IN WHICH FRESH MISCHIEF IS BREWED.
Charles's duties were light enough; he often wished they had been
heavier. There were such long idle periods left for thinking and
brooding. He rather wondered at first why he was not more employed. He
never was in attendance on the lieutenant, save in the daytime. One of
the young men under him drove the brougham, and was out all night and in
bed all day; and the other was a mere stable-lad from the country.
Charles's duty consisted almost entirely in dressing himself about two
o'clock, and loitering about town after his master; and, after he had
been at this work about a fortnight, it seemed to him as if he had been
at it a year or more.
Charles soon found out all he cared to know about the lieutenant. He was
the only son and heir of an eminent solicitor, lately deceased, who had
put him into the splendid regiment to which he belonged in order to get
him into good society. The young fellow had done well enough in that
way. He was amazingly rich, amazingly handsome, and passionately fond of
his profession, at which he really worked hard; but he was terribly
fast. Charles soon found that out; and the first object which he placed
before himself, when he began to awaken from the first dead torpor which
came on him after his fall, was to gain influence with him and save him
from ruin.
"He is burning the candle at both ends," said Charles. "He is too good
to go to the deuce. In time, if I am careful, he may listen to me."
And, indeed, it seemed probable. From the very first, Hornby had treated
Charles with great respect and consideration. Hornby knew he was a
gentleman. One morning, before Charles had been many days with him, the
brougham had not come into the mews till seven o'clock; and Charles,
going to his lodgings at eight, had found him in uniform, bolting a cup
of coffee before going on duty. There was a great pile of money,
sovereigns and notes, on the dressing-table, and he caught Charles
looking at it.
Hornby laughed. "What are you looking at with that solemn face of
yours?" said he.
"Nothing, sir," said Charles.
"You are looking at that money," said Hornby; "and you are thinking that
it would be as well if I didn't stay out all night playing--eh?"
"I might have thought so, sir," said Charles. "I did think so."
"Quite right, too. Some day I will leave off, perhaps."
And then he rattled out of the room, and Charles watched him riding down
the street, all blue, and scarlet, and gold, a brave figure, with the
world at his feet.
"There is time yet," said Charles.
The first time Charles made his appearance in livery in the street he
felt horribly guilty. He was in continual terror lest he should meet
some one he knew; but, after a time, when he found that day after day he
could walk about and see never a familiar face, he grew bolder. He
wished sometimes he could see some one he knew from a distance, so as
not to be recognised--it was so terrible lonely.
Day after day he saw the crowds pass him in the street, and recognised
no one. In old times, when he used to come to London on a raid from
Oxford, he fancied he used to recognise an acquaintance at every step;
but now, day after day went on, and he saw no one he knew. The world had
become to him like a long uneasy dream of strange faces.
After a very few days of his new life, there began to grow on him a
desire to hear of those he had left so abruptly; a desire which was at
first mere curiosity, but which soon developed into a yearning regret.
At first, after a week or so, he began idly wondering where they all
were, and what they thought of his disappearance; and at this time,
perhaps, he may have felt a little conceited in thinking how he occupied
their thoughts, and of what importance he had made himself by his sudden
disappearance. But his curiosity and vanity soon wore away, and were
succeeded by a deep gnawing desire to hear something of them all--to
catch hold of some little thread, however thin, which should connect him
with his past life, and with those he had loved so well. He would have
died in his obstinacy sooner than move one inch towards his object; but
every day, as he rode about the town, dressed in the livery of
servitude, which he tried to think was his heritage, and yet of which he
was ashamed, he stared hither and thither at the passing faces, trying
to find one, were it only that of the meanest servant, which should
connect him with the past.
At last, and before long, he saw some one.
