THE MYSTERIES OF HOLMESFORD HOUSE.
The Marquis and Mr. Greenwood alighted at the door of Holmesford
House—one of the most splendid palaces of the aristocracy at the West
End.
The Marquis conducted his visitor into a large ante-room at the right
hand of the spacious hall.
The table in the middle of the apartment was covered with the most
luxurious fruits, nosegays of flowers, preserves, sweetmeats, and
delicious wines.
From this room three doors afforded communication elsewhere. One opened
into the hall, and had afforded them ingress: the other, on the opposite
side, belonged to a corridor, with which were connected the baths; and
the third, at the bottom, communicated with a vast saloon, of which we
shall have more to say very shortly.
[Illustration]
The Marquis said to the servant who conducted him and Mr. Greenwood to
the ante-room, "You may retire; and let _them_ ring the bell when all is
ready."
The domestic withdrew.
The Marquis motioned Greenwood to seat himself at the table; and,
filling two coloured glasses with real Johannisberg, he said, "We must
endeavour to while away half an hour; and then I can promise you a
pleasing entertainment."
The nobleman and the member of Parliament quaffed the delicious wine,
and indulged in discourse upon the most voluptuous subjects.
"For my part," said the Marquis, "I study how to enjoy life. I possess
an immense fortune, and do not scruple to spend it upon all the
pleasures I can fancy, or which suggest themselves to me. I am not such
an idiot as to imagine that I possess the vigour or natural warmth which
characterised my youth; and therefore I have become an Epicurean in my
recreations. I invent and devise the means of inflaming my passions; and
then—_then_ I am young once more. You will presently behold something
truly oriental in the refinements on voluptuousness which I have
conceived to produce an artificial effect on the temperament when nature
is languid and weak.
"Your lordship is right to fan the flame that burns dimly," observed
Greenwood, who, unprincipled as he was, could not, however, avoid a
feeling of disgust when he heard that old voluptuary, with one foot in
the grave, thus shamelessly express himself.
"Wine and women, my dear Greenwood," continued the Marquis, "are the
only earthly enjoyments worth living for. I hope to die, with my head
pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of
sparkling champagne in my hand."
"Your lordship would then even defy the pangs of the grim monster who
spares no one," said Greenwood.
"I have lived a joyous life, my dear friend; and when death comes, I can
say that no mortal man—not even Solomon, with his thousand wives and
concubines—nor any eastern Sultan, who had congregated the fairest
flowers of Georgia, Circassia, and Armenia in his harem,—had more deeply
drunk than I of the pleasures of love."
Just as the aged voluptuary uttered these words, a silver bell that hung
in the apartment was agitated gently by a wire which communicated with
the adjoining saloon.
"Now all is in readiness!" exclaimed the Marquis: "follow me."
The nobleman opened the door leading into the saloon, which he entered,
accompanied by Greenwood.
He then closed the door behind him.
The saloon was involved in total obscurity; the blackest darkness
reigned there, unbroken by a ray.
"Give me your hand," said the Marquis.
Greenwood complied; and the nobleman led him to a sofa at a short
distance from the door by which they had entered.
They both seated themselves on the voluptuous cushions.
For some moments a solemn silence prevailed.
At length that almost painful stillness was broken by the soft notes of
a delicious melody, which, coming from the farther end of the apartment,
stole, with a species of enchanting influence, upon the ear.
Gentle and low was that sweet music when it began; but by degrees it
grew louder—though still soft and ravishing in the extreme.
Then a chorus of charming female voices suddenly burst forth; and the
union of that vocal and instrumental perfection produced an effect
thrilling—intoxicating—joyous, beyond description.
The melody created in the mind of Greenwood an anxious desire to behold
those unseen choristers whose voices were so harmonious, so delightful.
The dulcet, metallic sounds agitated the senses with feelings of
pleasure, and made the heart beat with vague hopes and expectations.
For nearly twenty minutes did that delicious concert last. Love was the
subject of the song,—Love, not considered as an infant boy, nor as a
merciless tyrant,—but Love depicted as the personification of every
thing voluptuous, blissful, and enchanting,—Love, the representative of
all the joys which earth in reality possesses, or which the warmest
imagination could possibly conceive,—Love apart from the refinements of
sentiment, and contemplated only as the paradise of sensualities.
