AMONG THE SPRINGS.
It was the month of September, and the little town of Baden was full.
It is now the big town of Baden, and is still, during its season,
filled to overflowing; but the company is by no means so select, so
pleasant, so agreeable as it used to be. The _vor-eisenbahn_ Baden
was as superior to the present excursionists' resort as was the
ante-railway Ascot Meeting to what now is merely a succession of
Derby-days in Bucks. Then, when you posted in from Strasburg, or
arrived in the _eilwagen_, from deadly-lively Carlsruhe, you found Mr.
Rheinboldt, the landlord of the Badischer Hof, attended by the
stoutest, the best-tempered, and the stupidest even of German porters,
coming forward to meet you with the pleasantest of greetings. You had
written on beforehand if you were a wise man, and your old room was
ready--one of that little row of snug dormitories set apart for
bachelors, and looking on to the trim garden. You had a wash, with
more water than you had met with since you left home (they were
beginning to understand the English mania for soap-and-water at the
Badischer Hof even so long ago), and you made your toilette and came
down to the five-o'clock _table-d'hôte_, where you found most of the
people who had been there the previous season, and many of their
friends whom they had induced to come. Most of the people knew each
other or of each other, and there was a sociability among them which
the railway has utterly annihilated. Now London sends her bagmen and
Paris her _lorettes_; but in those days, if "our Mr. Johnson" got as
far as Parry by way of Cally or Bolong, he was looked upon as an
intrepid voyager, while very few Parisian ladies, save those of the
best class, came into the Grand Duke's territory.
It was hot in England in that September, but it was hotter at Baden.
With the earliest dawn came thick vapours rolling down from the Black
Forest, encompassing the little town with a white and misty shroud,
which invariably presaged a sultry day, and invariably kept its
promise. All day long the big red-faced sun glared down upon the
denizens of the pleasantest corner of Vanity Fair; glared in the early
morning upon the water-drinkers sipping the nauseous fluid in the
thick and heavy glass tumblers, and tendering their kreutzers to the
attendant maidens at the Brunnen; glared upon them as they took the
prescribed constitutional walk, and returned to the hotel to
breakfast; glared upon the fevered gamblers, who, with last night's
excitement only half slept off, with bleared eyes and shaking hands
and parched throats, took their places round the gaming-table as the
clock struck noon, and eyed the stolid-faced croupiers as intently as
though the chances of the game were to be gleamed from a perusal of
their fishy eyes or pursed mouths. The revellers who were starting off
for picnics to the Black Forest, or excursions to the Favourite or
Eberstein-Schloss, glanced up with terror at the scorching red ball in
the sky, and bade courteous Mr. Rheinboldt, the landlord of the
Badischer Hof, to see that plenty of ice was packed with the sparkling
Moselle, and to let Karl and Fritz take care that an unlimited supply
of umbrellas was placed in the carriage. The Englishmen, whom M.
Benazet, the proprietor of the gaming-tables, grateful for their
patronage, had provided with shooting, or who had received invitations
to the _triebjagd_ of some neighbouring landowner, looked with comic
wonder, not unmixed with horror, at the green jerkins, fantastic
game-bags, couteaux de chasse or hunting-knives (worn in the belt),
and general appearance of their foreign friends; and then when
lunch-time arrived, and they saw each German eating his own sausage
and drinking from his own particular flask, which he never dreamed of
passing, they recollected with dismay the luncheons at similar parties
in England, the snowy cloth laid under the shade of the hedge, the
luscious game-pie, the cooling claret-cup, the glancing eyes and natty
ankles of those who had accompanied the luncheon. Hot! It was no word
for it. It was blazing, tearing, drying, baking, scorching heat, and
it was hotter at Baden than anywhere else.
So they said at least, and as they were from almost every part of the
civilized world, they ought to have known. There were English people,
swells, peers and peeresses, bankers and bankeresses, a neat little
legal set,--Sir Nisey and Lady Prious, Mr. Tocsin, Q.C., Mr. Serjeant
Stentor, and some of the junior members of the bar,--a select
assortment of the Stock-Exchange, and some eligible young men from the
West-end government offices. There were joyous Russians, whose names
all ended in "vitch" and "gorod," and were otherwise utterly
unpronounceable, who spoke all European languages with equal
fluency and facility, and who put down rouleaux of Napoleons on the
roulette-table where other people staked thalers or florins. There
were a few Frenchmen and French ladies; here was an Austrian
gross-herzog or grand-duke, there some Prussian cavalry subalterns who
could not play at the table because they had spent the half-crown of
their daily allowance in roast veal, Bairisch beer, and a horrible
compound called "grogs an rhum," which they drank at night, "after,"
as they said to themselves, "the English fashion."
