IT was past midnight, the Opera was just over, and the few privileged guests who were permitted to pay their visits to Lady Hester Onslow were assembled in the little drawing-room and boudoir sacred to these exclusive receptions. Nothing could be in stronger contrast than the gorgeous splendor of the apartment and the half-dressed, careless, lounging ease of the men as they stretched themselves on the ottomans, lounged on the sofas, or puffed their cigars, alike indifferent to the place and the presence of two ladies who, dressed in the very perfection of “toilette,” did the honors of the reception.
Lady Hester, who wore a small embroidered velvet cap, coquettishly set on one side of the head, and a species of velvet jacket, such as is common in Greece, lay upon a sofa beneath a canopy of pink silk covered with lace; a most splendidly ornamented hooka, the emerald mouthpiece of which she held in her hand, stood on a little cushion beside her; while grouped around in every attitude that taste and caprice suggested on chairs, on cushions, squabs, “Prie-Dieu” and other drawing-room devices of a like nature were some half-dozen men, whose air and bearing pronounced them long habituated to all the usages of society. One stamp of feature and style pervaded all; pale, dark-eyed, black-bearded, and weary-looking, they seemed as though they were tired of a life of dissipation, and yet utterly incapable of engaging in any other.
All born to high rank, some to large fortune, they found that no other career was open to them except vice in one shape or other. The policy of their rulers had excluded them from every road of honorable ambition; neither as statesmen nor soldiers could they hope to win fame or glory. Their habits of life and the tone of society gave no impulse to the cultivation of science or literature. The topics discussed in their circle never by chance adverted to a book; and there they were, with heads whose development indicated all that was intellectual, with brows and foreheads that betokened every gift of mental excellence, wearing away life in the dullest imaginable routine of dissipation, their minds neglected, their hearts corrupted, enervated in body, and deprived of all energy of character; they wore, even in youth, the exhausted look of age, and bore in every lineament of their features the type of lassitude and discontent.
In the adjoining room sat Kate Dalton at a tea-table. She was costumed for we cannot use any milder word in a species of “moyen-age” dress, whose length of stomacher and deep-hanging sleeves recalled the portraits of Titian's time; a small cap covered the back of her head, through an aperture in which the hair appeared, its rich auburn masses fastened by a short stiletto of gold, whose hilt and handle were studded with precious stones; a massive gold chain, with a heavy cross of the same metal, was the only ornament she wore. Widely different as was the dress from that humble guise in which the reader first knew her, the internal change was even greater still; no longer the bashful, blushing girl, beaming with all the delight of a happy nature, credulous, light-hearted, and buoyant, she was now composed in feature, calm, and gentle-mannered; the placid smile that moved her lips, the graceful motion of her head, her slightest gestures, her least words, all displaying a polished ease and elegance which made even her beauty and attraction secondary to the fascination of her manner. It is true the generous frankness of her beaming eyes was gone; she no longer met you with a look of full and fearless confidence: the cordial warmth, the fresh and buoyant sallies of her ready wit, had departed, and in their place was a timid reserve, a cautious, shrinking delicacy, blended with a quiet but watchful spirit of repartee, that flattered by the very degree of attention it betokened.
Perhaps our reader will not feel pleased with us for saying that she was more beautiful now than before; that intercourse with the world, dress, manners, the tact of society, the stimulus of admiration, the assured sense of her own charms, however they may have detracted from the moral purity of her nature, had yet invested her appearance with higher and more striking fascinations. Her walk, her courtesy, the passing motion of her hand, her attitude as she sat, were perfect studies of grace. Not a trace was left of her former manner; all was ease, pliancy, and elegance. Two persons were seated near her: one of these, our old acquaintance, George Onslow; the other was a dark, sallow-visaged man, whose age might have been anything from thirty-five to sixty, for, while his features were marked by the hard lines of time, his figure had all the semblance of youth. By a broad blue ribbon round his neck he wore the decoration of Saint Nicholas, and the breast of his coat was covered with stars, crosses, and orders of half the courts of Europe. This was Prince Midchekoff, whose grandfather, having taken an active part in the assassination of the Emperor Paul, had never been reconciled to the Imperial family, and was permitted to reside in a kind of honorable banishment out of Russia; a punishment which he bore up under, it was said, with admirable fortitude. His fortune was reputed to be immense, and there was scarcely a capital of Europe in which he did not possess a residence. The character of his face was peculiar, for while the forehead and eyes were intellectual and candid, the lower jaw and mouth revealed his Calmuck origin, an expression of intense, unrelenting cruelty being the impression at once conveyed by the thin, straight, compressed lips, and the long, projecting chin, seeming even longer from the black-pointed beard he wore. There was nothing vulgar or common-place about him; he never could have passed unobserved anywhere, and yet he was equally far from the type of high birth. His manners were perfectly well bred; and although he spoke seldom, his quiet and attentive air and his easy smile showed he possessed the still rarer quality of listening well.
There was another figure, not exactly of this group, but at a little distance off, beside a table in a recess, on which a number of prints and drawings were scattered, and in the contemplation of which he affected to be absorbed; while, from time to time, his dark eyes flashed rapidly across to note all that went forward. He was a tall and singularly handsome man, in the dress of a priest. His hair, black and waving, covered a forehead high, massive, and well developed; his eyes were deep-set, and around the orbits ran lines that told of long and hard study, for the Abbe D'Esmonde was a distinguished scholar; and, as a means of withdrawing him for a season from the overtoil of reading, he had been attached temporarily as a species of Under-secretary to the Mission of the “Nonce.” In this guise he was admitted into all the society of the capital, where his polished address and gentle manner soon made him a general favorite.