And never did sweeter voices warble the fervid language of passion
through the medium of a more enchanting poesy!
Twenty minutes, we said, passed with wonderful rapidity while that
inspiring concert lasted.
But even then the melody did not cease suddenly. It gradually grew
fainter and fainter—dying away, as it were, in expiring sounds of silver
harmony, as if yielding to the voluptuous enhancement of its own magic
influence.
And now, just as the last murmur floated to the ears of the raptured
listeners, a bell tinkled at a distance; and in an instant—as if by
magic—the spacious saloon was lighted up with a brilliancy which
produced a sensation like an electric shock.
At the same time, the music struck up in thrilling sounds once more; and
a bevy of lovely creatures, whom the glare suddenly revealed upon a
stage at the farther end of the apartment, became all life and activity
in a voluptuous dance.
Three chandeliers of transparent crystal had suddenly vomited forth jets
of flame; and round the walls the illumination had sprung into
existence, with simultaneous suddenness, from innumerable silver
sconces.
A glance around showed Greenwood that he was in a vast and lofty
apartment, furnished with luxurious ottomans in the oriental style; and
with tables groaning beneath immense vases filled with the choicest
flowers.
The walls were covered with magnificent pictures, representing the most
voluptuous scenes of the heathen mythology and of ancient history.
The figures in those paintings were as large as life; and no prudery had
restrained the artist's pencil in the delineation of the luxuriant
subjects which he had chosen.
There was Lucretia, struggling—vainly struggling with the ardent
Tarquin,—her drapery torn by his rude hands away from her lovely form,
which the brutal violence of his mad passion had rendered weak, supple,
and yielding.
There was Helen, reclining in more than semi-nudity on the couch to
which her languishing and wanton looks invited the enamoured Phrygian
youth, who was hastily laying aside his armour after a combat with the
Greeks.
There was Messalina—that imperial harlot, whose passions were so
insatiable and whose crimes were so enormous,—issuing from a bath to
join her lover, who impatiently awaited her beneath a canopy in a
recess, and which was surmounted by the Roman diadem.
Then there were pictures representing the various amours of
Jupiter,—Leda, Latona, Semele, and Europa—the mistresses of the god—all
drawn in the most exciting attitudes, and endowed with the most luscious
beauties.
But if those creations of art were sufficient to inflame the passions of
even that age when the blood seems frozen in the veins, how powerful
must have been the effect produced by those living, breathing, moving
houris who were now engaged in a rapid and exciting dance to the most
ravishing music.
They wore six in number, and all dressed alike, in a drapery so light
and gauzy that it was all but transparent, and so scanty that it
afforded no scope for the sweet romancing of fancy, and left but little
need for guesses.
But if their attire were thus uniform, their style of beauty was
altogether different.
We must, however, permit the Marquis to describe them to Greenwood—which
he did in whispers.
"That fair girl on the right," he said, "with the brilliant complexion,
auburn hair, and red cherry lips, is from the north—a charming specimen
of Scotch beauty. Mark how taper is her waist, and yet how ample her
bust! She is only nineteen, and has been in my house for the last three
years. Her voice is charming; and she sings some of her native airs with
exquisite taste. The one next to her, with the brown hair, and who is
somewhat stout in form, though, as you perceive, not the less active on
that account, is an English girl—a beauty of Lancashire. She is
twenty-two, and appeared four years ago on the stage. From thence she
passed into the keeping of a bishop, who took lodgings for her in great
Russell Street, Bloomsbury. The Right Reverend Prelate one evening
invited me to sup there; and three days afterwards she removed to my
house."
"Not with the consent of the bishop, I should imagine?" observed
Greenwood, laughing.
"Oh! no—no," returned the Marquis, chuckling and coughing at the same
time. "The one who is next to her—the third from the left, I mean—is an
Irish girl. Look how beautifully she is made. What vigorous, strong, and
yet elegantly formed limbs! And what elasticity—what airy lightness in
the dance! Did you observe that pirouette? How the drapery spread out
from her waist like a circular fan! Is she not a charming creature?"
"She is, indeed!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Tall, elegant, and graceful."
"And her tongue is just tipped with enough of the Irish accent—I cannot
call it _brogue_ in so sweet a being—to render her conversation
peculiarly interesting. And now mark her smile! Oh! the coquette—what a
roguish look! Has she not wickedness in those sparkling black eyes?"
