IN THE SMOKING-ROOM.
Among the advantages upon which I have not sufficiently dilated, the
Maecenas Club had a smoking-room, of which the members were justly
proud. Great improvements have been lately made; but in those days the
smoking-room was a novel ingredient in club-comfort, and its necessity
was not sufficiently recognized. Old gentlemen, generally predominant
in clubs, were violently opposed to tobacco, save in the shape of the
club snuff; regarded smoking as a sure sign of dissipation, if not of
entirely perverted morality, and combined together in committee and
out of committee to worry, harass, and annoy the devotees of the
cigar. Consequently these last were in most clubs relegated to a big
gaunt room at the top of the house, which had palpably been formed by
the removal of the partition between two servants' attics, a room
with bare walls, an oil-cloth-covered floor, like a hair-dresser's
cutting-room, a few imitation-marble-topped tables, some windsor
chairs, and a slippery black-leather ottoman stuck against the wall.
Thither, to that tremendous height, the waiter, humorously supposed to
be devoted to the room, seldom penetrated; and you sat and smoked your
cigar, and sipped your gin-and-seltzer when you were lucky enough to
get it, and watched your neighbour looming through a fog of his own
manufacture in solemn silence. It required a bold man to penetrate to
such howling wildernesses as the smoking-rooms of the Retrenchment,
the True Blue, and the No Surrender in those days; nor were they much
better off at the Rag, save in summer, when they rigged up a tent in
the back-yard, and held their _tabagie_ under canvas. At the Minerva
they had no smoking-room; the bishops, and other old women in power
there, distinctly refusing to sanction a place for any such orgies.
But at the Maecenas the smoking-room was _the_ room in the house. None
of your attics or cock-lofts, none of your stair-climbing, to get into
a bare garret at the end of your toil. At the Maecenas you went
straight through the hall, past all the busts of the eminent
gentlemen, through a well-lit stone passage, where, if you were lucky,
you might see, in a little room on the right, honest Mr. Turquand the
steward brewing a jorum of that gin-punch for which the Club was so
renowned; past the housekeeper's room, where Mrs. Norris sat
breast-high in clean table-linen, and surrounded by garlands of lemons
and groves of spices; past the big refrigerator, into which Tom
Custance threatened to dip little Captain Rodney one night, when that
peppery light-weight had had too much of the Club claret; and then,
built over what should have been the garden, you found the pride of
the little M. A big square room, lit by a skylight in summer, or
sun-burner in winter, with so much wall paper as could be seen of a
light-green colour, but with the walls nearly covered with sketches in
oil, crayon, and water-colour, contributed by members of the Club.
From mantel-shelf to ceiling had been covered by Gilks, in distemper,
with "Against Wind and Tide"--a lovely bit of seascape, to look at
which kept you cool on the hottest night; opposite hung Sandy
Clobber's hot staring "Sphinx and Pyramids;" Jack Long's crayon
caricature of "King Jamie inditing the Counterblast" faced a charming
sketch of a charming actress by Acton, R.A.; and there were a score of
other gems of art. Such cosy chairs and luxurious lounges; such
ventilation, watched over specially by Fairfax, the oldest and perhaps
the jolliest member of the Club; such prime cigars and glorious
drinks, and pungent anecdote and cheerful conversation, were to be had
nowhere else.
The room was full when Laurence and Bertram entered, and the former
was immediately received with what dramatic critics call "an ovation;"
that is, the men generally shook hands with him, and expressed
themselves glad to see him back.
"And I see by your dress that you've no sooner arrived than you've
plunged into the vortex of society, Colonel," said old Fairfax from
his post of honour in the chimney-corner.
"Not I, Mr. Fairfax," replied Laurence, laughing; "I've only been to
the play."
"What! not to Spofforth's,-not to the Parthenium?"
"Why not? is there any harm? is it a riddle? what is it? Let me know at
once, because, whatever it is, I've been there."
"No, no; only there's been a difference of opinion about the new
piece. Billy Gomon thinks it capital, and gave us a flaming account of
it; but since then Captain Hetherington has come in and spoken very
strongly against it. Now, Colonel, you can act as umpire between these
two referees."
