Give me a quiet home!" A pang shot through Mr. Aubrey's heart; but he felt that he had, for the present, succeeded in his object.
Mr. Aubrey's distracted mind was indeed, as it were, buffeted about that night on a dark sea of trouble; while the beloved being beside him lay sleeping peacefully, all unconscious of the rising storm! Many times, during that dismal night, would he have risen from his bed to seek a momentary relief by walking to and fro, but that he feared disturbing her, and disclosing the extent and depth of his distress. It was nearly five o'clock in the morning before he at length sank into sleep; and of one thing I can assure the reader, that however that excellent man might have shrunk—and shrink he did—from the sufferings which seemed in store, not for himself only, but for those who were far dearer to him than life itself, he did not give way to one repining or rebellious thought. On the contrary, his real frame of mind, on that trying occasion, may be discovered in one short prayer, which his agonized soul was more than once on the point of expressing aloud in words—"Oh, my God! in my prosperity I have endeavored always to acknowledge thee; forsake not me and mine in our adversity!"
At an early hour in the morning Mr. Aubrey's carriage drew up at Mr. Parkinson's door; and he brought with him, as he had promised, a great number of title-deeds and family documents. On these, as well as on many others which were in Mr. Parkinson's custody, that gentleman and Mr. Runnington were anxiously engaged during almost every minute of that day and the ensuing one; at the close of which, they had between them drawn up the rough draft of a case, with which Mr. Runnington set off for town by the mail; undertaking to lay it immediately before the Attorney-General, and also before one or two of the most eminent conveyancers of the day, effectually commended to their best and earliest attention. He pledged himself to transmit their opinions, by the very first mail, to Mr. Parkinson; and both of those gentlemen immediately set about active preparations for defending the ejectment. The "eminent conveyancer" fixed upon by Messrs. Runnington and Parkinson was Mr. Tresayle, whose clerk, however, on looking into the papers, presently carried them back to Messrs. Runnington, with the startling information that Mr. Tresayle had, a few months before, "advised on the other side!" The next person whom Mr. Runnington thought of, was—singularly enough—Mr. Mortmain, who, on account of his eminence, was occasionally employed, in heavy matters, by the firm. His clerk, also, on the ensuing morning returned the papers, assigning a similar reason to that which had been given by Mr. Tresayle's clerk! All this formed a direful corroboration, truly, of Messrs. Quirk and Gammon's assurance to Mr. Runnington, that they had "had the first conveyancing opinions in the kingdom;" and evidenced the formidable scale on which their operations were being conducted. There were, however, other "eminent conveyancers" besides the two above mentioned; and in the hands of Mr. Mansfield, who, with a less extended reputation, but an equal practice, was a far abler man, and a much higher style of conveyancer, than Mr. Mortmain, Mr. Runnington left his client's interests with the utmost confidence. Not satisfied with this, he laid the case also before Mr. Crystal, the junior whom he had already retained in the cause—a man whose lucid understanding was not ill indicated by his name. Though his manner in court was not particularly forcible or attractive, he was an invaluable acquisition in an important cause. To law he had for some twenty years applied himself with unwearying energy; and he consequently became a ready, accurate, and thorough lawyer, equal to all the practical exigencies of his profession. He brought his knowledge to bear on every point presented to him, with beautiful precision. He was equally quick and cautious—artful to a degree—But I shall have other opportunities of describing him; since on him, as on every working junior, will devolve the real conduct of the defendant's case in the memorable action of Doe on the demise of Titmouse v. Roe.
As Mr. Aubrey was driving home from the visit to Mr. Parkinson, which I have just above mentioned, he stopped his carriage and alighted, on entering the village, because he saw Dr. Tatham coming out of Williams's cottage, where he had been paying a visit to poor dying Phœbe.
The little doctor was plunthering on, ankle-deep in snow, towards the vicarage, when Mr. Aubrey (who had sent home his carriage with word that he should presently follow) came up with him, and greeting him with unusual fervor, said that he would accompany him to the vicarage.
"You are in very great trouble, my dear friend," said the doctor, seriously—"I saw it plainly last night; but of course I said nothing. Come in with me! Let us talk freely with one another; for, as iron sharpeneth iron, so doth the countenance of a man his friend. Is it not so?"
"It is indeed, my dear doctor," replied Mr. Aubrey, suddenly softened by the affectionate simplicity of the doctor's manner. How much the good doctor was shocked by the communication which Mr. Aubrey presently made to him, the reader may easily imagine. He even shed tears, on beholding the forced calmness with which Mr. Aubrey depicted the gloomy prospect that was before him. The venerable pastor led the subdued mind of his companion to those sources of consolation and support which a true Christian cannot approach in vain. Upon his bruised and bleeding feelings were poured the balm of true religious consolation; and Mr. Aubrey quitted his revered companion with a far firmer tone of mind than that with which he had entered the vicarage. But as soon as he had passed through the park gates, the sudden reflection that he was probably no longer the proprietor of the dear old familiar objects that met his eye at every step, almost overpowered him, and he walked several times up and down the avenue, before he had recovered a due degree of self-possession.
