Lady Lackington and Lady Grace Twining passed the morning together.
Their husbands' departure on the picnic excursion offered them a
suitable subject to discuss those gentlemen, and they improved the
occasion to some purpose.
The Viscountess did not, indeed, lean very heavily on her Lord's
failings; they were, as she described them, the harmless follies of
certain middle-aged gentlemen, who, despite time and years, would still
be charming and fascinating. “He likes those little easy conquests he
is so sure of amongst vulgar people,” said she. “He affects only to
be amused by them, but he actually likes them; and then, as he never
indulges in this sort of thing except in out-of-the-way places, why,
there 's no great harm in it.”
Lady Grace agreed with her, and sighed. She sighed, because she thought
of her own burden, and how far more heavily it pressed. Twining's were
no little foibles, no small weaknesses; none of his faults had their
root in any easy self-deceptions. Everything he did or said or thought
was maturely weighed and considered; his gay, laughing manner, his easy,
light-hearted gesticulation, his ready concurrence in the humor about
him, were small coin that he scattered freely while he pondered over
heavy investments.
From long experience of his crafty, double-dealing nature, coupled with
something very near aversion to him, Lady Grace had grown to believe
that in all he said or did some unseen motive lay, and she brought
herself to believe that even his avaricious and miserly habits were
practised still less for the sake of saving than for some ulterior and
secret end.
Of the wretched life they led she drew a dreary picture: a mock splendor
for the world, a real misery at home; all the outward semblance of
costly living, all the internal consciousness of meanness and privation.
He furnished houses with magnificence, that he might let them; he set
up splendid equipages, that, when seen, they should be sold. “My
very emeralds,” said she, “were admired and bought by the Duchess of
Windermere. It is very difficult to say that there is anything out of
which he cannot extract a profit. If my ponies were praised in the park,
I knew it was only the prelude to their being at Tattersall's in
the morning; even the camellia which I wore in my hair was turned to
advantage, for it sold the conservatory that raised it. And yet they
tell me that if--they say that--I mean--I am told that the law would
not construe these as cruelty, but simply a very ordinary exercise of
marital authority, something unpleasant, perhaps, but not enough to
warrant complaint, still less resistance.”
“But they _are_ cruelties,” broke in Lady Lackington; “men in Mr.
Twining's rank of life do not beat their wives--”
“No, they only break their hearts,” sighed Lady Grace; “and this, I
believe, is perfectly legal.”
“They were doing, or going to do, something about that t' other day
in the Lords. That dear old man, Lord Cloudeslie, had a bill or an
amendment to somebody's bill, by which--I 'm not sure I 'm quite correct
about it--but I believe it gave the wife power to take her settlement.
No, that is not it; she was to be able, after five years of great
cruelty--I'm afraid I have no clear recollection of its provisions,
but I know the odious Chancellor said it would effectually make women
independent of men.”
“Of course it never will become law, then,” sighed Lady Grace, again.
“Who knows, dear? They are always passing something or other they 're
sorry for afterwards in either House. Shall I tell you who'd know all
about it?--that Mr. Davenport Dunn. He is just the kind of person to
understand these things.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Lady Grace, with more animation in her manner.
“Let as ask him to dinner,” said Lady Lackington; “I know him
sufficiently to do so,--that is, I have met him once. He 'll be charmed,
of course; and if there is anything very good and very safe to be done
on the Bourse, he 'll certainly tell us.”
“I don't care for the Bourse. Indeed, I have nothing to speculate with.”
“That is the best reason in the world, my dear, to make a venture; at
least, so my brother-in-law, Annesley, says. You are certain to come
out a winner, and in my own brief experiences, I never gave anything,--I
only said, 'Yes, I 'll have the shares.' They were at fifty-eight and
three-quarters, they said, and sure to be at sixty-four or five; and
they actually did rise to seventy, and then we sold--that is, Dunn
did--and remitted me twelve hundred and fifty-three pounds odd.”
“I wish he could be equally fortunate with me. I don't mean as regards
money,” said Lady Grace; and her cheek became crimson as she spoke.
“I have always said there's a fate in these things; and who knows if his
being here Just at this moment is not a piece of destiny.”