"Not at all, not at all," said Mr. Gomon, a mild baldheaded little
gentleman who did Boswell to Spofforth, and was rewarded for
perpetually blowing his idol's trumpet by opera-ivories and
first-night private boxes, and occasional dinners with pleasant
theatrical people. "I merely said that there was--ah, an
originality,--a cleverness,--and--a--above all a gentlemanly tone in
the piece such as you never find in any one's writings but
Spofforth's."
Most of the men sitting round laughed heartily as Billy Gomon uttered
his sentiments in the mildest, most deprecatory manner, and with the
pleasantest smile.
"Well, that's not bad to begin with; and now, Cis, what have you got
to say?"
A big man, half sitting, half lolling on an ottoman at the other side
of the room, wholly occupied in smoking a very large cigar, staring at
the ceiling and pulling his long tawny moustaches, looked up at the
mention of his name and said:
"Well, look here, Alsager I'm not clever, and all that sort of thing,
you know; I'm not particularly sweet on my own opinion; of course,
being a Plunger, I can't spell or write, or pronounce my _r_'s
'cordin' to _Punch_ and the other funny dogs, and so I've no doubt
Billy Gomon's right; and it's doosid clever of Mr. Spofforth, a
gentleman whose acquaintance I've not the pleasure of possessing--and
don't want, by Jove, that's more!-doosid clever of Mr. Spofforth to
rake up a dunghill story out of the newspapers when it had been
forgotten, and to put the unfortunate devils who were concerned in it
on to the stage, and bring back all the old scandal. I've no doubt
it's doosid clever; and I'm sure it's a very gentlemanly thing of Mr.
Spofforth to do; so gentlemanly that, if any of my people had been
mixed up in it, I'd have tried the strength of my hunting-crop over
Mr. Spofforth's shoulders!" And having concluded, Cis Hetherington
leant back lazily, and resumed his contemplation of the ceiling.
There was a pause for a moment, and then Bertram said:
"Quite right, Hetherington; horrible piece, dreary and dirty. D--d
unpleasant to think that one can't go to the theatre with a modest
woman without having innuendoes and _doubles entendres_ thrown at
you."
"By Jove, a second edition of the miraculous gift of tongues!" said a
man seated on Laurence's right. "I never heard the Blab so charmingly
eloquent. You were with him at the theatre, Alsager; who was the lady
whom he so deliciously described as a 'modest woman' that he
escorted?" The speaker was Lord Dollamore, a man of good abilities and
position, but a confirmed Sybarite and a renowned _roué_.
"Bertram escorted no one; he merely had a seat in a box with Lady
Mitford and her husband," said Laurence coldly. He hated Lord
Dollamore. As he himself said, he "didn't go in to be strait-laced;
but Dollamore was a cold-blooded ruffian about women, and, worse
still, a boaster."
"Ah, with Lady Mitford!" said Lord Dollamore, slowly expelling a
mouthful of smoke; "I have the pleasure of her acquaintance. She's
very nice, Alsager!"
There was a succulence in the tone in which these last words were
spoken that sounded unpleasantly on Laurence's ear; so he said
shortly, "I saw Lady Mitford for the first time to-night."
"Oh, she's very nice; a little too classical and statuesque and
Clite-like for my taste, which leans more to the _beauté-du-diable_
order; but still Lady Mitford's charming. Poor little woman! she's
like the young bears, with all her troubles before her."
"Her troubles won't be many, one would think," said Laurence,
who was growing irritated under his companion's half-patronizing,
half-familiar tone in speaking of Lady Mitford.
"Won't they?" said Lord Dollamore, with another slow expulsion of
smoke; this time in the shape of rings, which he dexterously shot one
through the other.
"I can't see how they should. She has beauty, wealth, and position; a
young husband who dotes on her,--Oh, you needn't grin; I saw him with
her in the box."
"Yes, and I saw him without her, but with Bligh and Winton, the two
Clarks, who are _coryphées_ at Drury Lane, and Mdlle. Carambola from
the cirque at Leicester Square, turning in to supper at Dubourg's.
Now, then, what do you say to that?"