One afternoon he was under orders to attend his master on horseback, as
usual. After lunch, Hornby came out, beautifully dressed, handsome and
happy, and rode up Grosvenor Place into the park. At the entrance to
Rotten Row he joined an old gentleman and his two daughters, and they
rode together, chatting pleasantly. Charles rode behind with the other
groom, who talked to him about the coming Derby, and would have betted
against Haphazard at the current odds. They rode up and down the Row
twice, and then Hornby, calling Charles, gave him his horse and walked
about by the Serpentine, talking to every one, and getting a kindly
welcome from great and small, for the son of a great attorney, with
wealth, manners, and person, may get into very good society, if he is
worth it; or, quite possibly, if he isn't.
Then Hornby and Charles left the park, and, coming down Grosvenor Place,
passed into Pall Mall. Here Hornby went into a club, and left Charles
waiting in the street with his horse half an hour or more.
Then he mounted again, and rode up St. James's Street, into Piccadilly.
He turned to the left; and, at the bottom of the hill, not far from
Half-moon Street, he went into a private house, and, giving Charles his
reins, told him to wait for him; and so Charles waited there, in the
afternoon sun, watching what went by.
It was a sleepy afternoon, and the horses stood quiet, and Charles was a
contented fellow, and he rather liked dozing there and watching the
world go by. There is plenty to see in Piccadilly on an afternoon in the
season, even for a passer-by; but, sitting on a quiet horse, with
nothing to do or think about, one can see it all better. And Charles had
some humour in him, and so he was amused at what he saw, and would have
sat there an hour or more without impatience.
Opposite to him was a great bonnet-shop, and in front of it was an
orange-woman. A grand carriage dashed up to the bonnet-shop, so that he
had to move his horses, and the orange-woman had to get out of the way.
Two young ladies got out of the carriage, went in, and (as he believes)
bought bonnets, leaving a third, and older one, sitting in a back seat,
who nursed a pug dog, with a blue riband. Neither the coachman nor
footman belonging to the carriage seemed to mind this lady. The footman
thought he would like some oranges; so he went to the orange-woman. The
orange-woman was Irish, for her speech bewrayed her, and the footman was
from the county Clare; so those two instantly began comparing notes
about those delectable regions, to such purpose, that the two ladies,
having, let us hope, suited themselves in the bonnet way, had to open
their own carriage-door and get in, before the footman was recalled to a
sense of his duties--after which he shut the door, and they drove away.
Then there came by a blind man. It was not the same blind man that
Charles saw fall down the area, because that blind man's dog was a brown
one, with a curly tail, and this one's dog was black with no tail at
all. Moreover, the present dog carried a basket, which the other one did
not. Otherwise they were so much alike (all blind men are), that Charles
might have mistaken one for the other. This blind man met with no such
serious accident as the other, either. Only, turning into the
public-house at the corner, opposite Mr. Hope's, the dog lagged behind,
and, the swing-doors closing between him and his master, Charles saw him
pulled through by his chain, and nearly throttled.
Next there came by Lord Palmerston, with his umbrella on his shoulder,
walking airily arm-in-arm with Lord John Russell. They were talking
together; and, as they passed, Charles heard Lord Palmerston say that it
was much warmer on this side of the street than on the other. With
which proposition Lord John Russell appeared to agree; and so they
passed on westward.
After this there came by three prize fighters, arm-in-arm; each of them
had a white hat and a cigar; two had white bull-dogs, and one a
black-and-tan terrier. They made a left wheel, and looked at Charles and
his horses, and then they made a right wheel, and looked into the
bonnet-shop; after which they went into the public-house into which the
blind man had gone before; and, from the noise which immediately arose
from inside, Charles came to the conclusion that the two white bull-dogs
and the black-and-tan terrier had set upon the blind man's dog, and
touzled him.
After the prize-fighters came Mr. Gladstone, walking very fast. A large
Newfoundland dog with a walking-stick in his mouth blundered up against
him, and nearly threw him down. Before he got under way again, the Irish
orange-woman bore down on him, and faced him with three oranges in each
hand, offering them for sale. Did she know, with the sagacity of her
nation, that he was then on his way to the house, to make a Great
Statement, and that he would want oranges? I cannot say. He probably got
his oranges at Bellamy's for he bought none of her. After him came a
quantity of indifferent people; and then Charles's heart beat high--for
here was some one coming whom he knew with a vengeance.
