Carabas House.
Carabas House is in Beaumanoir-square, as most people know. Long
before the smart stuccoed residences--with their plate-glass windows,
their conservatoried balconies, their roomy porticoes--sprung up, like
Aladdin's palaces, at the command of the great wizard-builder, Compo,
who so recently died a baronet and a millionaire; when the ground on
which Beaumanoir-square now stands was a dreary swamp, across which
our great-grandmothers, in fear of their lives, were carried to
Ranelagh, Carabas House stood, a big, rambling, red-bricked mansion,
surrounded on all sides by a high wall, and looking something between
a workhouse, a lunatic asylum, and a gaol. To the Marquis of Carabas
of those days it mattered little what was the aspect of his ancestral
home, as he, from the time of his succession, had resolutely declined
to see it, or any other part of the domain whence his title and
estates were derived, preferring to spend his life on the Continent of
Europe, in the society of agreeable men and women, and in the
acquisition of a splendid collection of pictures, statues, and other
_objets d'art_, which at his lordship's lamented demise were sold in
Paris at a world-famous sale extending over many days, the pecuniary
result of which was hailed with the greatest satisfaction by his
lordship's heir. For Mr. Purrington, his lordship's cousin, who
succeeded to the title and estates, wanted money very badly indeed, he
had been speculating for a very long time on the chances of his
succession, and he had to pay very dearly for these speculations. He
had contested his county in the Tory interest four separate times, at
a cost known only to himself, his wife, and his head-agent. He had
married the daughter of an Irish peer; a lovely woman full of talent,
affectionate, loyal, energetic, and thoroughly understanding her
position as--a county member's wife, but with a number of impecunious
relations, all of whom looked for assistance to the heir to an English
marquisate. He was a crack shot, and always paired about the 25th of
July for the remainder of the session, having, according to his own
account, the great luck of having one of the best Scotch moors "lent
to him" for three weeks from the 12th. He was a capital judge of a
horse, a keen rider to hounds, and the invariable occupant of a little
box near Egerton Lodge, with a stud sufficient to see him "out" four
days a week; but this, as he pathetically put it, was his "only
expense." In the season, Lady Fanny had her Wednesday-evening
receptions, when a perpetual stream of fashionables, political people,
and the usual ruck of young men who are met everywhere, would filter
from ten till one through her little drawing-rooms in Clarges-street;
and her Saturday dinners of eight, which were very good and very
enjoyable, and where pleasant people in various social circles met
together without the dread of seeing their names announced in the
fashionable journals. But all these things cost a great deal of money;
and when Mr. Purrington became the Marquis of Carabas, he was very
nearly at the end of his tether.
The marquisate of Carabas, however, was by no means an empty title, a
grand position lacking means to support its proper state, than which
it is impossible to fancy anything more painful. During the late
lord's lifetime the revenue had very far exceeded the expenditure, and
the Parisian sale had left a very large balance at Coutts's; so that
the new people entered upon their estate with great comfort, and were
enabled to carry out their peculiarly extensive views of life without
embarrassing themselves in the slightest degree. It was shortly after
their accession that the big brick screen-wall was replaced by a light
and elegant bronze railing; that the rambling red-bricked mansion was
transformed into a modern stone house; that the Marchioness of Carabas
took her position as a leader of _ton_, and in Carabas House, so long
black and desolate and abandoned, chimneys smoked, and lights blazed,
and music resounded, and the best people in London found themselves
gathered together three times a week.
The best people? The very best.
It was the fashion in certain circles to talk of "the mixture" which
you met at Carabas House; and the young Duchess of Taffington (whose
father was old Bloomer the banker of Lombard-street, and whose
grandfather was old Bloöm the money-lender and diamond-merchant of
Amsterdam) and old Lady Clanronald, with whom her husband, then the
Hon. Ulick Strabane, fell in love, from seeing her looking over the
blind in her father's (the apothecary's) window in Drogheda,--both
these great ladies shrugged their very different pairs of shoulders
whenever the Marchioness's receptions were alluded to before them; but
neither of these leaders of fashion could deny that princes of the
blood, royal dukes, stars and garters, ambassadors, belles of the
season, Foreign-Office clerks, and all the great creatures of the day,
were blocked together, week after week, on the staircase at Carabas
House; or that the Marchioness herself took _pas_ and precedence,
according to her rank, and was one of the most distinguished and most
highly-thought-of guests wherever she chose to go.
