Upon his couch the veiled Mokanna lay.--The Veiled Prophet.
The autumn sun broke through an apartment in a villa in the
neighbourhood of London, furnished with the most prodigal yet not
tasteless attention to luxury and show, within which, beside a table
strewed with newspapers, letters, and accounts, lay Richard Crauford,
extended carelessly upon a sofa which might almost have contented the
Sybarite who quarrelled with a rose-leaf. At his elbow was a bottle
half emptied and a wineglass just filled. An expression of triumph
and enjoyment was visible upon his handsome but usually inexpressive
countenance.
“Well,” said he, taking up a newspaper, “let us read this paragraph
again. What a beautiful sensation it is to see one’s name in print. ‘We
understand that Richard Crauford, Esq., M. P. for ----, is to be raised
to the dignity of the peerage. There does not perhaps exist in the
country a gentleman more universally beloved and esteemed’ (mark that,
Dicky Crauford). ‘The invariable generosity with which his immense
wealth has been employed, his high professional honour, the undeviating
and consistent integrity of his political career’ (ay, to be sure, it is
only your honest fools who are inconsistent: no man can deviate who has
one firm principle, self-interest), ‘his manly and energetic attention
to the welfare of religion’ (he! he! he!), ‘conjoined to a fortune
almost incalculable, render this condescension of our gracious Sovereign
no less judicious than deserved! We hear that the title proposed for the
new peer is that of Viscount Innisdale, which, we believe, was formerly
in the noble family of which Mr. Crauford is a distant branch.’
“He! he! he! Bravo! bravo! Viscount Innisdale, noble family, distant
branch,--the devil I am! What an ignoramus my father was not to know
that! Why, rest his soul, he never knew who his grandfather was; but the
world shall not be equally ignorant of that important point. Let me see,
who shall be Viscount Innisdale’s great-grandfather? Well, well, whoever
he is, here’s long life to his great-grandson! ‘Incalculable fortune!’
Ay, ay, I hope at all events it will never be calculated. But now for
my letters. Bah! this wine is a thought too acid for the cellars of
Viscount Innisdale! What, another from Mother H----! Dark eyes, small
mouth, sings like an angel, eighteen! Pish! I am too old for such
follies now: ‘t is not pretty for Viscount Innisdale. Humph! Lisbon,
seven hundred pounds five shillings and seven-pence--half-penny, is it,
or farthing? I must note that down. Loan for King of Prussia. Well, must
negotiate that to-morrow. Ah, Hockit, the wine-merchant, pipe of claret
in the docks, vintage of 17--. Bravo! all goes smooth for Viscount
Innisdale! Pish! from my damnable wife! What a pill for my lordship!
What says she?”
DAWLISH, DEVONSHIRE.
You have not, my dearest Richard, answered my letters for months. I do
not, however, presume to complain of your silence; I know well that you
have a great deal to occupy your time, both in business and pleasure.
But one little line, dear Richard,--one little line, surely that is not
too much now and then. I am most truly sorry to trouble you again about
money; and you must know that I strive to be as saving as possible;
(“Pish--curse the woman; sent her twenty pounds three months ago!”) but
I really am so distressed, and the people here are so pressing; and,
at all events, I cannot bear the thought of your wife being disgraced.
Pray, forgive me, Richard, and believe how painful it is in me to say so
much. I know you will answer this! and, oh, do, do tell me how you are.
Ever your affectionate wife, CAROLINE CRAUFORD.
“Was there ever poor man so plagued? Where’s my note book? Mem.--Send
Car. to-morrow 20 pounds to last her the rest of the year. Mem.--Send
Mother H----, 100 pounds. Mem.--Pay Hockit’s bill, 830 pounds. Bless me,
what shall I do with Viscountess Innisdale? Now, if I were not married,
I would be son-in-law to a duke. Mem.--Go down to Dawlish, and see if
she won’t die soon. Healthy situation, I fear,--devilish unlucky,--must
be changed. Mem.--Swamps in Essex. Who’s that?”
A knock at the door disturbed Mr. Crauford in his meditations. He
started up, hurried the bottle and glass under the sofa, where the
descending drapery completely hid them; and, taking up a newspaper, said
in a gentle tone, “Come in.” A small thin man, bowing at every step,
entered.
“Ah! Bradley, is it you, my good fellow?” said Crauford: “glad to see
you,--a fine morning: but what brings you from town so early?”
“Why, sir,” answered Mr. Bradley, very obsequiously, “something
unpleasant has--”
“Merciful Heaven!” cried Crauford, blanched into the whiteness of death,
and starting up from the sofa with a violence which frightened the
timid Mr. Bradley to the other end of the room, “the counting-house, the
books,--all safe?”
“Yes, sir, yes, at present, but--”
“But what, man?”
“Why, honoured sir,” returned Mr. Bradley, bowing to the ground, “your
partner, Mr. Jessopp, has been very inquisitive about the accounts.
He says Mr. Da Costa, the Spanish merchant, has been insinuating very
unpleasant hints, and that he must have a conversation with you at your
earliest convenience; and when, sir, I ventured to remonstrate about the
unreasonableness of attending to what Mr. Da Costa said, Mr. Jessopp
was quite abusive, and declared that there seemed some very mysterious
communication between you (begging your pardon, sir) and me, and that
he did not know what business I, who had no share in the firm, had to
interfere.”
“But,” said Crauford, “you were civil to him; did not reply hotly, eh!
my good Bradley?”
“Lord forbid, sir; Lord forbid, that I should not know my place better,
or that I should give an unbecoming word to the partner of my honoured
benefactor. But, sir, if I dare venture to say so, I think Mr. Jessopp
is a little jealous or so of you; he seemed quite in a passion at the
paragraph in the paper about my honoured master’s becoming a lord.”
“Right, honest Bradley, right; he is jealous: we must soothe him. Go, my
good fellow, go to him with my compliments, and say that I will be with
him by one. Never fear this business will be easily settled.”
And, bowing himself out of the room, Bradley withdrew. Left alone, a
dark cloud gathered over the brow of Mr. Crauford.
“I am on a precipice,” thought he; “but if my own brain does not turn
giddy with the prospect, all yet may be safe. Cruel necessity, that
obliged me to admit another into the business, that foiled me of
Mordaunt, and drove me upon this fawning rascal! So, so: I almost think
there is a Providence, now that Mordaunt has grown rich; but then his
wife died; ay, ay, God saved him, but the devil killed her. [Dieu a puni
ce fripon, le diable a noye les autres.--VOLTAIRE: Candide.] He! he! he!
But, seriously, seriously, there is danger in the very air I breathe! I
must away to that envious Jessopp instantly; but first let me finish the
bottle.”