“It might be so,” said the other, sadly.
“There,” said Lady Lackington, as she rapidly wrote a few lines on a
piece of note-paper, “that ought to do:--
“'Dear Mr. Dunn,--If you will accept of an early dinner,
with Lady Grace Twining and myself for the company, to-day,
you will much oblige
“'Your truly,
“'Georgina Lackington.'”
“To another kind of man I'd have said something about two _pauvres
femmes délaissées_, but he 'd have been frightened, and probably not
come.”
“Probably,” said Lady Grace, with a sigh.
“Now, let us try the success of this.” And she rang a bell, and
despatched the note.
Lady Lackington had scarcely time to deliver a short essay on the class
and order of men to which Mr. Davenport Dunn pertained, when the
servant returned with the answer. It was a very formal acceptance of the
invitation, “Mr. Davenport Dunn presented his compliments,”--and so on.
“Of course, he comes,” said she, throwing the note away. “Do you know,
my dear, I half suspect we have been indiscreet; for now that we have
caught our elephant, what shall we do with him?”
“I cannot give you one solitary suggestion.”
“These people are not our people, nor are their gods our gods,” said
Lady Lackington.
“If we all offer up worship at the same temple,--the Bourse,” said Lady
Grace, something sadly,--“we can scarcely dispute about a creed.”
“That is only true in a certain sense,” replied the other. “Money is a
necessity to all; the means of obtaining it may, therefore, be common to
many. It is in the employment of wealth, in the tasteful expenditure of
riches, that we distinguish ourselves from these people. You have
only to see the houses they keep, their plate, their liveries, their
equipages, and you perceive at once that whenever they rise above some
grovelling imitation they commit the most absurd blunders against all
taste and propriety. I wish we had Spicer here to see about this dinner,
it is one of the very few things he understands; but I suppose we must
leave it to the cook himself, and we have the comfort of knowing that
the criticism on his efforts will not be of a very high order.”
“We dine at four, I believe,” said Lady Grace, in her habitual tone of
sorrow, as she swept from the room with that gesture of profound woe
that would have graced a queen in tragedy.
Let us turn for a moment to Mr. Davenport Dunn. Lady Lackington's
invitation had not produced in him either those overwhelming sensations
of astonishment or those excessive emotions of delight which she had so
sanguinely calculated on. There was a time that a Viscountess asking him
thus to dinner had been an event, the very fact being one requiring some
effort on his part to believe; but these days were long past. Mr. Dunn
had not only dined with great people since that, but had himself been
their host and entertainer. Noble lords and baronets had sipped his
claret, right honorables praised his sherry, and high dignitaries
condescended to inquire where he got “that exquisite port.”
The tremulous, faint-hearted, doubting spirit, the suspectful,
self-distrusting, humble man, had gone, and in his place there was a
bold, resolute nature, confident and able, daily testing his strength
against some other in the ring, and as often issuing from the contest
satisfied that he had little to fear from any antagonist. He was clever
enough to see that the great objects in life are accomplished less by
dexterity and address than by a strong, undeviating purpose. The failure
of many a gifted man, and the high success of many a commonplace one,
had not been without its lesson for him; and it was in the firm resolve
to rise a winner that he sat down to the game of life.
Lady Lackington's invitation was, therefore, neither a cause of pleasure
nor astonishment. He remembered having met her somewhere, some time, and
he approached the renewed acquaintance without any one of the sentiments
her Ladyship had so confidently predicted. Indeed, so little of that
flurry of anticipation did he experience, that he had to be reminded
her Ladyship was waiting dinner for him, before he could remember the
pleasure that was before him.
It may be a very ungallant confession for this true history to make,
but we cannot blink saying that Lady Lack-ington and Lady Grace both
evidenced by their toilette that they were not indifferent to the
impression they were to produce upon their guest.
The Viscountess was dressed in the perfection of that French taste whose
chief characteristic is freshness and elegance. She was light,
gauzy, and floating,--a sweeping something of Valenciennes and white
muslin,--but yet human withal, and very graceful. Her friend, in deep
black, with a rich lace veil fastened on her head behind, and draped
artistically over one shoulder, was a charming personification of
affliction not beyond consolation. When they met, it was with an
exchange of looks that said, “This ought to do.”