"That's so!" as Jack Hawkes, of the F.O., would remark to his
familiars; "neither the Duchess nor old Clanronald can get over that,
and that's what makes them so wild; and as to the mixture they talk
about, that's lions. She's in great form, don't you know, Lady Carabas
is, and quite fit, but her weakness is lions; and I'm bound to say
that you meet some people at Carabas House who are quite out of the
hunt. If any fellow get's talked about, no matter what he is--writing
fellow, painting fellow, fiddling fellow--I'll lay odds you'll find
him there. There's what's his name--Burkinyoung: man who made a stir
last year with his poems; they had him down there, sir, at their place
on the river--Weir Lodge---and he used to sit on the lawn under the
trees with Lady Carabas pouring eau-de-cologne on his head, and some
of her lot--Maude Allingham, and Agnes Creswell, and that lot, don't
you know--fanning him and keeping the flies off while he composed; no
one was allowed to come near, for fear of disturbing him. Give you my
honour, heard it first-hand from Chinny Middleton of the Blues, who
pulled up from Windsor in his canoe, and was going to land, as usual,
and got warned off, by George, as though he'd got the plague on
board!"
There was a good deal of truth in Mr. Hawkes's remarks, Lady Carabas
being Mrs. Leo Hunter on a very superior scale. Her passion was that
everyone distinguished not merely in her own rank in life but in every
other should be seen in her rooms; and from her position and by her
fascinating manner she generally managed to attain her object. The
pilot of the state ship, at a period when opposition winds were
howling loud and the political horizon was black with threatened
storm, would find time to pass a few minutes at one of Lady Carabas's
receptions, however haggard his looks, however burning his brain. The
right honourable gentleman the leader of the Opposition, who for the
last month had been gathering himself together for a tiger-like spring
on the state pilot, might have been seen, on the night before he made
his grand onslaught, jammed into a corner of the staircase at Carabas
House, looking like the Sphinx in evening dress, and pleasantly
bantering Mr. Mulvaney, the celebrated "special correspondent" of the
_Statesman_. Anyone talked of in any way; the _belles_ of the season;
pretty women, presentable of course, but quite out of the Carabas set;
dawning lights in politics, no matter of what party; artists, young
and old--of everyone whom you saw at Carabas House you would learn
that they had done something special; indeed, Jack Hawkes, an
invaluable _cicerone_, could talk for two hours on a grand night, and
not get through his list-- "Who are all these strange people that one
sees nowhere else? Well, everybody's somebody, and it's difficult to
know where to begin. Let's see. That short, stout, common-looking man
is Vireduc, the great engineer and contractor--builds bridges,
railroads, and those kind of things, don't you know--horrible fellow,
who's always telling you he came to London with eightpence in his
pocket, and rose from nothing, as though one couldn't see that. Woman
sitting this side the ottoman is Mrs. Goodchild; writes novels--pretty
good, they say. I don't read; I haven't any time. Her husband's
somewhere about; but he's nobody--only asked because of his wife. The
little man talking to her is Bistry the surgeon--have your leg off
before you can say 'knife;' and the brown-faced man, who looks so
bored, is Sir Alan Tulwar, Indian-army man, made K.C.B. for something
he did out there--Punjaub, don't you know? The little man with the big
head is Polaski the flute-player; and the fat man with the red face is
Ethelred Jinks, the Queen's Counsel. That pretty little fair girl is
Miss Wren, who shot the burglar down in Hampshire three years ago; and
the little boy in black, as you call him, is Jules Brissot, the Red
Republican, who was blown off a barricade on the 4th of December, and
settled down here as a--what do you call it--tutor."
This will suffice as a specimen of Mr. Hawkes's conversation, which,
on such occasions, had the singular merit of having a substratum of
truth.
But though lions of all kinds were to be found roaring during the
season at Carabas House, none were so welcome as the musical lions,
both native and foreign. In her younger days, Lady Carabas had had a
pretty little voice herself, and even in Clarges-street she had always
managed to secure some of the best professional talent at a very much
less expense than any of her friends; and when once Lord Carabas had
succeeded, "musical mossoo," as Jack Hawkes was accustomed to call all
foreigners who played or sung professionally, had his headquarters in
Beaumanoir-square. Heinrich Katzenjammer, who, being a native of
Emmerich on the Lower Rhine, thought proper to advertise in the
English newspapers in the French language, had not been "de retour"
many hours before his limp glazed card was on the hall-table at
Carabas House. Baton, the _chef d'orchestre_, would as soon have
thought of being absent from his conductor's stool on a Saturday night
as from Lady Carabas's luncheon-table on a Sunday afternoon. There the
most promising pupils of the Academy of Music made their _débuts_ in
cantatas or operettas, written by distinguished amateurs, and thereby
considered themselves entitled ever after to describe themselves as
"of the nobility's concerts;" and there, on festival nights, could you
check off the principal singers and players whom London delighted to
honour, with the amateurs, the _dilettanti_, and the _cognoscenti_,
who always follow in their wake.