Equally removed from the flippant levity of the abbe as a class, and the gross and sensual coarseness of the “old priest,” D'Esmonde was a perfect man of the world, so far as taking a lively interest in all the great events of politics, watching eagerly the changeful features of the times, and studying acutely the characters of the leading men, at whose dictates they were modified. Its pleasures and amusements, too, he was willing to partake of moderately and unobtrusively; but he held himself far apart from all those subjects of gossip and small-talk which, in a society of lax morality, occupy so considerable a space, and in which the great dignitaries who wear scarlet and purple stockings are often seen to take a lively and animated share. Some ascribed this reserve to principle; others called it hypocrisy; and some, again, perhaps with more truth, deemed it the settled line of action of one who already destined himself for a high and conspicuous station, and had determined that his character should add weight and dignity to his talents.
It might have been thought that he was a singular guest to have been admitted to receptions like the present; but Jekyl, who managed everything, had invited him, on the principle, as he said, that a gourmand has a decanter of water always beside him at dinner, “not to drink, but because it looks temperate.” The abbe's presence had the same effect; and, certainly, his calm and dignified demeanor, his polished address, and cultivated tone, were excellent certificates of good character for the rest.
At the tea-table the conversation languished, or only went forward at intervals. Onslow's French was not fluent, and he was silent from shame. Kate felt that she ought not to take the lead; and the Prince, habitually reserved, spoke very little, and even that in the discursive, unconnected tone of a man who was always accustomed to find that any topic he started should be instantly adopted by the company.
The cold and steady stare with which he surveyed her would, but a short time back, have covered her face with a blush; she could not have borne unabashed the glance of searching, almost insolent meaning he bestowed upon her; but now, whatever her heart might have felt, her features were calm and passionless; nor did she in the slightest degree show any consciousness of a manner that was costing Onslow a struggle whether to laugh at or resent.
In one sense these two men were rivals, but each so impressed with proud contempt for the other, their rivalry was unknown to both. Kate, however, with her woman's tact, saw this, and knew well how her least smile or slightest word inclined the balance to this side or to that. The Prince was inveighing against the habit of wintering in Italy as one of the most capital blunders of the age.
“We forget,” said he, “that, in our present civilization, art is always first and nature second, as we see evidenced in all the results of agriculture. It is not the most fertile soil, but the highest-labored one which produces the best fruits. So with respect to climate, we never bear in mind that, where nature does most, man always does least.”
“According to that rule, Prince, we should winter at St. Petersburg, and spend the dog-days at Calcutta,” said Kate, smiling.
“So we should,” replied he; “the appliances to resist heat or cold, of man's invention, are far better adapted to enjoyment than the accidental variations of climate.”
“In my country,” said Onslow, tartly, “men study less how to avoid the inclemencies of weather than to become indifferent to them. Hunting, shooting, and deer-stalking are very sure methods to acquire this.”
The Prince paid no attention to the remark, but turned the conversation into another channel, by asking Kate if she had ever read Fourier's book. From this he wandered away to the characteristic differences of national music, thence to the discoveries then making in Central America, and lastly, engaged her in an animated discussion of the question of slavery. On none of these points was he deeply or even well informed, but he possessed that fluency and facility which intercourse with society confers; and as all his knowledge was derived from men, and not from books, it bore a certain stamp of originality about it that secured attention. Not, indeed, from George Onslow; he was the most bored of men. None of the topics were his topics. Of Tattersall's, the Guards' Club, the society of London, the odds on the “Derby,” he could have discoursed well and pleasantly. From what was “wrong” with the Sa'nbucca filly to what was not right with Lady Flutterton's niece, he could have told you everything; but all these other themes were, in his estimation, but sheer pedantry, and, indeed, they only lacked a little knowledge a very little would have sufficed to be so.
“He is gone,” said the Prince, with a caustic smile which revealed a plan; “gone at last.”
“So, then, this was a device of yours, Prince,” said she, laughing. “I really must call my cousin back and tell him so.”
“No, no,” said he, seriously. “I have won my battle, let me profit by my victory. Let me speak to you on another subject.” He drew his chair a little nearer to the table as he spoke, and laid his arm on it. Kate's heart beat fast and full; and the color came and went rapidly in her cheek. A vague sense of fear, of shame, and of triumphant pride were all at conflict within her. There was but one theme in the world that could have warranted such a commencement, so serious, so grave, so purpose-like. Was this, then, possible?
The glittering stars all a blaze of brilliants that shone beside her seemed an emblem of that high state which was now within her reach; and what a torrent of varied emotions rushed through her heart! Of home, of her father, of Nelly, of Frank; and, lastly, what thoughts of George, poor George, whom she knew loved her, and to whom, without loving, she was not altogether indifferent. “Do not be agitated, Mademoiselle,” said the prince, laying the slightest touch of his jewelled fingers on her arm. “I ask a little patience and a little calm consideration for what I am about to say.”
“Is that really like an Irish peasant's cottage, Miss Daiton?” said the abbe, as he held before her a drawing of one, in all the details of its most striking misery.
“Yes, perfectly; not exaggerated in the least,” said she, hurriedly blushing alike at the surprise and the interruption.
“You have no such misery, Monsieur le Prince, in Russia, I believe?” remarked the priest, with a courteous bend of the head.
“We are well governed, sir; and nothing displays it more palpably than that no man forgets his station,” said the prince, with an insolent hauteur that made Kate blush over neck and forehead, while D'Esmonde stood calm and passionless under the sarcasm.
“So I have always heard, sir,” said he, blandly. “I remember, when at Wredna—”
“You have been at Wredna?” asked the Prince, in an altered voice.