Lady Lackington debated with herself what precise manner of reception
she would award to Mr. Dunn,--whether to impose by the haughty
condescension of a fine lady, or fascinate by the graceful charm of an
agreeable one. She was “equal to either fortune,” and could calculate
on success, whichever road she adopted. While she thus hesitated, he
entered.
If his approach had little or nothing of the man of fashion about it,
it was still a manner wherein there was little to criticise. It was not
bold nor timid, and, without anything like over-confidence, there was
yet an air of self-reliance that was not without dignity.
At dinner the conversation ranged over the usual topics of foreign
travel, foreign habits, collections, and galleries. Of pictures and
statues he had seen much, and evidently with profit and advantage; of
people and society he knew next to nothing, and her Ladyship quickly
detected this deficiency, and fell back upon it as her stronghold.
“When hard-worked men like myself take a holiday,” said Dunn, “they
are but too glad to escape from the realities of life by taking refuge
amongst works of art. The painter and the sculptor suggest as much
poetry as can consist with their stern notions, and are always real
enough to satisfy the demand for fact.”
“But would not what you call your holiday be more pleasantly passed in
making acquaintances? You could of course have easy access to the most
distinguished society.”
“I'm a bad Frenchman, my Lady, and speak not a word of German or
Italian.”
“English is very generally cultivated just now,--the persons best worth
talking to can speak it.”
“The restraint of a strange tongue, like the novelty of a court dress,
is a sad detractor from all naturalness. At least, in my own little
experience with strangers, I have failed to read anything of a man's
character when he addressed me in a language not his own.”
“And was it essential you should have read it?” asked Lady Grace,
languidly.
“I am always more at my ease when I know the geography of the land I
live in,” said Dunn, smiling.
“I should say you have great gifts in that way,--I mean in deciphering
character,” said Lady Lackington.
“Your Ladyship flatters me. I have no pretensions of the kind. Once
satisfied of the sincerity of those with whom I come into contact, I
never strive to know more, nor have I the faculties to attempt more.”
“But, in your wide-spread intercourse with life, do you not, insensibly
as it were, become an adept in reading men's natures?”
“I don't think so, my Lady. The more one sees of life the simpler does
it seem, not from any study of humanity, but by the easy fact that three
or four motives sway the whole world. An unsupplied want of one kind or
other--wealth, rank, distinction, affection, it may be--gives the entire
impulse to a character, just as a passion imparts the expression to a
face; and all the diversities of temperament, like those of countenance,
are nothing but the impress of a want,--you may call it a wish. Now
it may be,” added he, and as he spoke he stole a glance, quick as
lightning, at Lady Grace, “that such experiences are more common to men
like myself,--men, I mean, who are intrusted with the charge of others'
interests; but assuredly I have no clew to character save in that one
feature,--a want.”
“But I want fifty thousand things,” said Lady Lacking-ton. “I want a
deal of money; I want that beautiful villa near Palermo, the 'Serra
Novena;' I want that Arab pony Kratuloff rides in the park; I want, in
short, everything that pleases me every hour of the day.”
“These are not wants that make impulses, no more than a passing shower
makes a climate,” said Dunn. “What I speak of is that unceasing,
unwearied desire that is with us in joy or sadness, that journeys with
us and lives with us, mingling in every action, blending with every
thought, and presenting to our minds a constant picture of ourselves
under some wished-for aspect different from all we have ever known,
where we are surrounded with other impulses and swayed by other
passions, and yet still identically ourselves. Lady Grace apprehends
me.”
“Perhaps,--at least partly,” said she, fanning herself and concealing
her face.
“There are very few exempt from a temptation of this sort, or, if they
be, it is because their minds are dissipated on various objects.”
“I hate things to be called temptations, and snares, and the rest of
it,” said Lady Lackington; “it is a very tiresome cant. You may tell me
while I am waiting for my fish-sauce at dinner, it is a temptation; but
if you wish me really to understand the word, tell me of some wonderful
speculation, some marvellous scheme for securing millions. Oh, dear Mr.