It was a soft bright night in early summer, and Beaumanoir-square was
filled with flashing lamps and whirling carriages, and stamping
horses, and excited drivers, and roaring linkmen. It was a grand night
at Carabas House, and all London was expected there. The police had
enough to do to make the vehicles keep in line; and when some of the
royal carriages familiarly used the royal privilege and dashed through
here and cut in there, the confusion increased a thousandfold; and it
was with the greatest difficulty that the crowd surging round the door
were thrust back right and left to allow the visitors to enter, or
were prevented from casting themselves under the wheels of the
carriages as they drew up, with the recklessness of Juggernaut
victims. Halfway down the line was a perfectly appointed brougham, in
which sat Miles Challoner and the friend with whom he was staying.
Lord Sandilands was in every respect a remarkable-looking man;
tall and upright, with a polished bald head slightly fringed with
snow-white soft hair; thin clean-cut features; gray eyes, from which
most of the fire had faded; and small carefully-trimmed gray whiskers.
His appearance and manners were those of a past age; now in his
evening dress he wore a high stiff white-muslin cravat, an elaborately
got-up cambric shirt-frill, a blue coat with brass buttons, white
waistcoat, black trousers fitting tightly round the ankles, silk
stockings and shoes. His voice was particularly soft and clear, as,
replying to some remark of his companion, he said: "No, indeed; I
think both you and I are perfectly right; you in consenting to come, I
in having persuaded you; besides, I should have scarcely dared to
present myself to Lady Carabas without you. Her ladyship's dictum is
that you require rousing, and to-night is to be the first experiment
in rousing you."
"Her ladyship is very kind to interest herself in me," said Miles. "I
have no claim upon her thoughts."
"My dear fellow," said Lord Sandilands, "you will very soon see that
Lady Carabas interests herself about everybody and everything. That is
her _métier_. She will talk to the Bishop of Boscastle about the
Additional Curates' Fund, and to Sir Charles Chifney about his chance
for the Leger. She knows what price Scumble got for his Academy
picture; and can tell you the plot of Spofforth's five-act play, which
is as yet unwritten. She could tell you what the Duke of Brentford
said to Tom Forbes, who arrived late on escort-duty at the last
Drawing-room--she couldn't quote the Duke's exact words, which were
full-flavoured; and could give you the heads of the charge which Judge
Minos will deliver on the great libel case; and with all that she
dresses as well as Lady Capisbury herself, and bears the whole weight
of that household on her own shoulders. There's no estate in Britain
better managed than Carabas, and her ladyship is her own agent,
steward, bailiff,--everything."
"She must be a wonderful woman."
"Wonderful! there's nothing like her! Lord Carabas thinks of nothing
but shooting and fishing. Her eldest son, the Earl of Booterstown, is
a religious monomaniac; and her youngest, Lord Grey de Malkin, is one
of your political new lights, lecturing at mechanics' institutes, and
making speeches to working-men. You know the kind of fellow. Now, here
we are!--Tell Fisher to wait, James,"--to the footman,--"we sha'n't
stay very long."
The hall was filled with people, all of whom the old gentleman seemed
to know, and greeted with somewhat stately courtesy. "A regular
Carabas crush," whispered he to Miles, as they commenced the ascent of
the staircase. "Everybody here! The Lord Chancellor next to you, and
the Bishop of Boscastle coming down the stairs. He has evidently dined
here, sweet old thing; and is going away before the worldly music
begins.--How do you do, my lord? I trust Mrs. Shum is well--Deuced
fine woman, by the way, is Mrs. Shum, my dear Miles.--Ha, Ellenbogen!
you in London, and I've not seen you? Only arrived last night, eh?
Come to me to-morrow, eh? _Au revoir!_--That is the famous German
violinist; nothing like his touch in the world--so crisp, so perfectly
sympathetic. There's Lady Carabas at her post, of course. Brave woman,
breasting this surging ocean of visitors. Gad, how glad she must be
when it's all over!"
Following his friend's glance, Miles looked up and saw Lady Carabas
stationed at the head of the staircase. A tall handsome woman of
fifty, with all the look and bearing of a _grande dame_, a little
softened by the frank geniality of her manner. She received Miles
Challoner, on his presentation to her, with something more than mere
graciousness--with cordiality; then, turning to Lord Sandilands, said,
"She's here."