Lord Welter, walking calmly down the street, with his big chest thrown
out, and his broad, stupid face in moody repose. He was thinking. He
came so close to Charles that, stepping aside to avoid a passer-by, he
whitened the shoulder of his coat against the pipe-clay on Charles's
knee; then he stood stock still within six inches of him, but looking
the other way towards the houses.
He pulled off one of his gloves and bit his nails. Though his back was
towards Charles, still Charles knew well what expression was on his face
as he did that. The old cruel lowering of the eyebrows, and pinching in
of the lips was there, he knew. The same expression as that which
Marston remarked the time he quarrelled with Cuthbert once at
Ravenshoe--mischief!
He went into the house where Charles's master, Hornby, was; and Charles
sat and wondered.
Presently there came out on to the balcony above, six or seven
well-dressed young men, who lounged with their elbows on the red
cushions which were fixed to the railing, and talked, looking at the
people in the street.
Lord Welter and Lieutenant Hornby were together at the end. There was no
scowl on Welter's face now; he was making himself agreeable. Charles
watched him and Hornby; the conversation between them got eager, and
they seemed to make an appointment. After that they parted, and Hornby
came down stairs and got on his horse.
They rode very slowly home. Hornby bowed right and left to the people he
knew but seemed absent. When Charles took his horse at the door, he said
suddenly to Charles--
"I have been talking to a man who knows something of you, I
believe--Lord Welter."
"Did you mention me to him, sir?"
"No; I didn't think of it."
"You would do me a great kindness if you would not do so, sir."
"Why," said Hornby, looking suddenly up.
"I am sorry I cannot enter into particulars, sir; but, if I thought he
would know where I was, I should at once quit your service and try to
lose myself once more."
"Lose yourself?"
"Yes, sir."
"H'm!" said Hornby, thoughtfully. "Well, I know there is something about
you which I don't understand. I ain't sure it is any business of mine
though. I will say nothing. You are not a man to chatter about anything
you see. Mind you don't. You see how I trust you." And so he went in,
and Charles went round to the stable.
"Is the brougham going out to night?" he asked of his fellow-servant.
"Ordered at ten," said the man. "Night-work again, I expect, I wanted to
get out too. Consume the darned card-playing. Was you going anywhere
to-night?"
"Nowhere," said Charles.
"It's a beautiful evening," said the man. "If you should by chance
saunter up towards Grosvenor Square, and could leave a note for me, I
should thank you very much; upon my soul I should."
I don't think Charles ever hesitated at doing a good-natured action in
his life. A request to him was like a command. It came as natural to him
now to take a dirty, scrawled love-letter from a groom to a
scullery-maid as in old times it did to lend a man fifty pounds. He said
at once he would go with great pleasure.
The man (a surly fellow enough at ordinary times) thanked him heartily;
and, when Charles had got the letter, he sauntered away in that
direction slowly, thinking of many things.
"By Jove," he said to himself, "my scheme of hiding does not seem to be
very successful. Little more than a fortnight gone, and I am thrown
against Welter. What a strange thing!"
It was still early in the afternoon--seven o'clock, or thereabouts--and
he was opposite Tattersall's. A mail phaeton, with a pair of splendid
horses, attracted his attention and diverted his thoughts. He turned
down. Two eminent men on the turf walked past him up the nearly empty
yard, and he heard one say to the other--
"Ascot will run to win; that I know. He _must_. If Haphazard can stay,
he is safe."
To which the other said, "Pish!" and they passed on.
"There they are again," said Charles, as he turned back. "The very birds
of the air are talking about them. It gets interesting, though--if
anything could ever be interesting again."
St. George's Hospital. At the door was a gaudily-dressed, handsome young
woman, who was asking the porter could she see some one inside. No. The
visiting hours were over. She stood for a few minutes on the steps,
impatiently biting her nails, and then fluttered down the street.
What made him think of his sister Ellen? She must be found. That was the
only object in the world, so to speak. There was nothing to be done,
only to wait and watch.
"I shall find her some day, in God's good time."
