Lady Maude's Mania. Fenn George Manville

love, one that has never seemed tiring to young and willing ears, though it must be owned that folks do talk, have talked, and always will talk a great deal of nonsense.

      This was in the calm and peaceful days of croquet, before people had learned to perspire profusely over lawn-tennis as they flew into wild attitudes and dressed for the popular work. This was croquet à la Watteau, and in the midst of the absence of play, Lord Barmouth came slowly down the path, stepped upon the soft lawn as soon as possible, and, choosing a garden seat in a comfortably shady nook, he sat down and began to tenderly rub his leg.

      “Heigho!” he sighed; “they, they – they say an Englishman’s house is his castle. If it is, his wife’s the elephant – white elephant. Why – why don’t they go on playing? Ha, there’s Tom starting,” he continued, putting up his glasses. “I’d give five hundred pounds to be able to stoop and pick up a ball like that young Charley Melton – a strong, straight-backed young villain. And there’s my son Tom, too. How he can run! I’d give another five hundred pounds, if I’d got it, to be able to run across the grass like my son Tom. It strikes me, yes, damme, it strikes me that my son Tom’s making up to little Tryphie. Well, and he’s no fool if he does.”

      The game went on now for a few minutes, and then there was another halt.

      “I said so to Tom on the morning of Di’s wedding,” said the old gentleman, caressing his leg; “and that Charley Melton is making up to Maudey, damme that he is, and – and – and – damme, she’s smiling at him, bless her, as sure as I’m a martyr to the gout.”

      There were a few more strokes, and as many pauses, during which the old gentleman watched the players in their laurel-sheltered ground with his double glasses to his eye.

      “Let me see, her ladyship said he was one of the Mowbray Meltons, but he isn’t. He belongs to the poor branch, but I didn’t contradict her ladyship; it makes her angry. He, he, he, he! It’s – its – it’s very fine to be young and good-looking, and – and – damme, Tom, you young dog,” he continued, chuckling, “I can see through your tricks. He’s – he’s – he’s always knocking Tryphie’s ball in amongst the bushes, and then they have to go out of sight to find it.”

      The old man chuckled and shook his head till a twinge of the gout made him wince, when he stooped down and had another rub.

      “Why – why – why,” he chuckled again directly after, “damme, damme, if young Charley Melton isn’t doing the same. He has knocked Maudey’s ball in amongst the laurels, and – oh – oh – oh – you wicked young rogues – they’re coming to look for it.”

      He got up and toddled towards the young couple, patting Maude on the cheek, and giving Charley Melton a poke in the side.

      “I – I – I – see through you both,” he said, laughing. “Won’t do – won’t do. Both as transparent as glass, and I can see your hearts playing such a tune.”

      He crossed to another garden seat, and sat down, putting his leg up in a comfortable position.

      “There,” said Melton, earnestly. “You see we have both in our favour. Your father would not refuse.”

      “Pray say no more now,” said the girl, gazing up in his face. “It is so new, it troubles me. Let us go on playing. Tom and Tryphie must be waiting.”

      “I think not,” said Melton, with a quiet smile. “Maude, love, to-day I am so happy that it all seems too delightful to be real. Does it seem so to you?”

      “I hardly know,” she replied, turning her eyes to his for a few moments, and then lowering them; “but somehow I feel sad with it and as if I were too happy for it to last.”

      “Then you are happy?” he said, eagerly.

      For answer she raised her eyes to his, and the game was resumed, for Tom and Tryphie came out of the shrubbery with the lost ball.

      “Ha, ha, ha!” laughed his lordship. “Tom’s a sad dog – a sad dog. I was just like him when I was young.”

      He glanced to the right and left, and, seeing that he was unobserved, drew out a d’oyley from his coat-tail pocket, and from within picked out a slice of tongue and a piece of bread and butter, which he ate with great gusto, but not without turning his head from side to side like some ancient sparrow on the look-out for danger.

      He wiped his fingers carefully upon his handkerchief, put away the d’oyley, and smiled to himself.

      “That was nice – and refreshing,” he said. “I don’t suppose Robbins would miss it, and mention the fact to her ladyship. Ah,” he continued, raising his glass once more to his eye, “they are having a nice game there. Why, damme, they’re all courting like birds in spring-time. But Tom’s a sad dog. He, he, he! I was just like him. I was a sad dog too when I was young. I remember once when I was at Chiswick, at the Duke’s – he – he – he! with Lady Ann Gowerby, I told her there was not a flower in the whole show to compare with her two lips, and I kissed her behind the laurestinus – damme, that I did, and – and – he, he, he! the old woman – the countess – came and caught us.”

      The old man chuckled over this recollection till he had to wipe the tears out of his eyes, and then he had a fresh look at the croquet players.

      “Tom, you dog,” he said, “the old lady will come and catch you, and then, he, he, he! there’ll be a devil of a row, for she means my little Tryphie for some one else. Eh – eh – eh? What! Look there now, Maudey dropped her mallet, and Charley Melton picked it up and kissed her hand. Well, it’s nice,” he said, smacking his lips, “I was a devil of a fellow to squeeze and kiss the little girls’ hands when I was a youngster, but now – ”

      He bent down to rub his gouty leg, and uttered a low groan as he continued —

      “But they’re all going wrong, the silly young lambs; I wish Charley Melton was well off. Her ladyship will come over it all like a cloud directly, for I know – she said so – she means Tryphie for old Bellman, and Maudey for that Sir Grantley Wilter. Well, well, well, little gnats, enjoy your bit of sunshine while you can.”

      “Now, Charley, are you going on?” shouted Tom in indignant tones, “two blue plays – two blue plays.”

      “There’s a dog for you,” chuckled Lord Barmouth, “any one would think he had been busy over the game all the time instead of courting Tryphie.”

      “Coming, Tom,” cried Melton; then turning to Maude he whispered, “Darling, you are mine, come what may – Maude, my love – my love!”

      Their eyes met for a few moments, and from that look it was evident that the work so nearly completed on the morning of the wedding party had now received the finishing strokes, that the fresh young heart had placed itself in another’s keeping, and that henceforth Charley Melton was lord of someone’s will, and her duty only to obey.

      “I ought to go and stop them,” said his lordship, sadly, “but making love without thinking of money used to be nice; but – hallo!” he exclaimed, as a cold nose touched his hand; and looking down there was the ugly massive face of a bull-dog gazing up into his. “Charley Melton’s dog, eh! Well, you’re a very ugly dog, but you seem to like me. Eh, eh!” he added, as, after a quiet wag of his tail, Joby smelt at his lordship’s tail pocket. “So you knew there was a little bit of game pie in there, did you!”

      Joby uttered a low whine.

      “Well, so there is, good dog,” said his lordship, chuckling as he felt in his other pocket, and brought out something very unpleasant-looking crushed up as it was in a piece of paper.

      “I’m afraid I have been sitting upon it, my dog,” said his lordship, ruefully, “and the jelly and cold gravy have got into the crust. But you will not mind, will you?”

      The dog gave a short bark, and evidently did not mind, for he and Lord Barmouth finished the last morsel of the game pie, and Joby ate the jelly-smeared paper afterwards as a kind of digestive pill.

      “Ah,” said his lordship, patting the dog’s head. “I’m glad