A CONQUEST.
It is the end of August, and society has gone out of town. Sporting
people have gone to Goodwood; and the Lawn, at the period of our story,
as yet uninvaded by objectionable persons, promises to present, as it
hitherto has always presented, a _parterre_ of aristocratic beauty.
There is no "limited mail" in these days; but they could tell you at
Euston Square of seats for the North booked many days in advance. And
there are no Cook's tourists; and yet it would seem impossible that
the boats leaving Dover twice a day for the great continental routes
_vid_ Calais and Ostend, could possibly carry more passengers. That
was before the contemptible German system of _battues_ was allowed
among us, when _dreib-jagds_ were almost unknown in England, and when
a day's shooting meant exercise, trouble, and skill, not warm corners
and wholesale slaughter; but Purdays and Lancasters, though mere
muzzle-loaders, did their work, and Grant's gaiters were to be found on
most of the right sort throughout the English counties.
The physicians and the great surgeons have struck work--it is no
good remaining in a place where there are no patients--and having
delegated their practice _pro tem_. to some less fortunate brother--who
devoutly prays that chance may bring some rich or celebrated person
unexpectedly to town, then and there to be stricken with illness, and
left in his, the substitute's, hands--they are away shooting in the
Highlands, swarming up Swiss mountains, lounging at German Brunnen,
but never losing the soft placid manner and the dulcet tone which seem
to imbue their every speech and action with a certain professional
air, as though they were saying, "Hum! ha! ye-es, certainly; show me
the tongue, please--ah!" and wherever they may be, the scent of the
hospital is over them still.
Passing through Edinburgh, on his way to his shooting in Aberdeenshire,
Mr. Fleem, President of the College of Surgeons, gives up a week of his
hard-earned holiday to the society of Sir Annis Thettick, the great
Scotch operator, and the pair indulge in many a sanguinary colloquy;
little Dr. Payne leaves Mrs. Payne to be escorted up and down the
_allées_ of Baden-Baden by trim-waisted Prussian and Austrian officers,
or by such of her compatriot acquaintances as she may find there (all
of whom are too glad to pay court to so charming a woman), while he
is closeted with Herr Doctor Von Glauber, Hof-Arzt to his Effulgency
the reigning Duke of Schweinerei, with whom he exchanges the most
confidential communications, resulting on both sides in a belief that
the real knowledge of either of them is extremely limited.
In those charming courts and groves dedicated to the study and practice
of the law there is also tranquillity, not to say stagnation, for the
long vacation has commenced, and the Law is out of town.
Read the fact in the closed courts of Westminster Hall--in the Hall
itself, no longer filled with the anxious faces of suitors, the flying
forms of bewigged barristers, or fragrant with the sprinkled snuff of
agitated attorneys, but now given up to marchings and counter-marchings
of newly-fledged volunteers, who--it is the first year of the
movement--are longing to be taking martial exercise in the wilds of
Wimbledon or on the plains of Putney, but, deterred by the rain, are
fain to put up with the large area of Westminster Hall, and to undergo
the torture of the professional drill-sergeant before the eyes of a
gaping and a grinning audience.
Read the fact in the closed oaks of every set of chambers, each door
bearing its coffin-plate-like announcement that messages and parcels
are to be left at the porter's lodge; in the sounds of revelry that
proceed from the attorneys' offices, where the scrubs left in town
are amusing themselves with effervescing drinks and negro minstrelsy,
oblivious of executors, and administrators, and hereditaments; while
the "chief" is at Bognor with his wife and children, the "Chancery" is
geologising at Staffa, and the "Common-law" is living up at Laleham
Ferry, and washing off all reminiscence of John Doe and Richard Roe in
daily matutinal plunges off the bar at Penton Hook.
All the members of the Bar, great and small, are away. Heaven
alone knows where the Great Seal may be hidden, but it is certain
that the keeper of it and the Sovereign's conscience--a tall,
straggling-whiskered, gray-haired gentleman--has been seen, with a
wideawake hat on his head and a gun in his hand, "potting" rabbits on
a Wiltshire common, and has been pointed out seated in a dog-cart at
a little railway-station as the "Lar' Chance'lar" to the wondering
bumpkins, who fully expected to see him in full-bottomed wig and
gold-fringed robes, and who were consequently wofully disappointed,
and thought his lordship of but "little 'count." Tocsin, the great
gladiator, who wrestles with his professional opponents and flings them
heavily, cross-buttocks the jury, and has been known, metaphorically,
to give that peculiar British blow known as "one" to the judge
himself--Tocsin, whose arrival at the Old Bailey (never appearing
there unless specially retained) arouses interest in the languid
ushers and door-porters, used up with constant criminal details, but
sure of some excitement when Tocsin leads--Tocsin is at Broadstairs,
swimming and walking with his boys during the day, and of an evening
very much interested, and not unfrequently affected to tears, by the
Minerva-Press novels, obtained from the little library, which he reads
aloud to his wife. Mr. Serjeant Slink, leader at the Parliamentary Bar,
whose professional life is passed in denouncing the aristocracy of
this country as stifling all freedom of political opinion by threats
or bribery, is staying with the Duke and Duchess of Potiphar at their
villa on the Lake of Como; and Mr. Moss, of Thavies Inn, 'cutest and
cleverest of criminal attorneys, is at Venice, occupying the moments
which his _valet de place_ allows him to have to himself in working out
the outline of the defence in a case of gigantic fraud, the trial of
which is coming off next sessions, in his room at Danieli's Hotel.