But the other, not heeding the interruption, went on:
“I remember, when at Wredna, to have heard an anecdote which strikingly illustrates the rigid obedience yielded to power, and the condition of public opinion at the same time. A manumitted slave, who was raised to high rank and wealth by the favor of the Czar, had returned to Wredna in the capacity of governor. A short time after his arrival he was tormented by applications and letters from a woman in great poverty who asserted that she was his mother. Fedeorovna, of course in secret, proved the truth of her assertion; but the only answer she received was a significant caution to be silent, and not appeal to a relationship which could only prove offensive. Perhaps incredulous of the authentic character of so cruel a reply, perhaps stung to angry indignation by it, she carried the humble basket of fruit and vegetables that she hawked for a livelihood before the door of the great mansion where her son resided; but, instead of advertising her wares, as is customary in these Muscovite markets, by some picture of a saint or some holy inscription, she carried a little placard, with the inscription, 'The Mother of Alexovitch,' the name of the Governor. A crowd soon gathered around this singular booth, heralded by so strange an announcement, and as speedily the police resorted to the spot, and carried the offender before the judge. The defence was the simple one that she had merely averred the truth. I need not weary you with the mockery of investigation that followed; the result is all I need tell. This woman was knouted and sent away to Siberia. So much for the Governor. As for the governed, they were enthusiastic in praise of his justice and clemency; for he might have ordered her to be beheaded.”
“Do you tell the story as a fact, sir?” said the Prince, whose dark cheek became almost green in its sallowness as he spoke.
“I tell it distinctly as a fact. The Papa who received the woman's confession repeated the tale on his own deathbed, from whence it reached me.”
“Priests can be liars, whether Greek or Roman,” said the Prince, in a voice almost suffocated with passion; and then, suddenly checking the course of his anger, he turned to Kate with a sickly smile, and said, “Mademoiselle will pardon a rudeness in her presence which nothing short of so gross a calumny could have elicited.”
“I will furnish you with all the names to-morrow, Monsieur le Prince,” said D'Esmonde, in a whisper; and sauntered away into the adjoining room.
“You look pale, Miss Dalton,” said the Prince.
“That shocking story—”
“Which of course you don't believe.”
“The Abbe D'Esmonde I have always heard to be a person of strict veracity and of extreme caution.”
“Be careful of him, Miss Dalton. It is not without good reason that I say this.”
There was a degree of solemnity in the way he uttered these words that made Kate thoughtful and serious. Unaccustomed to see, in society, anything but features of pleasure and amusement, she was suddenly awakened to the conviction that its calm waters covered rocks and quicksands as perilous as stormier seas. Could people so full of amiabilities be dangerous acquaintances? Was there poison in this charmed cup? Was the doubt which sprang to her mind But she had not time for the inquiry, as the Prince offered her his arm to the supper-room.
IN our penal settlements nothing is more common than to find the places of honor and distinction filled by men who were once convicts, and who may date the favorable turn of their fortune to the day of their having transgressed the law. So in certain Continental cities are individuals to be found occupying conspicuous stations, and enjoying a large share of influence, whose misdeeds at home first made them exiles, and who, leaving England in shame, are received abroad with honor. There is this difference between the two cases; for while the convict owes all his future advancement to his own efforts at reformation, the absentee obtains his “brevet” of character by the simple fact of his extradition. He shakes off his rascalities as he does his rheumatism, when he quits the foggy climate of England, and emerges spotless and without stain upon the shores of Ostend or Boulogne.
To do this, however, he must not bear a plebeian name, nor pertain to the undistinguishable herd of vulgar folk. He must belong to some family of mark and note, with peers for his uncles and peeresses for cousins; nor is he always safe if he himself be not a member of an hereditary legislature. We have been led to these reflections by having to chronicle the arrival in Florence of Lord Norwood; a vague and confused murmur of his having done something, people knew not what, in England having preceded him. Some called him “poor Norwood,” and expressed sorrow for him; others said he was a capital fellow, up to everything, and that they were delighted at his coming. A few, of very tender and languishing virtue themselves, wondered if they ought to meet him as before; but the prevailing impression was charitable. The affair at Graham's might have been exaggerated, the Newmarket business was possibly a mistake. “Any man might owe money, and not be able to pay it,” was a sentiment pretty generally repeated and as generally believed; and, in fact, if to be tried by one's peers be an English privilege, the noble Viscount here enjoyed it at the hands of a jury unimpeachable on the score of equality.
We are far from suggesting that Norwood's character as a “shot” had any concern with this mild verdict; but certain it is, his merits in this capacity were frequently remembered, and always with honorable mention.
“No man plays ecarte better,” said Haggerstone, while as yet the Viscount's arrival was unknown, and as he discussed the rumors upon him before a group of listening Englishmen at the door of the “Club”. “No man plays ecarte better, nor with better luck!” added he, with a chuckle that was intended to convey a meaning beyond the mere words.
“Has he been a large winner, then?” asked one of the bystanders, respectfully, looking to the Colonel for information; for, in a certain set, he was regarded as the most thoroughly conversant man with all the faults and follies of high life.
“No man wins invariably, sir, except Brooke Morris, perhaps,” replied he, always happy at the opportunity to quote the name of a man of fashion in a tone of familiarity.
“That was the Mo-Mo-Morris that ruined Hopeton, was n't it?” broke in Purvis, quite forgetting that the individual he addressed was reported to have a share in the transaction. Haggerstone, however, did not deign a reply, but puffed his cigar in perfect contempt of his questioner.
“Who is this coming up here?” said one; “he looks like a new arrival. He is English, certainly; that frock has a London cut there's no mistaking.”
“By Jove, it's Norwood!” cried Haggerstone, edging away, as he spoke, from the group. Meanwhile, the noble Viscount, a well-dressed, well-whiskered man, of about thirty, came leisurely forward, and touching his hat familiarly, said,
“Ha! you here, Haggerstone! What is Florence doing?”