"Nothing. Mitford told his wife he was going to supper with Bligh and
Winton. I heard him."
"Very likely; but you didn't hear him mention the female element. No,
of course not."
"Sir Charles Mitford being, I presume, a gentleman, that suggestion is
simply absurd."
"Pardon me, my dear Colonel Alsager, I never make any suggestion that
can be called 'simply absurd.' The fact is, Alsager, that though I'm
only, I suppose, five or six years older than you, I've seen a deal
more of life."
"Of which side of it?"
"Well, the most interesting,--the worst, of course. While you've been
mounting guard and saluting colours, and teaching bullet-headed
recruits to form square, and all that kind of thing, I've been
studying human nature."
"How delightful for human nature!"
"That may or may not be," said Lord Dollamore calmly, and without the
smallest sign of irritation; "but this I know, that all boy-and-girl
marriages invariably come to grief. A man must have his fling some
time or other; if he does not have it before his marriage, he will
after. And between ourselves, Alsager, this Mitford is a devilish bad
egg. I've known of him all his life. He had a fast turn when he was a
mere boy, and didn't stick at trifles to raise money, as you may have
heard."
"I know all about that; but--"
"And do you think that, now that he has plenty of money and health and
position, he won't go in for that style of pleasure which he formerly
risked everything to obtain? Nonsense, my dear Alsager; _cela va sans
dire_. Lady Mitford will have to run the gauntlet of society, as do
most married women with loose husbands; and will certainly be more
successful than most of her competitors."
Laurence put down his cigar, and looking steadily at his companion,
said, "I don't envy the man who could be blackguard enough to attempt
to throw a shadow on such a woman's life."
"Don't you?" said Lord Dollamore, as steadily returning the glance;
"of course not." Then, in a somewhat lighter tone, he added, "By the
way, have you seen the Hammonds lately?"
A flush, noticeable even through the red bronze, rose on Laurence's
cheeks; but before he could speak, a man who was sitting on the other
side of Lord Dollamore cut into the conversation by saying, "Oh, by
the way, there was a brother of Percy Hammond's dining here last week;
Prothero asked me to meet him. He's a sporting parson, and a
tremendous character. He told us he always knew when woodcock came in
by the lesson for the day."
"I know him," said Cis Hetherington, who had lounged up and joined the
party; "Tom Hammond, a thundering big fellow. His vicarage, or
rectory, or whatever it is, is close by Dursley; and at the last
election Tom seconded my brother--Westonhanger, you know--for the
county. The Rads brought over a lot of roughs, navvies and fellows who
were working at the railway close by; and whenever Tom spoke these
fellows kept yelling out all sorts of blackguard language. Tom roared
to them to stop it; and when they wouldn't, he quietly let himself
drop over the front of the hustings, right into the middle of 'em.
He's a splendid bruiser, you know; and he let out--one two, one
two--right and left, and sent half-a-dozen of 'em flying like
skittles. Then he asked if any more was wanted, carefully settled his
clerical white choker, and went back to the hustings again."
"He owed your brother a good turn after the way in which he astonished
your governor a year or two ago, Cis," said Lord Dollamore.
"What was that? Did he pull the Duke up for coming late to the church,
or for not hunting the county? The last most likely, I should think."
"Not at all. You all know what a tremendous swell Cis's brother, the
Duke, is,--you know it, Cis, as well as anybody,--wants all the
pavement to himself in St. James's Street, and finds the arch on
Constitution Hill not quite high enough for his head. Well, a year or
two ago Tom Hammond had a splendid roan horse which he used to drive
in a light Whitechapel to cover. The Duke saw this animal, and thought
it would make a splendid match for a roan of his; so he sent his
coachman over to Tom's little place to ask if he'd sell. Tom saw the
coachman, heard what he had to say, and then told him he never spoke
to grooms, except to give them orders; if the Duke wanted the horse,
he must come himself. I can't think what message the man can have
given to his master; but two days after, the Duke's phaeton pulled up
at the parsonage door, and the Duke himself bowed to Tom, who ran to
the window with his mouth full of lunch. Tom's account of the
interview was delicious. He imitates the Duke's haw-haw manner to
perfection,--you don't mind, Cis? He asked him in, and told him that
the Stilton was in prime cut; but the Duke declined, and said, I
understand you wish to sell your roan, Mr. Hammond.' 'Then your grace
understands a good deal more than I gave you credit for,' said Tom.