It had been hotter than ever during the day, but the day was happily
past and over, and the moon was streaming on the broad gravelled Platz
in front of the Conversationshaus, and the band, stationed in the
little oil-lamp-illumined kiosk, were rattling away at Strauss's
waltzes and Labitskey's galops. The gamblers were already thronging
the _roulette_ and _trente-et-quarante_ tables; and of the
non-gamblers all such as had ladies with them were promenading
and listening to the music, while the others were seated, drinking
and smoking. It was a splendid evening; the diners at the late
_tables-d'hôte_ were wending their way from their hotels to the
promenade; the consumers of the German _mittagsessen_, were listening
to the band in delicious anticipation of the _reh-braten_ and the
_haring-salad_ and the _bok-bier_, or the Ahrbleichart, at which
another half-hour would see them hard at work; the clamouring for
coffee was incessant, and the head-waiter, Joseph, who was so like
Bouffé, was almost driven out of his wits by the Babel of voices. They
chattered, those tall occupants of the little wooden round-tables--how
they chattered! They turned round and stared at the promenaders, and
made their comments on them after they had passed. They had something
to say, some remark, either complimentary or disparaging, to make upon
all the ladies. But there was only one man who seemed to attract any
special attention, and that was the Russian Prince Tchernigow.
A man of middle height, with brown-black hair, a perfectly bloodless
complexion, stern deeply sunken eyes, a stiff moustache bristling over
a determined mouth. A man with small hands and feet, and apparently
but little muscular development, but strong, brave, and vindictive. A
man whose face Lavater might have studied for months without getting
beyond the merest rudiments of his science--impassive, unaltering,
statuesque. He never played but with rouleaux of napoleons--twenty
in a rouleau; and though the space in front of him was shining with
gold at one moment, or laid bare by the sweeping rake of the
croupier,--winning or losing, his expression would not change for an
instant. He had been to Baden for two or three seasons running, and
was beginning to be looked upon as an _habitué_; the croupiers
acknowledged his taking his seat, intending to do battle, by a slight
grave bow; he had broken the bank more than once, and was a lion among
the visitors, and notably amongst the English. Tchernigow's horses and
carriages, his bold play, his good shooting, the wonderful way in
which he spoke our language, his love of solitude, his taciturnity,
his singular physique, were all freely discussed at the late
_tables-d'hôte_ of hotels at which the prince was not staving. His
reputation of _beau joueur_ caused him to be followed as soon as he
was seen going into the rooms, and his play was watched and humbly
imitated by scores. He seldom attended the balls, and very rarely
danced, though he valsed to perfection; and all the women in the room
were eager for his selection. His appearance on the promenade always
excited attention, but he never gave the smallest sign of having
observed it.
Among those who looked up as Prince Tchernigow passed was Lord
Dollamore, who was seated at one of the tables, with no companion save
his invariable one--his stick. Dollamore generally came to Baden every
year. The place amused him; it was a grand field for the display of
the worst passions of human nature,--a study which always afforded him
infinite delight. He never played, but he was constantly hovering
round the tables; and there was scarcely an incident which happened in
the seething crowd, scarcely a change which swept across the faces of
the leading actors, that passed unnoticed by him. He did not dance; he
would have been prevented by his lameness from indulging in such a
pastime, even had his taste impelled him to it; but he was a constant
attendant at the balls which M. Benazet provided for the amusement of
his patrons; and looking on at the actual life before him as he might
have looked on the mimic life of a theatrical representation, he had
innumerable conferences with his stick on all he saw and heard, and on
the arguments which he deduced therefrom. He immensely enjoyed being
seated, as he was then, in the calm autumnal moonlit evening, with a
cup of excellent coffee by his side, a cigar in his mouth, and the
ever-shifting panorama of human faces passing before him.