Lethargy and languor in the public offices, where the chiefs are
away on leave, and the juniors left in town appear, from the medical
certificates they are sending in, to be suffering from every kind of
mortal illness, and where the "immediate attention" promised to your
communication becomes more vague and shadowy than ever; in merchants'
establishments, where the clerks, finding it impossible to get
"regularly away," compromise the matter by taking lodgings at Gravesend
or in up-the-river villages, and running to and fro daily; in large
shops, where the assistants bless the early-closing movement, and bound
away on Saturday afternoon with an agility which argues well for their
jumping many other things besides counters.
George Street, Hanover Square, is much too distinguished a quarter not
to suffer under the general depression. There has not been a marriage
at the church for six weeks; the rector is away at the Lakes; and the
clerk has modified his responses, and is saving his voice until the
return of those to whom it is worth his while to address himself.
The beadle has laid by his gorgeous uniform, on week-days wears
mufti, and on Sundays comes out in a kind of compromise, alternately
airing the hat and the coat, but never appearing in both together.
The pew-openers' untipped palms are grimier than ever, the regular
congregation are absent, no strangers ask for seats, and the dust on
the pews is an inch thick. No horsey-looking men, chewing toothpicks,
and spitting refreshingly around, garnish the portals of Limmer's; the
silver sand sprinkled over the doorsteps as usual is untrodden, save
by the pumps of the one waiter, who knows no one is likely to come;
and as weary as ever was Mariana in her moated grange, he lounges to
the door, yawns, and lounges back, to cover his head with his napkin
for fly-diverting purposes, and seeks refuge in sleep. The dentist is
out of town; and the dentist's man has exchanged his striped jacket
and his black trousers for a heather suit, specially recommended by
the tailor for deer-stalking or grouse-shooting, clad in which, he
sits during the daytime in the dining-room reading _Bell's Life_, and
at night, after delicately scenting himself with camphor procured from
his master's drug-drawers, proceeds to some garden of public resort.
The paper patterns, marked with mysterious numbers, and inscribed with
the names of dukes and marquises, which hang in the shop of Stecknadel
the tailor, have a thick coating of dust; for the noble customers whose
fair proportions they represent have not had them in requisition for
weeks past. Stecknadel is away at Boppard on the Rhine, where he has a
very pretty _terre_, to which, if he could only get in his debts, he
would retire, and some day become Baron Stecknadel, and live peacefully
and prosperously for the rest of his life.
Equally, of course, the headless dummies in Madame Clarisse's
showrooms are stripped of the fairy-like fabrics which cover them
during the season, and stand up showing all their wire anatomy, or
lie about in corners, unheeded. Madame is at Dieppe, and Daisy reigns
temporarily in her stead. The staff is very much reduced, for there
is little or nothing to do; and Daisy is enabled, very much to Paul
Derinzy's delight, to get out much earlier and much more frequently
than she could in the season, and the walks in Kensington Gardens
occur pretty constantly, and are much prolonged. Daisy is glad of this
too; for not only does her liking for Paul increase, but she knows he
is very soon going away for his holiday, "down to his people in the
West," and the idea of parting with him is not pleasant to her, and
she likes to see as much of him as possible. Daisy has noticed that,
with the absence of the great world from London, Paul has grown much
bolder: he walks with her without showing any of that dreadful feeling
of restraint which at one time galled her so much, is never fearful
of being observed, and has more than once asked to be allowed to take
her to dinner, to the theatre, or to some public gardens. This request
Daisy has always steadily refused, and their meetings are confined to
Kensington Gardens as heretofore, though she has permitted him to see
her home to the corner of her street on several occasions.
One hot dusty afternoon Daisy is looking out of the showroom window
into the deserted street--deserted save by a vagabond dog, with his
tongue lolling out of his mouth, who is furtively gliding about from
one bit of shade to another, and hopelessly sniffing at those places
where he remembers puddles used to be in the bygone time, but where,
alas, there are none now--when she hears steps upon the stairs, and
turning round, recognises Miss Orpington, one of their best customers.