“Pretty much as it always did, my Lord. I don't think its morals have improved since you knew it a few years ago.”
“Or you wouldn't be here, Haggy, eh?” said the Viscount, laughing at his own joke. “Not suit your book if it took a virtuous turn, eh?”
“I plead guilty, my Lord. I believe I do like to shoot folly as it flies.”
“Ah, yes! And I've seen you taking a sitting shot at it too, Haggy,” said the other, with a heartier laugh, which, despite of the Colonel's efforts not to feel, brought a crimson flush to his cheek.
“Is there any play going on, Haggy?”
“Nothing that you would call play, my Lord; a little whist for Nap points, a little ecarte, a little piquet, and, now and then, we have a round game at Sabloukoff's.”
“Poor old fellow! and he 's alive still? And where 's the Jariominski?”
“Gone back to Russia.”
“And Maretti?”
“In Saint Angelo, I believe.”
“And that little Frenchman what was his name? his father was a Marshal of the Empire.”
“D'Acosta.”
“The same. Where is he?”
“Shot himself this spring.”
“Pretty girl, his sister. What became of her?”
“Some one told me that she had become a Soeur de Charite.”
“What a pity! So they 're all broken up, I see.”
“Completely so.”
“Then what have you got in their place?”
“Nothing fast, my Lord, except, perhaps, your friends the Onslows.”
“Yes; they 're going it, I hear. Is n't there a rich niece, or cousin, or something of that sort, with them?”
“They've got a prettyish girl, called Dalton; but as to her being rich, I think it very unlikely, seeing that her family are living in Germany in a state of the very closest poverty.”
“And Master George, how does he carry on the war?” said the Viscount, who seemed quite heedless of the other's correction.
“He plays a little peddling ecarte now and then; but you can see that he has burned his fingers, and dreads the fire. They say he 's in love with the Dalton girl.”
“Of course he is, if they live in the same house; and he 's just the kind of fool to marry her, too. Who 's that little fellow, listening to us?”
“Purvis, my Lord; don't you remember him? He's one of the Ricketts's set.”
“To be sure I do. How are you, Purvis? You look so young and so fresh, I could not persuade myself it could be my old acquaintance.”
“I 've taken to homoe-homoe-homoe-homo—” Here he opened his mouth wide, and gasped till he grew black in the face.
“What's the word? Give it him, Haggy. It's all up with him,” said the Viscount.
“Homoeopathy, eh?”
“Just so. Homeo-hom—”
“Confound it, man, can't you be satisfied? when you're once over the fence, you need n't go back to leap it. And how is the dear what's her name Agathe? no, Zoe, how is she?”
“Quite well, my Lord, and would be cha-cha-cha-rmed to see you.”
“Living in that queer humbug still, eh?”
“In the Vill-ino, my Lord, you mean?”
“Egad! she seems the only thing left; like the dog on the wreck, eh, Haggy?”
“Just so, my Lord,” said the other, with a complacent laugh.
“What a mass of old crockery she must have got together by this time!” said the Viscount, yawning with a terrible recollection of her tiresomeness.
“You came out with a yacht, my Lord?” asked Haggerstone.
“Pretty well, for a man that they call ru-ru-ruined,” said Purvis, laughing.
Norwood turned a look of angry indignation at him, and then, as if seeing the unworthiness of the object, merely said,
“A yacht is the only real economy nowadays. You get rid at once of all trains of servants, household, stable people; even the bores of your acquaintance you cut off. By-by, Purvis.” And, with a significant wink at Haggerstone, he passed across the street, in time to overtake Onslow, who was just passing.
“I think I ga-ga-gave it him there,” cried Purvis, with an hysteric giggle of delight; who, provided that he was permitted to fire his shot, never cared how severely he was himself riddled by the enemy's fire. Meanwhile, the Viscount and his friend were hastening forward to the Mazzarini Palace, as totally forgetful of Purvis as though that valuable individual had never existed.
We may take this opportunity to mention, that when the rumors which attributed a grand breach of honorable conduct to Lord Norwood had arrived at Florence, Sir Stafford, who never had any peculiar affection for the Viscount, declared himself in the very strongest terms on the subject of his offending, and took especial pains to show the marked distinction between occasions of mere wasteful extravagance and instances of fraudulent and dishonest debt.
It was in vain he was told that the rigid rule of English morality is always relaxed abroad, and that the moral latitude is very different in London and Naples. He was old-fashioned enough to believe that honor is the same in all climates; and having received from England a very detailed and specific history of the noble Lord's misdoings, he firmly resolved not to receive him.
With all George Onslow's affection and respect for his father, he could not help feeling that this was a mere prejudice, one of the lingering remnants of a past age; a sentiment very respectable, perhaps, but totally inapplicable to present civilization, and quite impracticable in society. In fact, as he said himself, “Who is to be known, if this rule be acted on? What man or, further still, what woman of fashionable life will stand this scrutiny? To attempt such exclusiveness, one should retire to some remote provincial town, some fishing-village of patriarchal simplicity; and, even there, what security was there against ignoble offendings? How should, he stand the ridicule of his club and his acquaintance if he attempted to assume such a standard?” These arguments were strengthened by his disbelief, or rather his repugnance to believe the worst of Norwood; and furthermore, supported by Lady Hester's open scorn for all such “hypocritical trumpery,” and her avowal that the Viscount should be received, by her, at least. Exactly as of old, George Onslow's mind was in a state of oscillation and doubt now leaning to this side, now inclining to that when the question was decided for him, as it so often is in like cases, by a mere accident; for, as he loitered along the street, he suddenly felt an arm introduced within his own. He turned hastily round and saw Norwood, who, with, all his customary coolness, asked after each member of the family, and at once proposed to pay them a visit.