"That Tchernigow is really delicious!" he said to himself--or to his
stick--as he looked after the Russian, and marked the excitement which
he created; "there's a savage insolence about him which is positively
refreshing in these days of bowing and scraping and preposterous
politeness. How they chatter, and gape, and nudge each other with
their elbows about him! and what a supreme indifference he affects to
it all! Affects? Yes, _mon prince_, it is accepted as the real thing
by these good people, but we are not to be taken in by veneer, _nous
autres!_ It would require a very small scratch indeed to pick off the
Petersburg-cum-Paris polish, and to arrive at the genuine Calmuck
substratum. Only to look at you to tell that Nature's handwriting
never lies; and if ever there were a more delightfully truculent,
ruffianly, bloodthirsty savage than yourself, _mon prince_, I am very
much out in my ideas. God help the woman on whom you ever get a
legitimate hold! Ah, that reminds me--what has become of the widow?
There is no doubt that Tchernigow was badly hit in London. The only
man received at her house, the only man permitted to assuage her
grief, to wipe away those tears which doubtless flowed so constantly
for poor Percy Hammond! What an audacious little devil it is! How
pluckily she fought that business of guardianship to the child; and
how gracefully she retired from the contest when she saw that she had
no chance, and that defeat was inevitable! She's the cleverest woman,
in a certain way, that I've ever met with; and I'd take my oath she's
playing some long-headed, far-sighted game now, and that Tchernigow is
the stake. No more flirtation and coquetry--for the present--_les eaux
sont bases_; the widow is hard up, and means to _recoup_ herself by a
rich marriage. That's why that infatuated cad Mitford was snubbed so
severely. I think she comprehends that Tchernigow will stand no
nonsense, and as he is the _parti_ at present in view, his will is
law. She can't have given up the chase; but how on earth is she
working it?"
A smart natty-looking little man in evening-dress, with
smoothly-brushed hair and elaborately-trimmed whiskers, faint pink
coral studs, little jean boots with glazed tips, irreproachable
gloves, and a Gibus hat--a little man who looked as if he had just
stepped out of a bandbox--stopped at Lord Dollamore's table, and with
a bow, half-deferential, half-familiar, glided into the vacant chair.
"Ah, how do you do, Mr. Aldermaston?" said Lord Dollamore, looking
up,--"how do you do? and what is the latest news in this Inferno?"
Every one who knew Mr. Aldermaston made a point of asking him the
news, well knowing that they could apply to no better source for the
latest gossip and tittle-tattle. Mr. Aldermaston nominally was private
secretary to Lord Waterhouse, the First Commissioner at the Inland,
Irrigation Office, and he had been selected for that onerous post for
his distinguished personal appearance and his obsequious toadyism. It
was not a situation involving a great deal of work, though any one
noticing the regularity with which a large leather despatch-box,
bearing a gilt crown, and "Charles Aldermaston, Esq., P.S., I.I.O.,"
was deposited for him by an official messenger in the hall of the
Alfred Club, might have thought otherwise. The inferior portion of the
duty was performed by a clerk, and Mr. Aldermaston contented himself
with taking Lord Waterhouse's signature to a few papers occasionally,
and receiving a select few of the most distinguished persons who
wished for personal interviews. This left him plenty of leisure to
pursue his more amusing occupation of purveyor of gossip and inventor
and retailer of scandal. In these capacities he was without a rival.
He always knew everything; and if he did not know it, he invented it,
which in some respects was better, as it enabled him to flavour his
anecdotes with a piquancy which was perhaps wanting in the original.
He found occupation for his ears and tongue in a variety of topics;
the heaviest subjects were not excluded, the lightest obtained a place
in his _répertoire_. The rumour of the approaching change in the
premiership, while passing through the Aldermaston crucible,
encountered the report of Mademoiselle de la Normandie's refusal to
dance her _pas seul_ before Madame Rivière; the report of Lady
Propagand's conversion to Romanism did not prevent Mr. Aldermaston's
giving proper additional publicity to the whisper of Miss de Toddler's
flight with the milkman.
There were not many people who liked Mr. Aldermaston, though there
were a great many who feared him; but Lord Dollamore was among the
former class. "He is a _blagueur_," Dollamore used to say; "and a
_blagueur_ is a detestable beast; but necessary to society; and
Aldermaston is certainly clean. He knows how to behave himself, and is
in fact an Ananias of polite society. Besides, he amuses me, and there
are very few people in the world who amuse me."
So Lord Dollamore always spoke to Mr. Aldermaston at the club, and
encouraged him to tell his anecdotes; and when he found him at Baden,
he looked upon him as one of the resources of the place,-a purveyor of
news infinitely fresher, more piquant, and more amusing than was to be
found in the week-old _Times_ or three-days-old _Galignani_, which he
found at Misses Marx's library.