The world had just found out that it was hungry, and was beginning to
tear about in wheeled vehicles to its neighbours' houses to dinner. As
the carriages passed Charles, he could catch glimpses of handsome girls,
all a mass of white muslin, swan's-down fans, and fal-lals, going to
begin their night's work; of stiff dandies, in white ties, yawning
already; of old ladies in jewels, and old gentlemen buttoned up across
the chest, going, as one might say, to see fair play among the young
people. And then our philosophical Charles pleased himself by picturing
how, in two months more, the old gentlemen would be among their turnips,
the old ladies among their flowers and poor folks, the dandies creeping,
creeping, weary hours through the heather, till the last maddening
moment when the big stag was full in view, sixty yards off; and
(prettiest thought of all), how the girls, with their thick shoes on,
would be gossiping with old Goody Blake and Harry Gill, or romping with
the village school-children on the lawn. Right, old Charles, with all
but the dandies! For now the apotheosis of dandies was approaching. The
time was coming when so many of them should disappear into that black
thunder-cloud to the south, and be seen no more in park or club, in
heather or stubble.
But, in that same year, the London season went on much as usual; only
folks talked of war, and the French were more popular than they are now.
And through the din and hubbub poor Charles passed on like a lost sheep,
and left his fellow-servant's note at an area in Grosvenor Square.
"And which," said he to the man who took it, with promises of instant
delivery, "is my Lord Hainault's house, now, for instance?"
Lord Hainault's house was the other side of the square; number
something. Charles thanked the man, and went across. When he had made it
out he leant his back against the railings of the square, and watched
it.
The carriage was at the door. The coachman, seeing a handsomely-dressed
groom leaning against the rails, called to him to come over and alter
some strap or another. Charles ran over and helped him. Charles supposed
her ladyship was going out to dinner. Yes, her ladyship was now coming
out. And, almost before Charles had time to move out of the way, out she
came, with her head in the air, more beautiful than ever, and drove
away.
He went back to his post from mere idleness. He wondered whether Mary
had come there yet or not. He had half a mind to inquire, but was afraid
of being seen. He still leant against the railings of the gate, as I
said, in mere idleness, when he heard the sound of children's voices in
the square behind.
"That woman," said a child's voice, "was a gipsy-woman. I looked through
the rails, and I said, 'Hallo, ma'am, what are you doing there?' And she
asked me for a penny. And I said I couldn't give her anything, for I had
given three halfpence to the Punch and Judy, and I shouldn't have any
more money till next Saturday, which was quite true, Flora, as you
know."
"But, Gus," said another child's voice, "if she had been a gipsy-woman
she would have tried to steal you, and make you beg in the streets; or
else she would have told your fortune in coffee-grounds. I don't think
she was a real gipsy."
"I should like to have my fortune told in the coffee-grounds," said Gus;
"but, if she had tried to steal me, I should have kicked her in the
stomach. There is a groom outside there; let us ask him. Grooms go to
the races, and see heaps of gipsies! I say, sir."
Charles turned. A child's voice was always music to him. He had such a
look on his face as he turned to them, that the children had his
confidence in an instant. The gipsy question was laid before him
instantly, by both Gus and Flora, with immense volubility, and he was
just going to give an oracular opinion through the railings, when a
voice--a low, gentle voice, which made him start--came from close by.
"Gus and Flora, my dears, the dew is falling. Let us go in."
"There is Miss Corby," said Gus. "Let us run to her."
They raced to Mary. Soon after the three came to the gate, laughing, and
passed close to him. The children were clinging to her skirt and talking
merrily. They formed a pretty little group as they went across the
street, and Mary's merry little laugh comforted him. "She is happy
there," he said; "best as it is!"
Once, when half-way across the street, she turned and looked towards
him, before he had time to turn away. He saw that she did not dream of
his being there, and went on. And so Charles sauntered home through the
pleasant summer evening, saying to himself, "I think she is happy; I am
glad she laughed."
"Three meetings in one day! I shall be found out, if I don't mind. I
must be very careful."