Of all men living, none were less suited than Onslow for assuming any part, or taking any decisive line, which could possibly be avoided, or even postponed. He hated, besides, to do an ungracious thing anywhere, or to any one. It might be, thought he, that Norwood's scrape could all be explained away. Perhaps, after all, the thing is a mere trifle; and if he were to take the decided line of cutting a man without due cause, the consequences might be most injurious. These, and fifty such-like scruples, warred within him, and so engaged his attention that he actually heard not one word of all that “town gossip” which Norwood was retailing for his amusement. At last, while following out his own thoughts, George came to the resolution of finding out at once the precise position in which Norwood stood, and to this end asked the last news from Newmarket.
Norwood's coolness never forsook him at a question whose very suddenness was somewhat awkward.
“Bad enough,” said he, with an easy laugh. “We have all of us been 'hit hard.' Knolesby has lost heavily. Burchester, too, has had a smasher; and I myself have not escaped. In fact, George, the 'Legs' have had it all their own way. I suppose you heard something about it out here?”
“Why, yes; there were reports—”
“Oh, hang reports, man! Never trust to old women's tales. And that confounded fellow, Haggerstone, I 'm certain, has been spreading all kinds of stories. But the facts are simple enough.”
“I 'm heartily glad you say so; for, to tell you the truth, Norwood, my father is one of the prejudiced about this affair, and I 'm dying to be able to give him a full explanation of the whole.”
“Ah, Sir Stafford, too, among the credulous!” said Norwood, slowly. “I could scarcely have supposed so. No matter; only I did fancy that he was not exactly the person to form hasty conclusions against any man's character. However, you may tell him for, as for myself, I 'll not condescend to explain to any one but you the thing is a very simple one. There was a mare of Hopeton's, a Brockdon filly, entered for the Slingsby, and a number of us agreed to 'go a heavy thing' upon her against the field. A bold coup always, George, that backing against the field. Never do it, my boy, and particularly when you 've a set of rascally foreign Legs banded against you, Poles and Hungarian fellows, George; the downiest coves ever you met, and who, in their confounded jargon, can sell you before your own face. Nothing like John Bull, my boy. Straight, frank, and open John forever! Hit him hard and he 'll hit you again; but no treachery, no stab in the dark. Oh, no, no! The turf in England was another thing before these Continental rascals came amongst us. I was always against admitting them within the ring. I black-balled a dozen of them at the Club. But see what perseverance does; they're all in now. There's no John-Bull feeling among our set, and we 're paying a smart price for it. Never trust those German fellows, George. Out of England there is no truth, no honor. But, above all, don't back against the field; there are so many dodges against you; so many 'dark horses' come out fair. That 's it, you see; that 's the way I got it so heavily; for when Ruxton came and told me that 'Help-me-Over' was dead lame, I believed him. A fetlock lameness is no trifle, you know; and there was a swelling as large as my hand around the coronet. The foreign fellows can manage that in the morning, and the horse will run to win the same day. I saw it myself. Ah, John Bull forever! No guile, no deceit in him. Mind me, George, I make this confession for you alone. I 'll not stoop to repeat it. If any man dare to insinuate anything to my discredit, I 'll never give myself the trouble of one word of explanation, but nail him to it, twelve paces, and no mistake. I don't think my right hand has forgot its cunning. Have him out at once, George; parade him on the spot, my boy; that 's the only plan. What! is this your quarter?” asked he, as they stopped at the entrance of the spacious palace. “I used to know this house well of old. It was the Embassy in Templeton's time. Very snug it used to be. Glad to see you 've banished all those maimed old deities that used to line the staircase, and got rid of that tiresome tapestry, too. Pretty vases those; fresh-looking that conservatory, they 're always strong in camellias in Florence. This used to be the billiard-room. I think you've made a good alteration; it looks better as a salon. Ah, I like this, excellent taste that chintz furniture; just the thing for Italy, and exactly what nobody thought of before!”
“I'll see if my Lady be visible,” said George, as he threw the “Morning Post” to his friend, and hastily quitted the chamber.
Norwood was no sooner left alone than he proceeded to take a leisurely survey of the apartment, in the course of which his attention was arrested by a water-color drawing, representing a young girl leaning over a balcony, and which he had no difficulty in at once guessing to be Kate Dalton. There was something in the character of her beauty an air of almost daring haughtiness that seemed to strike his fancy; for, as he gazed, he drew himself up to his full height, and seemed to assume in his own features the proud expression of the portrait.
“With a hundred thousand and that face one might make you a viscountess, and yet not do badly, either,” said he to himself; and then, as if satisfied that he had given time enough to a mere speculative thought, he turned over the visiting-cards to see the names of the current acquaintance: “Midchekoff, Estrolenka, Janini, Tiverton, Latrobe, the old set; the Ricketts, too, and Haggerstone. What can have brought them here? Oh, there must have been a ball, for here are shoals of outsiders, the great Smith-Brown-and-Thompson community; and here, on the very smallest of pasteboards, in the very meekest of literals, have we our dear friend 'Albert Jekyl.' He 'll tell me all I want to know,” said Norwood, as he threw himself back on the comfortable depth of a well-cushioned chair, and gave way to a pleasant revery.
When George Ouslow had informed Lady Hester of Norwood's arrival, he hastened to Sir Stafford's apartment to tell him how completely the Viscount had exonerated himself from any charge that might be made to his discredit; not, indeed, that George understood one syllable of the explanation, nor could trace anything like connection between the disjointed links of the narrative. He could only affirm his own perfect conviction in Norwood's honor, and hoped an equal degree of faith from his father. Fortunately for his powers of persuasiveness, they were not destined to be so sorely tried; for Sir Stafford had just walked out, and George, too eager to set all right about Norwood, took his hat and followed, in the hope of overtaking him.