On entering the Hall, he was informed that one of the tenants, Peter Johnson, had been sitting in the servants' hall for nearly two hours, waiting to see him. Mr. Aubrey repaired at once to the library, and desired the man to be shown in. This Johnson had been for some twenty-five years a tenant of a considerable farm on the estate; had scarcely ever been behind-hand with his rent; and had always been considered one of the most exemplary persons in the whole neighborhood. He had now, poor fellow, got into trouble indeed: for he had, a year or two before, been persuaded to become security for his brother-in-law, a tax-collector; and had, alas! the day before, been called upon to pay the three hundred pounds in which he stood bound—his worthless brother-in-law having absconded with nearly £1,000 of the public money. Poor Johnson, who had a large family to support, was in deep tribulation, bowed down with grief and shame; and after a sleepless night, had at length ventured down to Yatton, with a desperate boldness, to ask its benevolent owner to advance him £200 towards the money, to save himself from being cast into prison. Mr. Aubrey heard this sad story to the end, without one single interruption; though to a more practised observer than the troubled old farmer, the workings of Mr. Aubrey's countenance, from time to time, must have told his inward agitation. "I lend this poor soul £200!" thought he, "who am penniless myself! Shall I not be really acting as his dishonest relative has been acting, and making free with money which belongs to another?"
"I assure you, my worthy friend," said he at length, with a little agitation of manner, "that I have just now a very serious call upon me—or you know how gladly I would have complied with your request."
"Oh, sir, have mercy on me! I've an ailing wife and seven children to support," said poor Johnson, wringing his hands.
"Can't I do anything with the Government?"–
"No, sir; I'm told they're so mighty angry with my rascally brother, they'll listen to nobody! It's a hard matter for me to keep things straight at home without this, sir, I've so many mouths to fill; and if they take me off to prison, Lord! Lord! what's to become of us all?"
Mr. Aubrey's lip quivered. Johnson fell on his knees, and the tears ran down his cheeks. "I've never asked a living man for money before, sir; and if you'll only lend it me, God Almighty will bless you and yours; you'll save us all from ruin; I'll work day and night to pay it back again!"
"Rise—rise, Johnson," said Mr. Aubrey, with emotion. "You shall have the money, my friend, if you will call to-morrow," he added with a deep sigh, after a moment's hesitation.
He was as good as his word.[19]
Had Mr. Aubrey been naturally of a cheerful and vivacious turn, the contrast now afforded by his gloomy manner must have alarmed his family. As it was, however, the contrast was not so strong and marked as to be attended with that effect, especially as he exerted himself to the utmost to conceal his distress. That something had gone wrong, he freely acknowledged; and as he spoke of it always in connection with political topics, he succeeded in parrying their questions, and checking suspicion. But, whenever they were all collected together, could he not justly compare them to a happy group, unconscious that they stood on a mine which was on the eve of being fired?
About a week afterwards, namely, on the 12th of January, arrived little Charles's birthday, when he became five years old; and Kate had for some days been moving heaven and earth to get up a juvenile ball in honor of the occasion. After divers urgent despatches, and considerable riding and driving about, she succeeded in persuading the parents of some eight or ten children—two little daughters, for instance, of the Earl of Oldacre (beautiful creatures they were, to be sure)—little Master and the two Miss Bertons, the children of one of the county members—Sir Harry Oldfield, an orphan of about five years of age, the infant owner of a magnificent estate—and two or three little girls beside—to send them all—cold as was the weather—to Yatton, for a day and a night, with their governesses and attendants.
'Twas a charming little affair! It went off brilliantly, as the phrase is, and repaid all Kate's exertions. She, her mother, and brother, and sister, all dined at the same table, at a very early hour, with the merry little guests, who, (with a laughable crowd of attendants behind them, to be sure) behaved remarkably well on the occasion. Sir Harry (a little thing about Charles's age—the black ribbon round his waist, and also the half-mourning dress worn by his maid, who stood behind him, showed how recent was the event which had made him an orphan) proposed little Aubrey's health, in (I must own) a somewhat stiff speech, demurely dictated to him by Kate, who sat between him and her beautiful little nephew. She then performed the same office for Charles, who stood on a chair while delivering his eloquent acknowledgment of the toast.
[Oh! that anguished brow of thine, Aubrey, (thank God it is unobserved!) but it tells me that the iron is entering thy soul!]
And the moment that he had done—Kate folding her arms around him and kissing him—down they all jumped, and, a merry throng, scampered off to the drawing-room, (followed by Kate,) where blind-man's buff, husbands and wives, and divers other little games, kept them in constant enjoyment. After tea, they were to have dancing—Kate mistress of the ceremonies—and it was quite laughable to see how perpetually she was foiled in her efforts to form the little sets. The girls were orderly enough—but their wild little partners were quite uncontrollable! The instant they were placed, and Kate had gone to the instrument and struck off a bar or two—ah!—what a scrambling little crowd was to be seen wildly jumping and laughing, and chattering and singing! Over and over again she formed them into sets, with the like results. But at length a young lady, one of their governesses, took Miss Aubrey's place at the piano, leaving the latter to superintend the performances in person. She at length succeeded in getting up something like a country-dance, led off by Charles and little Lady Anne Cherville, the eldest daughter of the Earl of Oldacre, a beautiful child of about five years old, and who, judging from appearances, bade fair in due time to become another Lady Caroline Caversham. You would have laughed outright to watch the coquettish airs which this little creature gave herself with Charles, whom yet she evidently could not bear to see dancing with another.