With Miss Orpington is her father, Colonel Orpington; and looking at
them as they enter the room, Daisy thinks within herself that a more
stylish-looking father and daughter could scarcely be found in England.
Both are tall, and slim, and upright; both have regular features, with
the same half-haughty, half-weary expression; both have small hands and
feet. Miss Orpington is going to be married to a Yorkshire baronet with
money. She has been staying in the same house with him in Scotland,
and is on her way to a house in Kent, where he is invited. She has
stopped a day or two in London on her way through to get "some gowns
and things." She is always wanting gowns and things, and spends a very
large sum of money yearly.
Colonel Orpington does not very much mind how much she spends. Through
his wife, who was the daughter of his family solicitor, and who died
in childbirth a year after their marriage, he had a very large income,
every farthing of which he carefully spent. He had nothing to do with
the turf; hunted but little, and when he did, generally found other
men to mount him; never joined in the afternoon rubbers at the club,
and only interested himself in them to the extent of an occasional
small bet; kept a good but small stud; had no permanent country place;
and during the season entertained well, but neither frequently nor
lavishly, and yet managed to get through eight thousand a year.
How? Well, the Colonel had his tastes. Though turned fifty years of
age, he had not run to flesh; his figure was yet trim and elegant, and
his face handsome and eminently "bred"-looking. His hair was still
jet-black; and though his moustache, long, sweeping, and carefully
trained, was unmistakably grizzled, the colour rather added to the
picturesqueness of his appearance. And the Colonel liked to be thought
handsome, and elegant, and picturesque; for he was devoted to the sex,
and had but little care in life beyond how best to please her who for
the time being was the object of his devotion.
And yet Colonel Orpington was never seen in any suspicious _solitude
à deux_, nor even in the loose-talking, easy-going society in which
he mixed was his name ever coupled with any woman's. Old comrades
and contemporaries might be seen lurking at the back of shady little
boxes on the pit-tier of the theatre, and addressing a presumed form
in the corner facing the stage, of which nothing could be seen but a
white gleaming arm, a fan, and an opera-glass; but when the Colonel
patronised the drama, which was very seldom, he always went with a
party among whom were his daughter and his sister, who kept house for
him. Sons of old comrades, and other young men with whom he had a
casual acquaintance, might lounge across the rails of the Row to speak
to the "strange women" on horseback who were just beginning to put in
an appearance there; but the Colonel, when he passed them, whether
Miss Orpington were with him or not, was always looking straight
before him between his horse's ears, and never showed the slightest
recognition of their presence. Nor, though living in days when to love
your neighbour's wife was a rule pretty generally followed, was Colonel
Orpington's name ever mixed up with any of those society intrigues the
ignoring of which in public, and the discussion of which in private,
affords so much delight to well-bred people. Of good appearance, of
perfect manners, and with a voice and address which were singularly
insinuating, the Colonel might have availed himself of many _bonnes
fortunes_ which would not have fallen in the way of men younger and
less discreet; but he purposely neglected the opportunities offered,
and, while being the intimate and trusted companion of many of his
friends' wives, sisters, and daughters, was the lover of none.
And yet he was devoted to the sex, and spent a great deal of money!
Yes, and was very frequently absent from his family. Amongst the
property which the Colonel inherited from his wife were some
slate-quarries and lead-mines in South Wales, which seemed to require
a vast amount of personal supervision. If he looked after the rest of
his estate with equal fidelity, he must have been a pattern landlord;
for he would leave town in the height of the season, or give up any
pleasant engagement, when he received one of these summonses. When Miss
Orpington was a child, she used to tease her father about "dose 'orrid
quarry-mines;" but it was noticed that after she had put away childish
things, amongst which might be enumerated innocence, she never referred
to the subject. Nobody ever did palpably refer to it, though there was
a good deal of sniggering about it in the Colonel's clubs, and Bobus,
known as Badger Bobus from his low sporting tastes, was asked out to
dinner for a fortnight on the strength of his having said that he
couldn't make out how old Orpington always went into South Wales by the
Great Northern Railway.
Miss Orpington languidly expresses her pleasure at seeing Daisy.
"You are so fresh, Miss Stafford, and all that kind of thing. Of course
I know Madame Clarisse's taste is excellent; but I confess I like a
younger person's ideas."
Daisy bows, and says nothing, but applies herself to showing her wares,
which the young lady turns over and discourses upon. Colonel Orpington,
standing by and caressing his grizzled moustache, says nothing also.
Nothing aloud, at least; only someone standing very close might have
seen him draw in his breath, and mutter behind his hand,
"Jove! Clarisse was right."