Lady Hester was already dressed, and about to enter the drawing-room, when George told her that Norwood was there; and yet she returned to her room and made some changes in her toilet, slight, and perhaps too insignificant to record, but yet of importance enough to occupy some time, and afford her an interval for thoughts which, whatever their nature, served to flush her cheek and agitate her deeply.
It is an awkward thing, at any time, to meet with the person to whom you once believed you should have been married; to see, on the terms of mere common acquaintance, the individual with whose fate and fortune you at one time fancied your own was indissolubly bound up, for weal or woe, for better or for worse. To exchange the vapid commonplaces of the world; to barter the poor counters of that petty game called society, with her or him with whom you have walked in all the unbounded confidence of affection, speculating on a golden future, or glorying in a delicious dream of present bliss; to touch with ceremonious respect that hand you have so often held fast within your own; to behold with respectful distance that form beside which you have sat for hours, lost in happy fancies; to stand, as it were, and trace out with the eye some path in life we might have followed, wondering whither it would have led us, if to some higher pinnacle of gratified ambition, if to disappointments darker than those we have ever known, speculating on a future which is already become a past, and canvassing within our hearts the follies that have misled and the faults that have wrecked us! Such are among the inevitable reminiscences of meeting; and they are full of a soft and touching sorrow, not all unpleasing, either, as they remind us of our youth and its buoyancy. Far otherwise was the present case. Whatever might have been the bold confidence with which Lady Hester protested her belief in Norwood's honor, her own heartfelt knowledge of the man refuted the assertion. She knew thoroughly that he was perfectly devoid of all principle, and merely possessed that conventional degree of fair dealing indispensable to association with his equals. That he would do anything short of what would subject him to disgrace she had long seen; and perhaps the unhappy moment had come when even this restraint was no longer a barrier. And yet, with all this depreciating sense of the man, would it be believed she had once loved him! ay, with as sincere an affection as she was capable of feeling for anything.
'T is true, time and its consequences had effaced much of this feeling. His own indifference had done something, her new relations with the world had done more; and if she ever thought of him now, it was with a degree of half terror that there lived one man who had so thoroughly read all the secrets of her heart, and knew every sentiment of her nature.
Norwood was sitting in a chair as she entered, amusing himself with the gambols of a little Blenheim spaniel, whose silver collar bore the coronet of the Russian prince. He never perceived Lady Hester until she was close beside him, and in an easy, half-indifferent tone, said,
“How d' ye do, my Lord?”
“What, Hester!” said he, starting up, and taking her hand in both his own.
She withdrew it languidly, and seating herself, not upon the sofa to which he wished to lead her, but in a chair, asked when he had arrived, and by what route.
“I came out in a yacht; stopping a few days at Gibraltar, and a week at Malta.”
“Had you pleasant weather?”
“After we got clear of the Channel, excellent weather.”
“You came alone, I suppose?”
“Quite alone.”
“How do you get on without your dear friend Effingdale, or your 'familiar,' Upton?”
Norwood colored a little at a question the drift of which he felt thoroughly, but tried with a laugh to evade an answer.
“Are they in England? I thought I read their names at the Newmarket meeting?” asked she, after waiting in vain for a reply.
“Yes; they were both at Newmarket,” replied he, shortly.
“Was it a good meeting?”
“I can scarcely say so,” rejoined he, attempting a laugh. “My book turned out very unfortunately.”
“I heard so,” was the short reply; and in a tone so dry and significant that a dead silence followed.
“Pretty spaniel, that,” said Norwood, trying a slight sortie into the enemy's camp. “A present, I suppose, from Midchekoff?”
“Yes.”
“It is not clean bred, however, no more than his late master. Have you seen much of the Prince?”
“He comes here every evening, after the Opera.”
“What a bore that must be he is a most insufferable proser.”
“I must say I disagree with you; I reckon him excessively agreeable.”
“How changed you must be, Hes—Lady Hester.”
“I believe I am, my Lord.”
“And yet you look the same the very same as when we sauntered for hours through the old woods at Dipsley.” She blushed deeply; less, perhaps, at the words, than at the look which accompanied them.
“Is this your newly found niece or cousin?” said Norwood, as he pointed to the portrait of Kate Dal ton.
“Yes. Is n't she pretty?”
“The picture is.”
“She is much handsomer, however, a charming creature in every respect, as you will confess when you see her.”
“And for what high destiny is she meant? Is she to be a Russian Princess, a Duchessa of Italy, or the goodwife of an untitled Englishman?”
“She may have her choice, I believe, of either of the three—.”
“Happy girl!” said he half scornfully; “and when may I hope to behold so much excellence?”
“To-day, if you like to dine here.”
“I should like it much but but—”
“But what?”
“It's better to be frank at once, Hester,” said he, boldly, “and say that I feel you are grown very cold and distant toward me. This is not your old manner, this not exactly the reception I looked for. Now, if you have any cause for this, would it not be better and fairer to speak it out openly than continue to treat me in this slighting fashion? You are silent, so there is something; pray let's hear it.”
“What of Newmarket?” said she, in a low voice, so faint as almost to be a whisper.
“So that's it,” said he, as he folded his arms and looked steadfastly at her.
There was something in the cold and steady gaze he bestowed upon her that abashed, if not actually alarmed, Lady Hester. She had seen the same look once or twice before, and always as the prelude to some terrible evidence of his temper.