"She seems an especial favourite, methinks," whispered Greenwood.
"Yes—I have a sneaking preference for her, I must admit," answered the
Marquis. "But I also like my little French girl, who is dancing next to
Kathleen. Mademoiselle Anna is an exquisite creature—and such a wanton!
What passion is denoted by her burning glances! How graceful are her
movements: survey her now—she beats them all in that soft abandonment of
limb which she just displayed. Her mother was a widow, and sold the
lovely Anna to a French Field-Marshal, when she was only fifteen. The
Field-Marshal, who was also a duke and enormously rich, placed her in a
magnificent mansion in the Chausseé d'Antin, and settled a handsome sum
upon her. But, at his death, she ran through it all, became involved in
debt, and was glad to accept my offers two years ago."
"She is very captivating," said Greenwood. "How gracefully she rounds
her dazzling white arms!"
"And how well she throws herself into the most voluptuous attitudes—and
all, too, as if unstudied!" returned the Marquis. "The beauty next to
her is a Spaniard. The white drapery, in my opinion, sets off her clear,
transparent, olive skin, to the utmost advantage. The blood seems to
boil in her veins: she is all fire—all passion. How brilliant are her
large black eyes! Behold the glossy magnificence of her raven hair!
Tall—straight as an arrow—how commanding, and yet how graceful is her
form! And when she smiles—now—you can perceive the dazzling whiteness of
her teeth. Last of all I must direct your attention to my Georgian—"
"A real Georgian?" exclaimed Greenwood.
"A real Georgian," answered the Marquis; "and, as Byron describes his
Katinka, 'white and red.' Her large melting blue eyes are full of
voluptuous, lazy, indolent, but not the less impassioned love. Her dark
brown hair is braided in a manner to display its luxuriance, and yet
leave the entire face clear for you to admire its beauty. Look at that
fine oval countenance: how pure is the red—how delicate the white!
Nature has no artificial auxiliaries there! And now when she casts down
her eyes, mark how the long, silken black lashes, slightly curling,
repose upon the white skin beneath the eyes. Is not that a charming
creature? The symmetry of her form is perfect. Her limbs are stout and
plump; but how slender are her ankles, and how exquisitely turned her
wrists! Then look at her hand. What beautiful, long taper fingers! How
sweet are her movements—light, yet languishing at the same time!"
"What is the name of that beauty?" asked Greenwood.
"Malkhatoun," replied the Marquis; "which means _The Full Moon_. That
was the name of the wife of Osman, the founder of the Ottoman empire."
"And how did you procure such a lovely creature?" inquired Greenwood,
enraptured with the beauty of the oriental girl.
"Six months ago I visited Constantinople," answered the Marquis of
Holmesford; "and in the Slave-Market I beheld that divinity. Christians
are not allowed to purchase slaves; but a convenient native merchant was
found, who bought her for me. I brought her to England; and she is well
contented to be here. Her own apartment is fitted up in an oriental
style; she has her Koran, and worships Alla at her leisure; and when I
make love to her, she swears by the Prophet Mahommed that she is happy
here. The romance of the thing is quite charming."
"Of course she cannot speak English?" said Greenwood interrogatively.
"I beg your pardon," answered the Marquis. "She has an English master,
who is well acquainted with Persian, which she speaks admirably; and I
can assure you that she is a most willing pupil. But of that you shall
judge for yourself presently."
During this conversion, the dance proceeded.
Nothing could be more voluptuous than that spectacle of six charming
creatures, representing the loveliness of as many different countries,
engaged in a _pas de six_ in which each studied how to set off the
graces of her form to the utmost advantage.
The genial warmth of the apartment—the delicious perfume of the
flowers—the brilliancy of the light—the exciting nature of the
pictures—and the enchantment of that dance in which six beings of the
rarest beauty were engaged,—filled the mind of Greenwood with an
ecstatic delirium.
Not the rich and luscious loveliness of Diana Arlington, whom
circumstances had made his own,—not the matured and exuberant charms of
Eliza Sydney, who had escaped his snares,—not the bewitching beauty of
Ellen Monroe, from whose brow he had plucked the diadem of purity,—nor
the licentious fascinations of Lady Cecilia Harborough, who sold herself
to him for his gold,—not all these had so stirred his heart, so inflamed
his ardent imagination, as the spectacle which he now beheld.