'Then you don't want to sell the horse? I want him particularly for a
match-horse.' 'No,' said Tom, 'I won't sell him. I'm a poor parson,
and I wouldn't take three hundred for him; but I'll tell you what I'll
do, your grace. I'm always open to a bit of sporting; and _I'll toss
your grace for the pair_; or, if that's not exciting enough, I'll get
my curate to come in--he's only next door--and we'll go the odd man,
the best of three. That's what I'll do.' Tom says he thought the Duke
would have had a fit. He never spoke a word, but drove straight away,
and has never looked at Tom since."
After the laugh which this story raised had ceased, Lord Dollamore
said, "Did Tom say anything about his brother Percy the day he dined
here?"
"O yes," said the man who had first spoken; "they're coming back at
once. Mrs. Hammond finds Florence disagrees with her."
"Perhaps she'd find Laurence agree with her better," said Dollamore
_sotto voce_; then aloud, "Ah! and so of course poor Percy is to be
trotted back again. By Jove, how that woman rules him! She has only to
whistle, and he comes to her at once. I should like to see a woman try
that on me,--a woman that I was married to, I mean.--By the way, you
haven't seen Mrs. Hammond since her marriage, have you, Alsager?"
"No; I left England just previously."
"Ah! she's as pretty as ever, and infinitely more wicked--I beg your
pardon, though; I forgot we had turned purist since our Oriental
experience."
"At all events we have learned one thing in our Oriental experience,
Lord Dollamore."
"And that is--?"
"To keep our temper and--hold our tongue. Goodnight."
And as he said these words, Laurence Alsager rose from his seat and
left the room; Bertram had previously taken his departure; so that
Laurence walked off alone to his hotel, pondering on all he had seen
and heard.
"So she's coming back," he said to himself as he strolled along;
"coming back to bring back to me, whenever I may happen to meet her,
all the sickening recollections of the old times, the heart-burnings,
the heart-breaking, to escape from which I rushed away two years ago.
She won the day then, and she'll be as insolent as she can be on the
strength of her victory now, though she knows well enough that I did
not shoot my best bolt then, but keep it in my quiver yet. It's
impossible to fight with a woman; they can descend to so many dodges
and meannesses where no man worthy of the name could follow them. No;
I'll seek safety in flight. I'll be off again as soon as I've seen the
governor; and then--And yet what a strange interest I seem to take in
that girl I saw to-night! Poor little child! I wonder if Dollamore's
right about her husband. Well, I'll wait a few days, and see what
turns up."
While these thoughts were passing through Laurence Alsager's mind, Sir
Charles Mitford was leaning against the jambs of the door leading from
his dressing-room into his wife's bed-room. He had one boot off, and
was vainly endeavouring to discover the hole in the bootjack in which
to insert the other foot. The noise which he made in this operation
awoke Lady Mitford, who called out, "Oh, Charley, is that you?"
"Course, my dear," said Sir Charles in a thick voice; "who should it
be this time o' night? not that it's late, though," he said,
correcting himself after a moment's reflection; then looking vacantly
at her, added in a high-falsetto key, "quite early."
"You are not ill, Charley?" she asked, looking anxiously at him.
"Not I, my darling; never berrer.--Off at last, are you?" this last
observation addressed to the conquered boot. "But you, what's marrer
with you? Look all flushed and frightened like."
"I've had a horrid confused dream about the theatre, and people we saw
there, and snakes, oh so dreadful! and that grave man, Colonel
Somebody, that you introduced me to, was just going to rescue me. Oh,
Charley, I feel so low and depressed, and as though something were
going to happen. I'm sure we shan't be happy in London. Let's go away
again.
"Nonsense, Georgie;--nonsense, my love! Very jolly place for--good
supper,--Colonel Snakes;" and with these intelligible murmurings Sir
Charles Mitford slipped into the land of dreams.