“Lady Hester,” said he, in a low, distinct, and very slow voice, as though he would not have her lose a word he spoke, “the explanation which a man would ask for at the peril of his life ought not, in common justice, to be quite costless to a lady. It is perfectly possible that you may not care for the price, be it so; only I warn you that if you wish for any information on the subject you allude to, I will inquire whether—”
Here he dropped his voice, and whispered two or three words rapidly in her ear, after which she lay back, pale, sick, and almost fainting, without strength to speak or even to move.
“Do not say, or still less feel, that this contest is of my provoking. Never was any man less in the humor to provoke hostilities, and particularly from old friends. I have just had bad luck, the very worst of bad luck. I have lost everything but my head; and even that, cool and calculating as it is, may go too if I be pushed too far. Now you have a frank and free confession from me. I have told you more than I would to any other living, more, perhaps, than I ought even to you.”
“Then what do you intend to do here?” asked she, faintly.
“Wait wait patiently for awhile. Fix upon anyone that I can discover mutters a syllable to my discredit, and shoot him as I would a dog.”
“There may be some who, without openly discussing, will shun your society, and avoid your intercourse.”
“Sir Stafford, for instance,” said he, with an insolent laugh. She nodded slightly, and he went on: “My Lady's influence will, I am certain, set me right in that quarter.”
“I may be unequal to the task.”
“You can at least try, madam.”
“I have tried, Norwood. I have gone the length of declaring that I disbelieved every story against you, that I reposed the most implicit faith in your honor, and that I would certainly receive you and admit your visits as heretofore.”
“And, of course, you'll keep your word?”
“If you exact it.”
“Of course I shall! Hester, this is no time for quibbling. I 've got into a mess, the worst of all the bad scrapes which have ever befallen me. A little time and a little management will pull me through but I must have both; nor is it in such a place, and with such a society as this, a man need fear investigation. I came here, as formerly one went to live 'within the rules.' Let me, at least, have the benefit of the protection for condescending to the locality.”
“Sir Stafford, my Lady,” said a servant, throwing open the door; and the old Baronet entered hastily, and, without deigning to notice Lord Norwood, walked straight up to Lady Hester, and said a few words in a low voice.
Affecting to occupy himself with the books upon the table, Norwood watched the dialogue with keen but stealthy glances, and then, as the other turned suddenly round, said,
“How d' ye do, Sir Stafford? I am glad to see you looking so well.”
“I thank you, my Lord; I am perfectly well,” said he, with a most repelling coldness.
“You are surprised to see me in Florence, for certain,” said the other, with a forced laugh.
“Very much surprised to see you here, my Lord,” was the abrupt reply.
“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so!” cried Norwood, laughing, and pretending not to feel the point of the remark. “But, nowadays, one flits about the world in slippers and dressing-gown, and travelling inflicts no fatigue. I only left England ten days ago.”
“The post comes in seven, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford. “I have had letters this morning, written this day week, and which give the last events in Town Life up to the very hour.”
“Indeed! and what's the news, then?” said he, negligently.
“If your Lordship will favor me with your company for a few minutes, I may be able to enlighten you,” said Sir Stafford, moving towards the door.
“With the greatest pleasure. Good-bye, Lady Hester,” said he, rising. “You said seven o'clock dinner, I think?”
“Yes,” replied she, but in a voice almost inarticulate from shame and terror.
“Now, Sir Stafford, I 'm at your orders,” said the Viscount, gayly, as he left the room, followed by the old man, whose crimson cheek and flashing eye bespoke the passion which was struggling within him.
Of the two who now entered Sir Stafford's library, it must be owned that Lord Norwood was, by many degrees, the more calm and collected. No one, to have looked at him, could possibly have supposed that any question of interest, not to say of deep moment, awaited him; and as he carried his eyes over the well-filled shelves and the hand some fittings of the chamber, nothing could be more naturally spoken than the few complimentary expressions on Sir Stafford's good taste and judgment.
“I shall not ask you to be seated, my Lord,” said the old Baronet, whose tremulous lip and shaking cheek showed how deep-felt was his agitation. “The few moments of interview I have requested will be, I have no doubt, too painful to either of us, nor could we desire to prolong them. To me, I own, they are very, very painful.”
These hurried, broken, and unconnected sentences fell from him as he searched for a letter among a number of others that littered the table.
Lord Norwood bowed coldly, and, without making any reply, turned his back to the fire, and waited in patience.
“I have, I fear, mislaid the letter,” said Sir Stafford, whose nervous anxiety had now so completely mastered him that he threw the letters and papers on every side without perceiving it.
The Viscount made no sign, but suffered the search to proceed without remark.
“It was a letter from Lord Effingdale,” continued the Baronet, still busied in the pursuit, “a letter written after the Newmarket settling, my Lord; and if I should be unfortunate enough not to find it, I must only trust to my memory for its contents.”
Lord Norwood gave another bow, slighter and colder than the former, as though to say that he acquiesced perfectly, without knowing in what.
“Ah! here it is! here it is!” cried Sir Stafford, at last detecting the missing document, which he hastily opened and ran his eyes over. “This letter, my Lord,” continued he, “announces that, in consequence of certain defalcations on your part, the members of the 'Whip Club' have erased your Lordship's name from their list, and declared you incapacitated from either entering a horse, or naming a winner for the stakes in future. There, there, my Lord, is the paragraph, coupled with what you will doubtless feel to be a very severe but just comment on the transaction.”
Norwood took the letter and read it leisurely, as leisurely and calmly as though the contents never concerned him, and then, folding it up, laid it on the chimney-piece beside him.
“Poor Effingdale!” said he, smiling; “he ought to spell better, considering that his mother was a governess. He writes 'naming' with an 'e.' Didn't you remark that?”
But as Sir Stafford paid no attention to the criticism, he went on:
“As to the 'Whip,' I may as well tell you, that I scratched my own name myself. They are a set of low 'Legs,' and, except poor Effy, and two or three others of the same brilliant stamp, not a gentleman amongst them.”