At length the dance terminated.
The Marquis then advanced towards the stage, accompanied by Greenwood,
and said, "Many thanks, young ladies, for this entertainment. Allow me
to present an intimate friend of mine—a gentleman whom I am anxious to
initiate in the mysteries of Holmesford House."
Greenwood bowed; the six beauties returned his salutation; and the
Marquis then proposed to adjourn to the ante-room, where supper was
served up.
The ladies descended from the platform by a flight of steps on one side.
"I shall give my arm to Kathleen," said the Marquis. "Do you escort
whomever you fancy. There are no jealousies here."
Without hesitation Greenwood advanced towards the charming Malkhatoun,
who took the arm which he presented to her, with a sweet smile—as if of
gratitude for the preference.
As Greenwood thus stepped forward to meet her, he now for the first time
observed the orchestra, which was situated in a large recess on the
right of the stage, and had consequently been unseen by him from the
place which he had originally occupied at the other end of the saloon.
The party now proceeded to the ante-room before mentioned.
There a magnificent repast was served up.
They all seated themselves at table, Kathleen next to the Marquis, and
Malkhatoun by the side of Greenwood.
At first the conversation languished somewhat, the ladies being abashed
and reserved in the presence of a stranger; but as they grew warmed by
degrees with the generous wine, their tongues were unlocked; and in half
an hour they rattled and chatted away as if they had never known
restraint.
They laughed and displayed their beautiful teeth: their eyes flashed
fire, or became voluptuously melting: and their cheeks were animated
with the hues of the rose.
Even the fair Mohammedan did not refuse the sparkling champagne which
effervesced so deliciously over the brim of the crystal glass.
The Scotch and Irish girls warbled the sweetest snatches of song which
Greenwood had ever heard; and then the French damsel rose and gave
admirable imitations of Taglioni's, Ellsler's, and Duvernay's respective
styles of dancing—throwing, however, into her movements and attitudes a
wantonness which even the most exciting efforts of those _artistes_
never displayed.
It was now nearly two in the morning; and Greenwood intimated to the
Marquis his wish to retire.
"Just as you please," replied the old voluptuary, who had drawn Kathleen
upon his knee, and was toying with her as if they were unobserved: "but
if you like to accept of a bed here, there is one at your service—and,"
he added, in a whisper, "you need not be separated from Malkhatoun."
"Is your lordship in earnest?" asked Greenwood, also in a low tone,
while joy flashed from his eyes.
"Certainly I am," replied the Marquis. "Do you think that I brought you
hither merely to tantalize you?"
Greenwood smiled, and then redoubled his attentions towards the charming
Georgian, who returned his smiles, and seemed to consider herself
honoured by his caresses.
On a signal from the Marquis, the Scotch, English, French, and Spanish
girls withdrew.
"One glass of wine in honour of those houris who have just left us!"
cried the nobleman, who was already heated with frequent potations, and
inflamed by the contiguity of his Hibernian mistress.
"With pleasure," responded Greenwood.
The toast was drunk; and then the Marquis whispered something to
Greenwood, pointing at the same time to the door which opened into the
bathing rooms.
The member of Parliament nodded an enraptured assent.
"There is a constant supply of hot water, kept ready for use," observed
the nobleman. "Each room is provided with a marble bath; and vases of
eau-de-cologne afford the means of cooling the water and imparting to it
a delicious perfume at the same time. You will also find wines, fruits,
and all species of delicate refreshments there; and adjoining each
bath-room is a bed-chamber. With Malkhatoun as your companion, you may
imagine yourself a Sultan in the privacy of his harem; and, remember,
that no soul will intrude upon you in that joyous retreat."
Greenwood presented his hand to Malkhatoun, and led her away in
obedience to the nobleman's suggestion.
The door by which they left the ante-room admitted them into a passage
dimly lighted with a single lamp, and where several doors opened into
the bathing apartments.
Into one of those rooms Greenwood and the beautiful Georgian passed.
Shortly afterwards the Marquis and Kathleen entered another.
Here we must pause: we dare not penetrate farther into the mysteries of
Holmesford House.