Dunn, you who really know the way, will you just show me the road to--I
will be moderate--about twenty thousand pounds?”
“Nothing easier, my Lady, if you are disposed to risk forty.”
“But I am not, sir. I have not the slightest intention to risk one
hundred. I 'm not a gambler.”
“And yet what your Ladyship points at is very like gambling.”
“Pray place that word along with temptation, in the forbidden category;
it is quite hateful to me.”
“Have _you_ the same dislike to chance, Lady Grace?” said he, stealing a
look at her face with some earnestness.
“No,” said she, in a low voice; “it is all I have to look for.”
“By the way, Mr. Dunn, what are they doing in Parliament about us? Is
there not something contemplated by which we can insist upon separate
maintenance, or having a suitable settlement, or--”
“Separation--divorce,” said Lady Grace, solemnly.
“No, my Lady, the law is only repairing an old road, not making a new
one. The want of the age is cheapness,--cheap literature, cheap postage,
and cheap travelling, and why not cheap divorce? Legislation now
professes as its great aim to extend to the poor all the comforts of the
rich; and as this is supposed to be one of them--”
“Have you any reason to doubt it, sir?” asked Lady Grace.
“Luxuries cease to be luxuries when they become common. Cheap divorce
will be as unfashionable as cheap pine-apple when a coal-heaver can have
it,” said Lady Lackington.
“You mistake, it seems to me, what constitutes the luxury,” interposed
Lady Grace. “Every day of the year sees men liberated from prison, yet
no one will pretend that the sense of freedom is less dear to every
creature thus delivered.”
“Your figure is but too like,” said Dunn. “The divorced wife will be to
the world only too much a resemblance of the liberated prisoner. Dark
or fair, guilty or innocent, she will carry with her the opprobrium of
a public trial, a discussion, and a verdict. Now, how few of us would
go through an operation in public for the cure of a malady! Would we not
rather hug our sorrows and our sufferings in secrecy than accept health
on such conditions?”
“Not when the disease was consuming your very vitals,--not when a
perpetual fever racked your brain and boiled in your blood. You'd take
little heed of what is called exposure then. The cry of your heart would
be, 'Save me! save me!'” As she spoke, her voice grew louder and wilder,
till it became almost a shriek, and, as she ended, she lay back, flushed
and panting, in her chair.
“You have made her quite nervous, Mr. Dunn,” said Lady Lackington, as
she arose and fanned her.
“Oh, no. It's nothing. Just let me have a little fresh air,--on the
terrace. Will you give me your arm?” said Lady Grace, faintly. And Dunn
assisted her as she arose and walked out. “How very delicious this is!”
said she, as she leaned over the balcony, and gazed down upon the placid
water, streaked with long lines of starlight. “I conclude,” said she,
after a little pause, “that scenes like this--moments as peacefully
tranquil--are as dear to you, hard-worked men of the world, as they
are to the wearied hearts of us poor women, all whose ambitions are so
humble in comparison.”
“We are all of us striving for the same goal, I believe,” said
he,--“this same search after happiness, the source of so much misery!”
“You are not married, I believe?” said she, in an accent whose very
softness had a tone of friendship.
“No; I am as much alone in the world as one well can be,” rejoined he,
sorrowfully.
“And have you gone through life without ever meeting one with whom
you would have been content to make partnership,--taking her, as those
solemn words say, 'for better, for worse'?”
“They are solemn words,” said he, evading her question; “for they pledge
that for which it is so hard to promise,--the changeful moods which time
and years bring over us. Which of us at twenty can say what he will be
at thirty,--still less at fifty? The world makes us many things we never
meant to be.”
[Illustration: 137]
“So, then, you are not happy?” said she, in the same low voice.
“I have not said so much,” said he, smiling sadly; “are you?”
“Can you ask me? Is not the very confidence wherewith I treat
you--strangers as we were an hour back to each other--the best evidence
that it is from the very depth of my misery I appeal to you?”