So he again repeated, "And what's the latest news in this Inferno, Mr.
Aldermaston?"
"Well, there's very little news here, my lord, very little indeed;
except that young Lord Plaidington is gone--sent away this morning."
"Sent away?"
"Yes; his mother, Lady Macabaw, wouldn't stand it any longer. Last
night Lord Plaidington took too much again, and began throwing the
empty champagne-bottles out of the window of the Angleterre; so Lady
Macabaw sent him off this morning with his tutor, the Rev. Sandford
Merton, and they've gone to Strasburg, on the way to Italy."
"Serve him right, the young cub. I went away early last night--any
heavy play late?"
"Yes; a Frenchman whom no one had ever seen before won a hatful at
roulette, and some Englishman whom no one seemed to know backed him
and stood in. They looked like breaking the bank at one time, but they
didn't."
"Was Tchernigow at the tables?"
"No; the Prince did not show up at all,--has not been there for the
last three nights."
"So much the worse for Benazet; but what does it mean?"
"Well, I've a notion about that that I won't broach to any one but
your Lordship. I think I've found the clue to that story."
"What story? what clue?"
"Prince Tchernigow's sudden cessation from play. You know what a mania
it was with him. It must have been something special to make him give
it up."
"And what is the something special?"
"A woman."
"Ah!" said Lord Dollamore, warming a once into interest; "_malheureux
en jeu, heureux en amour_,--the converse of the ordinarily-received
motto. Has Mademoiselle Féodor arrived from the Gaieté? or who is the
siren that charms our Prince from the tables?"
"Mademoiselle Féodor has not arrived, but some one else has. A much
more dangerous person than Mademoiselle Féodor, and with much more
lasting hopes in view."
Lord Dollamore looked keenly at his companion, and said, "I begin to
find the scent warming; but I make it a rule never to guess. Tell your
story, Mr. Aldermaston, please."
"Well, you know, Lord Dollamore, I'm staying at the Russie, and I've
made myself so agreeable to Malmedie, the landlord there, by little
bits of civility, that he generally comes up to my room in the morning
and lets me know all that is going on. He showed me a letter that he
had about a week ago, written in French, saying that a lady wanted
rooms reserved for herself and maid; that she would not dine at the
_table-d'hôte_, being an invalid, and coming only for the benefit of
the air and springs, but should require dinner and all her meals
served in her own rooms. The French of the letter was excellent, but
the idea of retirement looked essentially English. I never knew a
Frenchwoman, in however bad a state of health, who could resist the
attractions of society; so, though I said nothing to Malmedie, I
guessed at once the lady was English; and as there seemed a mystery, I
determined to penetrate it."
Lord Dollamore smiled, and whispered something to his stick; something
of which the French word "_chiffonnier_" and the English word
"garbage" were component parts; but Mr. Aldermaston did not hear the
sentence, and only marking the smile, proceeded:
"They were expected on Wednesday afternoon, and I took care to be
about. They came in the _eilwagen_ from Carlsruhe,--a deuced
fine-looking woman, with her face hidden in a thick black veil, and a
very neat trim little French waiting-maid. The servant was French, but
the boxes were English,--I'd take my oath of that. There was a
substantial solidity about their make, a certainty about their locks
and hinges, such as never yet was seen on a French box, I'll stake my
existence."
"You have wonderful powers of observation, Mr. Aldermaston," said
Dollamore, still grinning.
"Your lordship flatters me. I have a pair of eyes, and I think I can
use them. I kept them pretty tightly fixed on the movements of the
new-comers. Dinner was sent up to their rooms, but before it went up
the lady's-maid went out. I was strolling about myself, with nothing
to do just at that time, so I strolled after her. She went into the
Angleterre, and in a few minutes came tripping out again. She went
back to the Russie, and so did I. I had nothing to do, and sat down in
the porch, behind one of those tubs with the orange-trees, to smoke a
cigar. While I was smoking it, who should come up but Prince
Tchernigow?"
"Prince Tchernigow!" cried Lord Dollamore. "_Connu!_ I'm in full cry
now, Mr. Aldermaston. But continue your story."