“The defalcation is, however, true?” asked Sir Stafford.
“If you mean to ask whether a man always wins at Doncaster or Newmarket, the question is of the easiest to answer.”
“I certainly presume that he always pays what he loses, my Lord,” replied Sir Stafford, coloring at the evasive impertinence of the other.
“Of course he does, when he has it, Sir Stafford; but that is a most essential condition, for the 'Turf' is not precisely like a mercantile pursuit.”
Sir Stafford winced under the flippant insolence with which this was spoken.
“There is not exactly a fair way to calculate profit, nor any assurance against accidental loss. A horse, Sir Stafford, is not an Indiaman; a betting man is, therefore, in a position quite exceptional.”
“If a man risks what he cannot pay, he is dishonorable,” said Sir Stafford, in a short, abrupt tone.
“I see that you cannot enter into a theme so very different from all your habits and pursuits. You think there is a kind of bankruptcy when a man gets a little behind with his bets. You don't see that all these transactions are on 'honor,' and that if one does 'bolt,' he means to 'book up' another time. There was George, your own son—”
“What of him? what of George?” cried Sir Stafford, with a convulsive grasp of the chair, while the color fled from his cheek, and he seemed ready to faint with emotion.
“Oh, nothing in the world to cause you uneasiness. A more honorable fellow never breathed than George.”
“Then, what of him? How comes his name to your lips at such a discussion as this? Tell me, this instant, my Lord. I command I entreat you!”
And the old man shook like one in an ague; but Norwood saw his vantage-ground, and determined to use it unsparingly. He therefore merely smiled, and said, “Pray be calm, Sir Stafford. I repeat that there is nothing worthy of a moment's chagrin. I was only about to observe that if I had the same taste for scandal-writing as poor Effy, I might have circulated a similar story about your son George. He left England, owing me a good round sum, for which, by the way, I was terribly 'hard up;' and although the money was paid eventually, what would you have thought of me what would the world have thought of him if I had written such an epistle as this?”
And as he spoke, his voice and manner warmed into a degree of indignant anger, in which, as if carried away, he snatched the letter from the chimney-piece and threw it into the fire. The act was unseen by Sir Stafford, who sat with his head deeply buried between his hands, a low faint groan alone bespeaking the secret agony of his heart.
“My son has, then, paid you? He owes nothing, my Lord?” said he, at last, looking up, with a countenance furrowed by agitation.
“Like a trump!” said Norwood, assuming the most easy and self-satisfied manner. “My life upon George Onslow! Back him to any amount, and against the field anywhere! A true John Bull! no humbug, no nonsense about him! straightforward and honorable, always!”
“Your position is, then, this, my Lord,” said Sir Stafford, whose impatience would not permit him to listen longer, “you have quitted England, leaving for future settlement a number of debts, for which you have not the remotest prospect of liquidation.”
“Too fast, you go too fast!” said the Viscount, laughing.
“Lord Effingdale writes the amount at thirty thousand pounds, and adds that, as a defaulter—”
“There's the whole of it,” broke in Norwood. “You ring the changes about that one confounded word, and there is no use in attempting a vindication. 'Give a dog a bad name,' as the adage says. Now, I took the trouble this very morning to go over the whole of this tiresome business with George. I explained to him fully, and, I hope, to his entire satisfaction, that I was simply unfortunate in it, nothing more. A man cannot always 'ride the winner; 'I 'm sure I wish I could. Of course, I don't mean to say that it 's not a confounded 'bore' to come out here and live in such a place as this, and just at the opening of the season, too, when town is beginning to fill; but 'needs must,' we are told, 'when a certain gent sits on the coach-box.'”
Sir Stafford stood, during the whole of this speech, with his arms folded and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He never heard one word of it, but was deeply intent upon his own thoughts. At length he spoke in a full, collected, and firm voice: “Lord Norwood I am, as you have told me, perfectly unfitted to pronounce upon transactions so very unlike every pursuit in which my life has been passed. I am alike ignorant of the feelings of those who engage in them, and of the rules of honor by which they are guided; but this I know, that the man whom his equals decline to associate with at home is not recognizable abroad; and that he who leaves his country with shame, cannot reside away from it with credit.”
“This would be a very rude speech, Sir Stafford Onslow, even with the palliative preface of your ignorance, if our relative ages admitted any equality between us. I am the least bellicose of men, I believe I can say I may afford to be so. So long, therefore, as you confine such sentiments to yourself, I will never complain of them; but if the time comes that you conceive they should be issued for general circulation—”
“Well, my Lord, what then?”
“Your son must answer for it, that's all!” said Norwood; and he drew himself up, and fixed his eye steadily on the distant wall of the room, with a look and gesture that made the old man sick at heart. Norwood saw how “his shot told,” and, turning hastily round, said: “This interview, I conclude, has lasted quite long enough for either of us. If you have any further explanations to seek for, let them come through a younger man, and in a more regular form. Good-morning.”
Sir Stafford bowed, without speaking, as the other passed out.
To have seen them both at that moment, few would have guessed aright on which side lay all the disgrace, and where the spirit of rectitude and honor.
Sir Stafford, indeed, was most miserable. If the Viscount's mock explanations did not satisfy a single scruple of his mind, was it not possible they might have sufficed with others more conversant with such matters? Perhaps he is not worse than others of his own class. What would be his feelings if he were to involve George in a quarrel for such a cause? This was a consideration that pressed itself in twenty different forms, each of them enough to appall him. “But the man is a defaulter; he has fled from England with 'shame,'” was the stubborn conviction which no efforts of his casuistry could banish; and the more he reflected on this, the less possible seemed anything like evasion or compromise.