Miss Orpington is large in her notions of autumn costume, and Daisy
shows her a vast number of "pretty things" which she would like to
order, but is somewhat checked by the paternal presence, in itself a
novelty in her negotiations with her milliner. But, deferring to the
paternal presence, as to "Should she?" and "Did he think she might?"
and receiving nothing but favourable replies, she gives her fancy
scope, and makes such of the workwomen as were always retained think
that the season had suddenly and capriciously recommenced.
What had induced the Colonel to accompany his daughter? He never had
done so before, and on this occasion he says nothing, never looks at
the things exhibited, or the patterns after which they are to be made.
What does he look at? Miss Orpington knows, perhaps, when, following
the earnest gaze of his eyes, she makes a little _moue_, and slightly
shrugs her shoulders, taking no further notice until they are in the
street; then she says:
"Do you think that girl pretty, papa?"
The Colonel is in an abstracted state, and pauses for a minute before
he replies,
"What girl, Constance?"
"We have not seen so many that you need ask," says Miss Orpington, with
a melancholy glance at the deserted streets; "the girl who attended to
me just now, at Clarisse's."
"I was thinking of something else at the time, and really did not
notice her particularly, my dear," says the Colonel, "but she appeared
to me to be a very respectable young person."
Miss Orpington gives her little shoulder-shrug, and looks round
curiously at her father; but he is staring straight before him, and
they walk on without speaking further, until just as they are passing
Limmer's, when he says, half to himself, "That fellow will do!" and
then to her,
"I want to send a message to the club, Constance. If you'll walk
quietly on, I'll overtake you in an instant. Hi! here!"
The man to whom he calls, and who is hanging about the doorway of the
hotel, is one of those Mercuries who have now been superseded by the
Commissionaires, but who in those days were the principal media for
good and evil communication in the metropolis. In the season this
fellow wears a dingy red jacket like the cover of an old _Post Office
Directory_; but in the dead time of year he discards his gaiety of
apparel, and dons a seedy long drab waistcoat with black sleeves. He
crosses the road at once at the Colonel's call, and stands on the kerb,
touching his broken hat, and waiting for his orders.
"Look here," says the Colonel, as soon as his daughter is out of
earshot; "go up to Clarisse's--the milliner's, you know, opposite the
church--ask to see the young woman who just attended to Miss Orpington,
and tell her you have been sent to say she must be certain to send the
things at the time promised. Take notice of her, so that you will know
her again; then wait about until she comes out, follow her, see whom
she speaks to and where she goes, and come to Batt's Hotel in Dover
Street and ask for Colonel Orpington. You understand?"
"Right you are, Colonel!" says the man, pocketing the half-crown which
the Colonel hands to him; then he touches his shabby hat again, and
starts off.
"Left her walking up and down in Kensington Gardens among the trees
near the keeper's cottage, did he?" says Colonel Orpington to himself
as he strikes into the Park about five o'clock, and hurries off in
the direction indicated. "Had not spoken to anyone, but seemed as
if she were waiting for somebody, eh? Plainly an assignation! So my
young friend is not so innocent as Clarisse would have me believe.
What a fool she was to think it, and what a fool I was to believe her!
However, I may as well see it through, for the girl is marvellously
pretty, and has a something about her which is extraordinarily
attractive--even to me!"
As he nears the place to which he has been directed, he slackens his
speed, and looks round him from time to time. The first touch of autumn
has fallen on the grand old trees, and occasionally some leaves come
circling down noiselessly on to the brown turf. Away at the end of yon
vista a slight mist is rising, noticing which the Colonel prudently
buttons his coat over his chest and shudders slightly. Half-a-dozen
children are romping about, rolling among the leaves that have already
fallen, and shrieking with delight; but the Colonel takes no heed of
them. Just then the figures of a man and woman walking very slowly
come in sight. The Colonel looks at them for a moment, using his natty
double-eyeglass for the purpose; then stands quietly behind one of the
large elm-trees watching the pair as they pass. Her arm is through his,
on which she is leaning heavily; their faces are turned towards each
other, each wearing a grave earnest expression. As they pass the tree
behind which the Colonel stands, their faces approach, and their lips
meet for an instant, then they walk on as before.
The Colonel drops the natty double-eyeglass from his nose, and replaces
it in his waistcoat-pocket. As he turns to walk away, he says to
himself:
"Not a very pleasant position that! However, I've learned what I wanted
to know. The girl has a lover, as one might have expected. I think
I know the man too. To be sure! we elected him at the Beaufort the
other day--Derinzy, son of the man who put the Jew under the pump at
Hounslow. A good-looking youngster too, and in some Government office,
I think. Well, I suppose it will be the old story--youth against
cheque-book. But in this case, from the young lady's general style, I
think I should back the latter!"