"Prince Tchernigow," continued Mr. Aldermaston, "and no one else. He
asked for Madame Poitevin, in which name the rooms had been taken, and
he was shown upstairs. He came the next day twice, twice yesterday; he
was there this morning; and just now, as I came away from the
_table-d'hôte_, I met him on the steps going in."
"Mr. Aldermaston, you are _impayable!_" said Dollamore. "I must pay a
compliment to your perspicacity, even at the risk of forestalling the
conclusion of your narrative. But you have told it so admirably, that
no man with a grain of sense in his head could avoid seeing that
Madame Poitevin is Mrs. Hammond."
"Exactly,--I have not a doubt of it," said the little man; "and if so,
I think you and I, my lord, know some one whose state of mind must be
awful."
"Yes," said Lord Dollamore, rising from his chair; "I see what you
mean, and you are doubtless right. Poor Percy Hammond's relatives must
feel it acutely. Goodnight, Mr. Aldermaston;" and he bowed and moved
off.
"I'm not going to let that little cad indulge in any speculations
about the Mitfords," said he to his stick. "That woman's far too good
to be discussed by such vermin as that;" by which we may judge that
Lord Dollamore's opinion of Lady Mitford had altered as his
acquaintance with her had progressed.
The deductions which Mr. Aldermaston had made from this last
experiment in espionage were tolerably correct. Laura Hammond was
in Baden under the name of Madame Poitevin, and accompanied by the
never-failing Marcelline.
She had hurried away from London for two reasons. The first, and by
far the most important, was to perfect the conquest of Tchernigow; to
clinch home that iron band which for the last two months she had been
fitting round the Russian's neck; to bring him to make the offer of
his hand at once. The short time passed in London since her husband's
death had been spent in looking her future boldly in the face, and
calculating within herself how she should mould it for the best. Lord
Dollamore was right in one of his conjectures about her: she had made
up her mind that the course of her life must henceforth be entirely
altered. She knew well enough that even the short time she had been
away from London and its world was sufficient to render her name
almost forgotten; and she determined that when it was next mentioned
it should be in a very different tone from that formerly adopted
towards it. Respectability--that state so often sneered at and
ridiculed by her--she now held in the highest veneration, and
determined to attain to. She had her work to do; to restore herself in
the world's good opinion, and to make, as soon as decency would
permit, a good marriage. The last position gained, the first would
necessarily follow. All she had to do, she thought, was to keep
herself in seclusion and choose her intended victim.
She thought of Sir Laurence Alsager at once. She had yet for him a
remnant of what she imagined was love, but what was really thwarted
passion. Her feelings were stronger for him than for any other man;
and he had large wealth, and a good old family title, and the good
opinion of the world. When, after his interview with her, she saw the
utter futility of her plans so far as he was concerned, she was
enraged, but by no means defeated. The cast must be made in another
direction, and at once. Prince Tchernigow was in town; she knew it,
for she had had more than one note from him during her seclusion in
the country, and she knew that Tchernigow was hanging on in town on
the chance of seeing her. This flashed across her the moment Laurence
had quitted her, and her heart gave a great leap. That was the man! He
was a prince; he was three times as rich as Alsager, and was known in
the best society of every capital in Europe. Life with him as his wife
would not be spent buried two-thirds of the year in a great gaunt
country-place, where interest in the Sunday-schools and the old women
and the clergyman's charities were the excitements; life with him
would be one round of gaiety, in which she would not be a follower,
but a leader. He had been madly in love with her two years before; and
from what she knew of his nature, she believed the passion still
remained there. That could be easily ascertained. She would write him
a note, bidding him to come and see her.
Tchernigow came at once. He had not been with Laura ten minutes before
her sharp eyes had looked into his heart and read its secrets so far
as she was concerned. He was chafing under a latent passion, a
thwarted wish. When, just at the close of their companionship at Baden
two years ago, he had ventured to make open protestation of his
devotion to her, and she had turned on him with great dignity and
snubbed him mercilessly, he had bowed and left her, cool and collected
indeed in his manner, but inwardly raging like a volcano. He had never
met with similar treatment. With him it was a question of throwing the
handkerchief, to the delight of Nourmahal or whoever might be the
lucky one towards whom his highness tossed it. The ladies of the
_corps dramatique_ of the different Parisian theatres were wild with
delight when they heard that Tchernigow had arrived in Paris, and the
will of _mon Cosaque_, as he was called by more than one, was supreme
and indisputable among them. This was quite a new thing. Not merely to
have his proffered love rejected, but to be soundly rated for having
dared to proffer it, was to him almost inexplicable. It lashed him to
fury. For the next season he kept away from London, determined to
avoid the siren who held him in her toils, yet despised his suit.
