The new arrival seemed to have chilled us all into stupidity. Dinner languished; and afterward, Guy, after trying at first to be laboriously civil--the sense of duty was painfully evident--lapsed into silence, passing the claret rather faster than usual, so that Mr. Raymond, to his intense disgust, had to make an effort and force the conversation.
When we entered, Isabel was nestling under Miss Bellasys' wing, from which shelter she had to emerge at Bruce's request for some music. She went directly, and played several pieces that he asked for straight through, while he stood gravely behind her with a complacent air of proprietorship which was inexpressibly aggravating.
When her task was done she went back to her sofa again; there she was safe, for all Bruce's devotion to his ladye-love and stubbornness of character could not give him courage enough to affront, at close quarters, the mingled dislike and scornful humor that played round Flora's lips, and gleamed in her eyes like summer lightning. He had to retreat upon Lady Catharine, who, thinking him hardly used, in her inextinguishable charity exerted herself to entertain him.
We were all glad when that first evening was over, and we got into the smoking-room, whither Mr. Bruce was not entreated to follow. It was always an augury of foul weather in Livingstone's temper when, instead of the decent evening cigar, he smoked the short black _brule-gueule_, loaded to the muzzle with cavendish. He sat thus for some minutes, rolling out stormy puffs from under his mustache, and then broke out,
"I haven't an idea what to do with him" (there was no need to name the object of his thoughts); "I made up my mind to risk a horse or two, for, of course, he would have broken their knees; but when I offered him a mount, he thanked me and said, 'He didn't hunt.' It would have got him away from home, at all events. Poor Bella! how heavy on hand she _will_ find him."
"Ah! and he might have come to a timely end over timber; Providence does interfere so benevolently sometimes." This was Forrester's pious reflection.
"Well, that's over," Guy went on. "He must shoot, though; every one shoots, or thinks he does. We have all the pheasants to kill yet (by-the-by, Fallowfield comes over on Thursday for the Home Wood); that will keep him employed for some time; but it's only putting off the evil day. My match-making aunt, of blessed memory, how much she has to answer for! I hate to think of Bella's _mignonne_ face alongside of that flinty-cheeked Scotchman's."