“Make no rash confidences, Lady Grace,” said he, seriously. “They who
tell of their heart's sorrows to the world are like those who count
their gold before robbers. I have seen a great deal of life, and the
best philosophy I have learned from it is to 'bear.' Bear everything
that can be borne. You will be surprised what a load you will carry by
mere practice of endurance.”
“It is so easy to say to one in pain, 'Have patience,'” said she,
bitterly.
“I have practised what I teach for many a year. Be assured of one
thing,--the Battle of Life is waged by all. The most favored by
fortune--the luckiest, as the world calls them--have their contest and
their struggle. It is not for existence, but it is often for what makes
existence valuable.”
She sighed deeply, and, after a pause, he went on,--
“We pity the poor, weary, heart-sick litigant, wearing out life in the
dreary prosecution of a Chancery suit, dreaming at night of that fortune
he is never to see, and waking every day to the same dull round of
pursuit. As hope flickers in his heart, suffering grows a habit; his
whole nature imbibes the conflicting character of his cause; he doubts
and hesitates and hopes and fears and wishes, till his life is one long
fever. But infinitely more painful is the struggle of the heart whose
affections have been misplaced. These are the suits over which no hope
ever throws a ray. It is a long, dreary path, without a halting-place or
a goal.”
As he spoke, she covered her face with her handkerchief; but he could
perceive that she was weeping.
“I am speaking of what I know,” said he. “I remember once coming
closely into relations with a young nobleman whose station, fortune,
and personal advantages combined to realize all that one could fancy of
worldly blessings. He was just one of those types a novelist would take
to represent the most favored class of the most favored land of Europe.
He had an ancient name, illustrious in various ways, a splendid
fortune, was singularly endowed with abilities, highly accomplished, and
handsome, and, more than all, he was gifted with that mysterious
power of fascination by which some men contrive to make themselves so
appreciated by others that their influence is a sort of magic. Give him
an incident to relate,--let him have a passing event to tell, wherein
some emotion of pity, some sentiment of devotion played a part,--and
without the slightest touch of artifice, without the veriest shade of
ingenuity, he could make you listen breathlessly, and hang in rapture on
his words. Well, this man--of whom, if I suffer myself to speak, I
shall grow wearisome in the praise--this man was heart-broken. Before he
succeeded to his title, he was very poor, a subaltern in the army, with
little beyond his pay. He fell in love with a very beautiful girl--I
never heard her name, but I know that she was a daughter of one of the
first houses in England. She returned his affection, and there was one
of those thousand cases wherein love has to combat all the odds, and
devotion subdue every thought that appeals to worldly pride and vanity.
“She accepted the contest nobly; she was satisfied to brave humble
fortune, obscurity, exile,--everything for him--at least she said so,
and I believe she thought she could keep her word. When the engagement
took place--which was a secret to their families--the London season had
just begun.
“It is not for me to tell you what a period of intoxicating pleasure
and excitement that is, nor how in that wondrous conflict of wealth,
splendor, beauty, and talent, all the fascination of gambling is
imparted to a scene where, of necessity, gain and loss are alternating.
It demands no common power of head and heart to resist these
temptations. Apparently she had not this self-control. The gorgeous
festivities about her, the splendor of wealth, and more than even that,
the esteem in which it was held, struck her forcibly. She saw that the
virtues of humble station met no more recognition than the false lustre
of mock gems,--that ordinary gifts, illustrated by riches, became actual
graces. She could not shut out the contrast between her lover,
poor, unnoticed, and unregarded, and the crowd of fashionable and
distinguished youths whose princely fortunes gave them place and
pre-eminence. In fact, as he himself told me,--for Allington excused
her--Good Heavens! are you ill?” cried be, as with a low, faint cry she
sank to the ground.
“Is she dying? Good God! is she dead?” cried Lady Lackington, as she
lifted the powerless arm, and held the cold hands within her own.
Lanfranchi was speedily sent for, and saw that it was merely a fainting
fit.
“She was quite well previously, was she not?” asked he of Dunn.
“Perfectly so. We were chatting of indifferent matters,--of London, and
the season,--when she was seized,” said he. “Is there anything in the
air here that disposes to these attacks?”
Lanfranchi looked at him without reply. Possibly they understood each
other, for they parted without further colloquy.