Then, hearing of her widowhood and her absence from London, he came to
England with a half-formed determination in regard to her. He saw her,
and almost instantaneously the smouldering fires of his passion were
revivified, and blazed up more fiercely than ever.
He had more encouragement now, but even now not very much. He was
permitted to declare his devotion to her, to rave in his odd wild
way about her beauty, to kiss her hand on his arrival and
departure--nothing more. Trust Laura Hammond for knowing exactly how
to treat a man of Tchernigow's temperament. He came daily; he sat
feasting his eyes on her beauty, and listening--sometimes in wonder,
but always in admiration--to her conversation, which was now sparkling
with wit and fun, now brimming over with sentiment and pathos. Day by
day he became more and more hopelessly entangled by her fascinations,
but as yet he had breathed no word about marriage; and to that end,
and that alone, was Laura Hammond leading him on. But when Parliament
was dissolved, and town rapidly thinning; when Laura's solicitor had
written urgently to her, stating that "the other side" was pressing
for a final settlement of affairs--which meant her abdicating
her state and taking up her lowered position on her lessened
income--Tchernigow called upon her, and while telling her that he was
going to Baden, seemed to do more than hint that her hopes would be
fulfilled, if she would consent to meet him there so soon as her
business was accomplished.
This was the principal motive which had induced her to start for the
pretty little Inferno on the border of the Black Forest. But the other
was scarcely less cogent. The fact was, that Laura was wearying
rapidly of the attentions of Sir Charles Mitford. Her _caprice_ for
him was over. He had never had the power of amusing her; and since she
knew that Laurence Alsager had left England, she saw that she could no
longer wreak her vengeance on him by punishing Lady Mitford through
the faithlessness of Sir Charles. Mitford saw that she was growing
weary of him--marked it in a thousand different ways, and raged
against it. Occasionally his manner to her would change from what she
now called maudlin tenderness to savage ferocity; he would threaten
her vaguely, he would watch her narrowly. It required all Laura's
natural genius for intrigue, supplemented by Madlle. Marcelline's
adroitness, to prevent his knowing of Tchernigow's visits. In his
blind infatuation he was rapidly forgetting the decencies of life, the
_convenances_ of society; he was getting himself more and more talked
about; what was worse, he was getting her talked about again, just at
the time when she wanted to be forgotten by all men--save one. Mitford
had followed her into the country, and only quitted her on her
expressed determination never to speak to him again unless he returned
to London at once, and saved her from the gossip of the neighbourhood.
She knew he would insist on seeing her constantly when she returned to
town. Hence her flight with only one hour's stoppage in London--and
under a feigned name--to Baden.
"'I pray you come at once,'" said Dollamore, three days after his
conversation with Mr. Aldermaston, reading to his stick the contents
of a dainty little note which he had just received;--"'I pray you come
at once.--Yours sincerely, Laura Hammond.' Very much yours sincerely,
Laura Hammond, I should think. What the deuce does she want with me?
Is she going to drive us three abreast, like the horses in the
diligence? and does she think I should like to trot along between
Mitford and Tchernigow? Not she! She knows me too well to think
anything of that sort. But then what on earth does she want with me?
'I pray you come at once.' Egad, I must go, I suppose, and ask for
Madame Poitevin, as she tells me."
He lounged up to the Hôtel de Russie, asked for Madame Poitevin, and
was shown into a room where Laura was seated with Marcelline reading
to her. Dollamore recollected Marcelline at once; he had an eye for
beauty in every class, and had taken not an unfavourable notice of the
trim little _soubrette_ during his stay at Redmoor. He wondered now
what had caused this sudden elevation of her social status, and did
not ascribe it to any good source. But he had little time to wonder
about Marcelline, for she rose at once, and passing him with a slight
bow, left the room as Mrs. Hammond advanced with outstretched hand.
She looked splendidly handsome; her eyes were bright, her cheeks
flushed, her step elastic. Dollamore thought he had scarcely ever seen
her to such advantage.
"You are surprised at my having sent to you, Lord Dollamore?" said she
as soon as they were seated.