"Is she, indeed?" said the old gentleman with equal earnestness.
"Yes, and in excellent spirits: I have not the least doubt of her
success."
"That is delightful;" and they passed on. When they had gone a few
steps, Miles asked his friend who was the lady of whom he and Lady
Carabas were speaking.
"My dear fellow," said Lord Sandilands with a little chuckle, "I
haven't the remotest notion. Dear Lady Carabas is always giving one
half-confidences about people she's interested in, and 'pon my life
I'm too old to open my heart indiscriminately, and make myself
partaker of the joys and sorrows of half the world. So, as she's a
dear good creature, and I would not offend her for the world, I nod my
head, and grin, and pretend I know all about it; and I find that
answers very well."
Miles laughed at the old gentleman's evident satisfaction, and they
entered the rooms. A large movable platform, so slightly raised as to
give the performers sufficient altitude above the spectators without
disconcerting them by any pretensions to a stage, occupied one end
of the spacious apartment, a recent erection built specially for
concert-giving purposes, and with all the latest acoustic
improvements. Opposite the platform, bristling with seats for the
instrumentalists, stood the conductor's desk. To the right of this
were a few benches for the most distinguished guests, and behind it
were the seats for the general company. All the seats were unoccupied
at present, and the company were grouped together about the room,
chatting freely. It was early in the season at present; and that
frightful lack of conversation which necessarily falls on people who
have naturally very little to say, and who, having seen each other
every night for three months, have exhausted that little, had not as
yet made itself felt. Miles Challoner, as he looked round on the
beautiful women so exquisitely dressed, the brightly-lighted room, the
inexpressible air of luxury and elegance which pervaded the entire
scene, as he thought that for the future he might, if he so chose,
have similar pleasant resorts at his command, felt the oppressive
thoughts, the dull, dead level of world-weariness and vapidity,
gradually slipping from him. His eyes brightened, he looked round him
eagerly, and his whole demeanour was so fresh and spirited and
youthful as to seriously annoy several _blasé_ young men of two or
three-and-twenty, who had long since used up all signs of youth, and
who inquired of each other who was the rustic, gushing person that old
Sandilands had brought with him.
Lord Sandilands had himself noticed the change in his friend's manner,
and was about to rally him on it, when the musicians came trooping
into the room and took their places. Sir Purcell Arne, the well-known
amateur composer, who was to conduct, rapped the desk in front of him;
the foreign professionals who had settled themselves modestly in the
back rows, uttered profound sounds of "Hsh--sh!" and the company
generally seated themselves. Lord Sandilands and Miles were proceeding
with the rest, when the former saw himself beckoned by Lady Carabas to
the place of distinction by her side, and he took his young friend
with him.
The ouverture ought to have been very well played, for it was very
much applauded at its conclusion, though, as Jack Hawkes remarked to
the young lady sitting next to him, that might possibly have been
because they were so glad it was over. It is certain that during the
performance several of the more excitable foreigners ground their
teeth, and covered their ears with their hands, while at its close Sir
Purcell Arne addressed two recreant members of the orchestra--the
second cornet and the first clarinet, being respectively a young
gentleman in the Coldstreams, and an old gentleman in the India
Office--in terms of the strongest opprobrium. Sir Purcell's
good-temper was restored after his son, a favourite pupil of
Ellenbogen's, had played a solo on the violin; and during the applause
consequent thereon, he crossed over to Lady Carabas's seat, and
whispered, "She's quite ready; shall I bring her in?" Lady Carabas,
too much excited to speak, gave him an affirmative nod; and the
enthusiasm had scarcely subsided, to be renewed with tenfold force as
Sir Purcell returned leading by the hand a young lady, whom, with one
of his best bows, he left facing the audience while he went back to
his conductor's desk.
The young lady stood perfectly unmoved by the storm of applause which
hailed her arrival, the only sign of emotion which she betrayed being
a slight contraction of her thin decisive lips; and this was only
momentary. She was a decidedly pretty girl, Miles thought; with rich
brown eyes, and well-formed features, and slight though rounded
figure. In her dark chestnut hair, which was banded close round her
head, and gathered into a large knot behind, she wore one white rose,
and another in the front of her plain white-silk dress. Other ornament
had she none, save a gold locket with a horseshoe in turquoises on
her neck, and a bracelet, a band of plain gold, on one arm. Who was
this handsome and distinguished-looking girl who was received with so
much _empressement?_ Miles Challoner took up a perfumed programme that
lay beside him, and read her name--Miss Grace Lambert.