"No, indeed, Mrs. Hammond; I'm never surprised at anything. A man who
has turned forty and suffers himself to be surprised is an idiot."
"Turned forty! Well, when you reach that age you shall tell me whether
there is truth in that axiom." ("Flattering me!" said Dollamore to his
stick; "wants to borrow money.") "But at all events you don't know why
I asked you to come."
"I have not the remotest idea."
"How should you have? Three hours ago I myself had no anticipation of
the occurrence of circumstances which have induced me to ask you to
share a confidence."
"Hallo!" said Dollamore to his stick; "I share a confidence! She ought
to have sent for Aldermaston." But he said aloud, "If I can be of any
help to you--"
"You can be of the very greatest assistance. You may have heard how I
have been left by my husband; how Mr. Hammond's relatives, by their
cruel and secret machinations, so worked upon him in his enfeebled
state as to induce him to make a most shameful will, by which I was
robbed of all that ought to have been mine, and left with a beggarly
income!" She had not forgotten that will, and any recurrence to it
made her cheek flame in earnest.
Dollamore bowed. He ought to have expressed some pity or some
astonishment; but he had never during his life been guilty of any
conventionality.
"In this strait," she continued, "I have received succour from a
totally unexpected quarter. In the most generous and delicate manner
Prince Tchernigow has this day made me an offer of his hand."
(Dollamore said he was never surprised, but if the stick was on the
alert it must have heard him whistle.) "We are to be married at once!"
"Very satisfactory indeed," said Dollamore. "Fancy being a princess,
with 'vassals and serfs by your side'!--Very delicious indeed."
"Oh, I'm so happy!" cried Laura, with that feigned ecstasy of joy
which she had so often indulged in; "the Prince is so charming!"
"Is he indeed?" said Dollamore. "Yes; some people require to be known
thoroughly before they're appreciated. But what will a friend of ours
say to this? I mean Sir Charles Mitford."
"Ah!" said Laura, who turned pale at the name; "that is exactly the
subject in which I require your assistance."
"Mine! How can I help you? Suppose he were to come here--"
"It is that I am dreading. I took every precaution to hide my
destination. I came here under a feigned name; I have lived in the
strictest retirement, having seen no one but the Prince since I have
been here; and yet I never hear a carriage dash up to the door of the
hotel but I rush to the window, and concealing myself behind the
curtains, look out in the full expectation of seeing him leap into the
portico. If he were to come now, under present circumstances, what
should I do?--good God, what should I do?"
"What should you do? Tell him to go back again. You are not his wife,
for him to bully and curse and order about. You are not bound to give
in to his cowardly whims, and need not endure his ruffianly insults."
"You don't know him now; you don't know how frightful his temper has
become to any one who crosses him. No, no, no, we shall be married at
once, and leave this place; and should he come here afterwards, I
trust you to tell him nothing more than you can possibly help; above
all, to keep silence as to our intended route."
"That will be easily managed, by your not telling me which way you
intend going. I'll do what I can to help you, Mrs. Hammond; but I may
as well say, that the less I am brought into contact with Sir Charles
Mitford, the better I shall be pleased."
"At all events you will do as much as I have asked you?" she said.
"I will; and as that principally consists in holding my tongue, I
shall have no difficulty in doing it. When are you to be married?"
"To-morrow morning, at Frankfort, where there are both Russian and
English embassies; and whence we start to--"
"You forget; I was not to know your route."
"I had forgotten," she said with a smile. She seemed reassured; her
colour came again, and as she held out her hand, she said, "I may rely
on you?"
"Rigidly to do nothing," he said; and took her hand, and left her.
"She's a very wonderful woman, and she certainly has had a great run
of luck," said Dollamore, as he walked back to his hotel. "To think of
her getting hold of this Calmuck savage! By Jove! rich as he is,
she'll try and find her way to the bottom of his sack of roubles.
Tchernigow is wealthy, but his intendant will have to screw up the
moujiks to the last copeck to provide for madame's splendid power of
spending. She's evidently completely frightened of Mitford now. It
must be sheer brutality that has done that, for he was no match for
her in spirit, or anything else."
As he said this, he arrived at the Badischer Hof, before the door of
which was standing a dust-covered carriage with two steaming horses;
and in the hall Lord Dollamore saw a man, whose back was towards him,
talking earnestly to Mr. Aldermaston. The man turned round at the
sound of footsteps, and then Dollamore saw that it was Sir Charles
Mitford.